Page 46 of My Always One

“Or he could be rewatching an old episode ofThe Walking Dead.”

“Hasn’t he seen every episode nearly fifty times?”

She shrugs. “Can’t say for sure, but I’d guess the answer is yes.”

“Do you remember the old boathouse at the park?” I ask.

Her cheeks rise at the memories. “I do. I remember sneaking in there and smoking your dad’s cigarettes. I also remember being scared to death my mom would smell the smoke.”

“Do you think they still leave it unlocked?”

Her green eyes widen. “Why? What do you have in mind?”

“Mrs. Jefferson said we were always up to no good. If that boathouse is unlocked, I can beupin no time.” He brushes his arm against mine. “And this time it will definitely be good. But if things go as I’m thinking, it won’t be smoke your mom can smell. It’ll be honey.”

Her breathing shallows.

“You know,” Sami says, “Jane always told me there were monsters in the boathouse, and I needed to stay away.”

“Your sister is partially right,” I say, leaning closer to her ear though there’s no one around as I scan the park. “Mymonstercock will be there in your tight pussy. But I also disagree. You shouldn’t stay away.”

Sami giggles as we sneak past the closed gate and run through the shadows, just as we did when we were kids. The difference now is that unlike when we were kids, this time my blood is finding a different route of circulation. I’m growing harder with each step and each stealth move behind a rock, bush, or tree.

“Do you think there’s anyone in there this late at night?” she asks.

“Probably some kids smoking cigarettes.”

“Great, so we’ll smell like smoke and…”

“Sex and honey,” I say. “Definitely more like sex.”

Sami

We descend the old stone stairs. They’re steep and partially covered with overgrown grass and vines. For a moment I wonder if the city has demolished the old boathouse. There’s no doubt that it wouldn’t make the cut with today’s building codes. My sandals slip and Marshal turns and steadies me.

His strong hand secures my waist. “Are you okay?”

In the darkness, I can’t see the blue of his eyes, but in his familiar concerned tone I hear both my friend and a new additional protectiveness.

“Yes. I’m good.”

We reach the top of the boathouse. It’s concrete and built into the hill near the river’s edge. Together we tiptoe down the stairs to the front. Pebbles on the shore shift under my shoes. The old metal door is slightly ajar.

“Hello?” Marshal says in a deep whisper.

My heartbeat quickens as we await a response.

What if there are kids?

What about a homeless person?

What about someone more dangerous?

Why does this suddenly seem like a stupid move?

We’re adults.

Marshal has an apartment.

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