Page 28 of Entwined Hearts

“True,” he replies. “But at least she doesn’t shut people out.”

I remember what she said about trying to be good enough for him. Why would she feel the need to do that when she’s perfect just as she is?

“She deserves to be with someone good,” he says with a sigh.

An hour and a Quickie Mart stop for a case of beer later, we’re ascending a pale dirt road with the rocky peaks of the Sierras filling our view. We’re all tapping along to Keith Urban’s “Cop Car,” an open beer in each of our hands.

We find the unmarked turnout, and I’m relieved to see we’re the only visitors. We all pile out, and I grab the rest of the beer. A rocky trail winds through dry brush.

“Lucky nobody’s here,” Anya says. “How secret is this place?”

“Not that secret,” I say. “But most people go to Kettle Creek. It’s bigger.”

After a fifteen-minute walk through dry scrub, we reach the spot, a two-foot-deep pool with rock-and-cement walls fed by a PVC pipe coming off the neighboring creek.

Hot springs are usually “clothing optional,” but I don’t know which way this group will go. I avert my eyes as I undress, choosing to go for the Full Monty. Wet briefs suck.

When I turn around, Kabir is stepping into the pool, his bare brown butt flashing like a full moon before he lowers into the water.

I follow, stepping carefully into the searing-hot water. The girls arrive, and I keep my gaze on the distant mountains. So what if we’re all naked. It’s no big deal, though my mind starts to wander.

“Oh my God, this feels good,” Anya says as she sinks into the pool.

Jo hisses. “Yikes, it’s hot!”

“Just like you, baby,” Kabir says in a fake sultry voice, reaching for her hand.

We all laugh, but I catch Jo blushing.

While they nuzzle close, I reach over the back of the pool and grab my beer. I get one for Anya, too.

“Thanks for bringing us here,” she says.

We tap cans and sip. Through the azure-blue water, I get a hint of her pale skin beneath the surface. The craving to pull her into my lap is maddening.

“I’m going to need a better tape job tomorrow,” Anya says, inspecting her wounded fingers.

“You ever try superglue?” I ask, settling back against a flat rock. The part of my mind that wants to touch her refuses to turn off, and I can feel my cock vibrating. Not good.Please don’t look down, I think.

“Yeah, but only in emergencies, like if I’m on a long climb. That stuff’s toxic.” Lowering her fingers into the water, she winces.

“Let me see,” I say, reaching for her hand.

She lets me take her fingertips into my palm. Two of her pads look like hamburger, and there’s a nasty rip on the side of her thumb. “Ouch,” I say, savoring the feel of her slender hand in mine for an instant before letting her go.

“When we get back to camp, I have a trick that might help,” I say.

She lowers her hands back under the water. “If it involves sacrificing a goat, count me out,” she teases.

“No goats, but an unsuspecting tea bag will suffer greatly.”

She flashes me a look of curiosity, her sharp eyes bright.

“You wet a bag of black tea then add it to the wound, like a poultice. The tannin in the tea will toughen your skin.”

“Where’d you learn that?”

“North Carolina. I got to know this guy, he used to row in high school. Rowers get nasty, open blisters on their hands, but they can’t use tape, it’s too slippery on the oar.”

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