Page 7 of Harper

“Joe?”

“In the bedroom,” I call.

Avery appears in the doorway, her auburn hair back in a ponytail and a plum-colored sundress hanging off her slight frame. She drops her purse on the floor by the door and pulls the dress over her head. Underneath it, she’s naked.

I unfasten the towel from my waist and let it drop to the floor.

Her eyes widen with appreciation, which makes my dick hard. I’m tall and strong and muscular; I take care of myself, and it shows. She licks her lips and lies down on the bed, patting the space beside her.

***

An hour later Avery is gone and what I’d hoped would distract me from thoughts of Harper and bring me some measure of physical relief hasn’t managed to do much of either. The momentary rush of orgasm feels hollow now. My balls are empty, sure, but so is my heart.

I think about the bottle of vodka chilling in my freezer, imagining how nice it would be to feel nothing and pass out into a deep sleep. It takes effort to stop myself from grabbing a glass of ice and pouring myself a double, but as a rule, I only drink liquor with company, never alone; it’s a pact I made with my cousin, Sandra, years ago. We also agreed that when the temptation gets too strong, we would reach out to each other. So, I throw on some sweats, sit down on my couch and give her a call.

“Hey, shithead,” she greets me. “What’s up?”

Sandra Clearwater is the baddest badass I know, and I adore every hair on her head.

“Bottle of vodka in my freezer calling my name.”

“You alone?”

“Yep.”

“Fuck that shit, Joseph. That ain’t how we roll.”

“Why do you think I’m calling you?”

“I’m better than AA, yo!” She hoots with laughter, then admonishes one of her four children in Alutiiq.

Sandra’s and my mothers were born into the Sun’aq tribe of Kodiak Island, only moving to Skagway for jobs in the tourist industry when they hit their twenties. After my grandmother died, my mother didn’t speak much Alutiiq to me, but my aunt Hannah kept the language alive for Sandra. As a result, I’ve lost most of my once-meager language skills, but my cousin is near-fluent, and makes a concerted effort to preserve the language in her home. I admire the hell out of her for it.

I’m pretty sure that one of the words she used—“qilukicugluni,”—means that someone’s in a bad mood.

“Who’s giving you trouble today?” I ask her.

“Travis. He’s all sortsa moody.”

“Teens, right?”

“Only thirteen! I’m gonna have my hands full when he’s sixteen!”

“You want to send him to live with Uncle Joe for a few weeks? I’ll straighten him out.”

Sandra’s husband, Bart, is a good man, but he’s also a trucker who spends most of his life on the road. His job gives Sandra and the kids a comfortable life, but the trade-off is not a lot of dad/husband face-to-face time. I try to help out when I can.

“Yeah, maybe.” There’s a pause and then she bellows, “Trav, you better shape up, or I’ma send you to live with Uncle Joe!” She clears her throat loudly and resumes our conversation. “What’s making you think about the bottle today?”

I close my eyes and sigh.

“Oh, come on!” she yells into the phone. “Are you serious with this shit? Not again!”

“I can’t help it. Tanner came in today to lodge a complaint.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Fucking Harper-fucking-Stewart? Again? Man, she did a number on you. I hate that bitch!”

“Don’t,” I warn my cousin.

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