Page 91 of Sully

“I think our definitions of shitty mornings are very different,” I told him.

“We both know I could do better. But I got a text while you were getting the food.”

“From who?”

“Chris.”

“At Hailstorm?” I asked, the haze of the orgasms clearing away.

It had been two full days since I’d heard anything about Hailstorm or, well, anything at all that didn’t involve sex, food, books, or crafts.

Sully had been “holed up healing,” if his brothers asked. In reality, we’d been doing nothing but having sex, eating, and enjoying each other’s company.

And for those blissful forty-eight hours, there was nothing else. No shadowy bad guys wanting to kill us. No paramilitary camp on the hill digging into Sully’s past. Nothing. Just us.

I tamped down the disappointment that it was over now. It was inevitable. And I figured that once they found out who this guy was, Sully and I could go back to enjoying each other. Maybe even more so, because we would be able to leave the clubhouse to do all the things he kept telling me he was going to introduce me to. Things that filled me with an equal mix of excitement and anxiety. Karaoke, line dancing, target practice at the range, ax throwing… the list was endless. A whole world Sully wanted to show me.

“Yeah. She said her team is ready to show us what they scrounged up. She wants us to head up today.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it?” I asked, glancing at his shoulder.

“Baby, I’ve fucked you about fifty different ways in two days. Think a little car ride up to Hailstorm is a cakewalk after that.”

“That’s fair,” I admitted. “You sure you want to bring me?”

“That’s a silly question,” he said. Then, knowing me too well, he added, “Of course I want you to come. I need to show you the playground. Of course, they insist on calling it an ‘aerial obstacle course,’ but I know a playground when I see one.”

“You can’t go on the playground,” I reminded him. “We’ve already taken too many risks with your shoulder.”

“It’s already scabbed,” he reminded me. “Well on my way to healing.”

“How long is it going to take?” I asked, knowing I wouldn’t stop worrying until then.

“Three weeks, give or take. Why? Have some super acrobatic sex planned for me then? ‘Cause I have some ideas.”

“I bet you do,” I agreed, loving that we were talking so casually about the future. True, it was only a few weeks. But still. I felt a lot more comfortable with our budding relationship now that I knew he planned to keep up with me for a while. There were no guarantees in life, of course. Something could happen at any point to end this. But I felt a lot more secure knowing that he was at least interested in the long run.

“What time are we leaving?” I asked.

“Figure an hour or so. Gives us time to shower after this. Round up a couple of the guys. Then head out.”

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t super nervous about leaving the clubhouse. But I also knew that staying holed up because I was afraid of something would only make it easier to stop leaving the house again in the future. Until, eventually, I wouldn’t be able to at all. I’d struggled with a bout of agoraphobia over the summer break once in high school. It had taken weeks to force myself back out of the house. And even then, I suffered ceaseless panic attacks for another few weeks until, slowly but surely, the exposure therapy worked and I could go out again.

Besides, if I was going to go out, a trip to a place as heavily guarded as Hailstorm seemed like the safest possible option.

Plus… dogs.

“Where is Zima?” I asked, looking at my last sausage link, wanting to give it to her.

“She snuck out after you,” he said. “Someone probably let her out to go chase that poor fat squirrel again.”

“He really is fat,” I agreed.

“He can’t fit through the fence anymore,” Sully said, smiling. “I think Perish is feeding him peanuts.”

“Really?” I asked, imagining the giant sneaking out to feed the squirrel when his club brothers couldn’t see him being all cute. “Why?”

“Because he did the shopping last. And there was a bag of peanuts in the shell, no salt. What kind of psychopath would eat unsalted, in-shell peanuts? It’s gotta be for the wildlife.”

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