Page 59 of Castaway Whirlwind
She kisses the tip of my nose and reaches for my shampoo, tugging my dick in the opposite direction but resituating herself in a more comfortable position for the both of us. She washes my hair, then hers, repeating the process with the conditioner. I don’t even mind it all that much when she gets soap in my eyes, stinging the crud out of them when she washes my face because I’m living the dream I thought would only ever remain a dream.
* **
I whip open the door and yank Paul into my arms as if I haven’t seen him in years. It’s always like this—being overcome with relief and sheer joy to have my boy within sight.
“Glad to be home, too,” Paul says with a laugh, pounding my back.
I spend a good two minutes just hugging him before I get my emotions under control and finally let him go. “Come in, come in. We’re letting all the good A/C out.”
Paul rolls a carry-on suitcase into the house, stopping at the mouth of the living room when Max and Cora with Gauge follow Layla downstairs. She’s wearing a T-shirt that barely reaches her belly button and light-wash blue jeans. I love seeing her wear more than just her work uniforms, casual and comfortable in our home.
I curl her under my arm with a smile as big as the state of Texas. “Son, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Layla.”
Paul chuckles. “Yeah, Dad, we’ve met about a hundred times before.” He bends down for a quick hug, swallowing her frame.
“I know.” I laugh, having taken Paul to the diner whenever he’s in town on his breaks from school. “I just wanted to say it.”
Layla tilts her head to the side when our families make introductions to each other, her nose wrinkling when Max drops his arm over Cora’s shoulder in a manner more territorial than prideful. Layla’s features smooth out, though, when Paul dips and tickles Gauge under his chin, babbling like a baby to get his attention, then asks Cora if he can hold him.
I poke Paul in his side when his face lights up and tease him when I say, “You’re too young to have baby fever this bad.”
Paul laughs between cooing at Gauge and wagging his brows. “No, I’m not.”
With Paul in town for a week and Layla not as spooked by the dark with me by her side, we’ve moved back downstairs into our bedroom. I carry Paul’s suitcase to the second floor, dropping it on his bed.
Rubbing my hands together, I tell Paul, “I’ll let you get settled in. Then I was thinking we could fire up the grill and eat out on the patio with the weather this nice. Maybe jump in the pool if you remembered to bring your swimsuit.”
Paul nods, stretching his arms high above his head, his university’s mascot T-shirt riding up his front. “Think we could fit a workout in there somewhere?”
Having easily gained close to ten pounds since I haven’t spent nearly as much time at work or in the gym, what with everything going on, I nod. “You want to do that before we eat?”
“Sounds good.”
I clap my hands once. “Right. Let me know when you’re ready.” I turn to leave but can’t help myself when I swing back around and yank him into my arms for another rib-crushing hug. “So glad you’re here.”
* * *
Paul and I have just finished planning our workout, writing it out on the whiteboard hanging on the back wall of my gym, when Max strides through the open middle garage door.
“You joining us?” Paul asks with an amused expression, wrapping his thick wrists.
“That was the plan,” Max says, crossing his arms andglancing at the PRs we have listed on the right side of the board.
“Think you can hang?” I ask Max while Paul and I smirk at each other.This is gonna be good.
“Sure can, old man.” Max pulls his shirt off, leaving him in his athletic shorts and running shoes, flexing his biceps and abs as he begins his warm-up exercises.
“I meant hang with Paul.” I tap the cap of my dry-erase marker beside Paul’s personal record for the number of pull-ups he can do in one set—the only PR so far he’s been able to beat me at. The rest of Paul’s PRs have been catching up to mine, and it won’t be too long before he surpasses me if he keeps up with his workouts better than I have. I’ll be both proud and miffed the day that happens.
Max looks Paul up and down, stupidly arrogant. “Bet on it.”
“I’ll take that bet,” I say with a chuckle when Paul sheds his shirt and tosses it on one of the weight benches in front of the rack of dumbbells.
Despite having a similar build to mine, Paul is much leaner, appearing ganglier in his clothes than he really is. He exaggerates each stretch to flex his muscles, showing off, and I smirk again when Max works his jaw, trying to hold onto his arrogance as if my son isn’t about to whoop his butt.
Easy money, as Freddy would say.
* * *
