Page 44 of Only the Wicked
The place we’re headed is about a mile off the public trail. The sounds shift as we move deeper into the woods—distant chattering voices from the main trail fade away, replaced by the persistent chirp of cicadas and the soft crunch of leaves underfoot. It’s the kind of quiet that makes your ears search for sound. Still an easy grade hike, not as well maintained, but something has kept the center of the trail downtrodden—probably goats.
This could be a colossal waste of time, but it’s fun to take the less traveled trail. I’ve needed to use the compass on my watch and when the fuck do I get a chance to do that?
The trail loosely follows a gurgling stream, almost a ditch. Up ahead, the trees break open and the blue sky glimmers. My pulse quickens.
“Is that…” She slows her steps and I almost slam into her back. “A swimming pool?”
“Well, in the south, we call it a swimming hole. All natural. I came in high school. That old classmate? His grandparents owned the land. Now it’s like an uncle or a cousin or some other family member who owns it.”
The stream feeds into what’s basically a dug out deep quarry. If memory serves, maybe twenty feet deep. Boulders surround the perimeter. The acoustics change in the clearing—the water hits the rocks with hollow plunks that echo slightly against the surrounding stone walls. Birds call to each other overhead, their songs weaving through the trees.
There used to be a rope from a tree. We swung across like Tarzan, cannonballing into the water. I scan the trees but don’t see a rope. Even if it was here, I wouldn’t trust it to hold. That was a long damn time ago.
I reach out and tug on her ponytail, give her a quick kiss because I can’t seem to stop kissing her, and wiggle my eyebrows.
“Up for a swim?”
Given it’s her time of the month, I doubt it. Besides, while the water should be clean, it’s not chlorinated. No one’s checking the levels or clearing the tall grass that surrounds the embankment.
Sydney traipses right up to the edge, hands on her hips, looking into the depths.
While she explores, I’m assailed with memories of my friends and I sailing into the freezing water and yelling like maniacs. Those were simpler times. I mean, there were pressures. We attended a challenging Charlotte private school and the adults in our lives placed heavy expectations on us. We also expected great things from ourselves. My friends and I, we were the twenty-first century version of great expectations.
“How deep is it?”
Sydney’s question draws my attention to the present, and I rapidly blink, processing.
She’s naked. Breasts bare.
Saliva pools in my mouth.
The only thing she’s wearing is a thong. Or no, is she wearing anything?
She’s standing on the boulder in the spot where we used to snatch the rope from a nearby tree limb.
“Can I jump?”
“Feet first.” It’s an automated response, drilled into me in my youth.
And she jumps.
Toes pointed, lean legs straight, arms held out like she’s reaching for the sun, an uninhibited, free spirit. I’ve never seen anything sexier in my life.
The whoosh of her body cutting through air followed by the crisp splash echoes around the quarry walls. For a moment after she disappears, there’s perfect silence before the displaced water settles back with gentle lapping sounds against the rocks.
I charge forward, dropping my backpack to the ground.
How the fuck did I not see her getting undressed?
She bobs up, squealing, her youthful grin so wide her teeth gleam.
“Fuck, it’s cold!” she screeches.
“Not as bad as California,” I challenge. Hell, I wear a wetsuit in the Pacific.
She splashes the water with her palm. “Are you coming?”
I’m hopping on one leg, struggling with the laces. I can’t strip fast enough.
