Page 34 of Triple Play

Am I going to hear them together? The thought pulls something low in my belly. I don’t want to hear that. Then I inch closer to the wall and hold my breath just to make sure.

Silence. Silence, followed by the soft snores of someone in deep, unbothered sleep. Maybe they’re both wrung out from today. Maybe they’re both being polite, knowing that I’m right here.

Then the soft pad of footsteps up the hall, the sound of the bathroom door opening and closing, followed by a faint noise right at the edge of my hearing. A buzzing then a soft feminine groan, like Shira’s trying to keep herself quiet.

Was that…? No, it couldn’t be. Wishful thinking. Even if, when I accidentally walked in on Shira earlier, she dropped the showerhead like she was embarrassed to be caught.

Heat licks up my neck—she might be touching herself. She might be wet or desperate or holding back little noises I want to wring out of her.

Fuck. I’m hard. All I have is spit and my own fist, but that’s all I need. I creep my hand below the sheet and take my cock in hand.

I shouldn’t be thinking about this, not in bright 4K imagining. Not every fantasy I had each time Shira gave me a lap dance. How she arched her back and rolled her hips. How her nipples got hard against the elastic and mesh of whatever she was wearing. How she’d ask if I was having a good time, as if she couldn’t feel the clear evidence that I was digging against her ass.

How I wanted nothing more than to kiss her, to pull her close to me, to pretend for a second that things between us were real.

Even now, I clench my eyes shut. Picture how she might feel and sound and smell. How she might taste, pouring herself all over my tongue. Or over Forsyth’s as I watch them together.

I come, sudden, into the channel of my fist, jerking myself through it. Draining myself out at the thought of her, of us. Of all of us. Something as impossible as reaching through this wall.

I grunt—I must.

Next door, the buzzing clicks off. Now there’s only breathing, a series of muffled groans like Shira has her hand pressed against her lips. Followed by the soft exhalation of a word. John. No, that can’t be. There’s wishful thinking and then there’s delusion.

A minute later, she runs the sink, returns back up the hall. From the other bedroom, there’s the sound of the door opening. “You okay, sweetheart?” Forsyth, clear as a bell.

“I’m good!” Shira—not the sultry version of her who used to ask if my cock was all for her, but someone embarrassed to be caught.

“You sure?” Forsyth asks as if he doesn’t believe her either.

“Just had a bad dream and needed some water,” Shira says. “Sorry for waking you.”

She receives a mumbled no problem, then a long silence like they both went to sleep.

I should clean myself up too. I settle for a wad of Kleenex, a few scraps of which cling to me after I wipe myself off. Along with the question that I can’t stop thinking: If they’re so happy together, why is she lying to him?

PART FOUR

Philadelphia to Fayetteville

CHAPTER SEVEN

Blake

Something in my shoulders relaxes when we see the first sign for Waffle House. You can take the boy out of Georgia, but I’ve been craving an all-day breakfast ever since we hit the Mason-Dixon line.

We’ve already been driving for a few hours. Now that it’s not snowing, Shira let me behind the wheel. She was right: driving Lilac does need a certain touch, one I’m just now learning as I navigate us through traffic on Route 95 just south of DC.

Even as the car behind us has been riding our bumper for the last mile.

I flip on the turn signal—an apparent rarity in this area where people have been weaving across three lanes of traffic seemingly without a glance at the vehicles around them—and press my foot on the gas pedal, compelling Lilac forward. She’ll only go so fast. No offense to her, but when we get back to Boston, I’m getting Shira another car, one whose steering doesn’t resist lane changes.

Still, I manage to shift us into the right middle lane, letting the Audi behind us speed past. I tap Lilac’s dashboard in thanks. “She’s doing pretty good.”

Next to me, Shira laughs. She’s been switching her attention between studying—her dark hair bent over a textbook—and making occasional conversation.

“Everything okay?” she calls to Paquette in the backseat.

I listen for his grunt of confirmation. Not a long silence followed by an almost strangled, “All good.”

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