Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
After wrangling my smug smile, I look up at Aubrey again. This time, with wanton lust in my eyes. “Lookin’ good up there, too. Really, really good.” Truth be told, she looks a whole lot better than good; she looks like a goddamned wet dream in her shorty-shorts and cropped tank top that bares a delightful slice of her midsection. I put down the tool I’ve been using and rearrange myself to sit squarely on my ass. Forearms on my knees. “Is Raine asleep?”
“She was out like a light by page two of her picture book.”
I take off my work gloves, my fingers tingling with the desire to touch her. To make her come again, like she did last night. “The kid played hard today.”
“She sure did.” Aubrey smiles. “She adores you, Dadda. You did a great job today.”
My heart skips a beat. I had a fantastic day with my girl and Aubrey today. One that made it clear I’m making major progress. With Raine, anyway. I don’t know what the fuck Aubrey is thinking. But at least in relation to Raine, today was so damned good, it felt like one of my own idyllic days on the lake during my childhood.
I’m still rankled as shit about the thing Aubrey said in the heat of battle this morning: It’s not always about you. Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. I wouldn’t be here in Prairie Springs, if it was always about me. Even after twelve hours, that bullshit comment still pisses me off. But even so, after thinking about it all day, I’ve realized Aubrey was right to remind me about the hearing. Also, to insist we keep things a secret, at least from Raine, until then.
Aubrey motions to my phone next to me on the deck. It’s blaring a song from my Zepp playlist. “What song is this?”
“‘Kashmir.’”
“Led Zeppelin again?”
“Yep. This is one of their most famous songs.” I guess we’re not going to fuck any time soon. We’re going to talk. Not about what’s been on my mind all day, though. Not about what the hell happened in the kitchen this morning and why it feels like Aubrey’s suddenly pushing me away, despite our amazing night together.
Aubrey taps one of her white sneakers onto the wood below her chair, in time to the music. “I recognize his voice. What’s his name?”
Seriously? “Robert Plant. He’s got one of the best, most distinctive voices in the history of rock.” It’s true. Robert Plant’s a rock god. But he’s not what I want to be talking about in this moment. Honestly, I don’t want to be talking at all, unless I’m talking dirty into Aubrey’s ear while fucking her raw.
Aubrey gnaws at her lip, like she’s trying to work up the courage to say something. I lean back onto my palms and wait. Hopefully, she’s finally going to explain what crawled up her ass this morning.
“Do you only listen to Led Zeppelin?” she asks. “Or do you ever listen to, I don’t know, girlie pop or dance music as a palate cleanser?”
I grimace. “Ugh. No, Aubrey.”
She giggles. “Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
“No, thanks.” I motion to my phone. “I put on my Zepp playlist, whenever I’m working on the deck, in tribute to my grandpa. Led Zeppelin was his all-time favorite band, so listening to them while I’m working on a deck at his house makes me feel like he’s here with me in a small way.”
“That’s sweet.” She pauses. Her shoulders soften, like she’s making some kind of internal concession. “It was really sweet when you played that song for Raine. Watching you giving her drum lessons melted my heart. Exploded my ovaries, too.”
My eyebrows quirk up. Okay, that was definitely flirtatious. A step in the right direction, for sure. “You told me to be myself with her. So that’s what I did. There’s nothing more ‘me’ than playing drums to a Zepp song.”
“Besides playing to a Red Card Riot song, of course.”
I shrug. “I didn’t write all of our songs, so they’re not all ‘me,’ you know? But Zepp? I swear, it’s like those dudes somehow cracked the code inside my head.” Why are we talking about Led Zeppelin, instead of what happened in the kitchen this morning? Or better yet, now that Raine’s asleep, why aren’t we inside the house, not talking, but banging like animals, instead?
“If you ever teach Raine to play drums to ‘Shaynee,’” Aubrey says, “you can tell her Dean is singing ‘Rainey’ in all those choruses.’”
“Great idea. I’ll definitely do that.” I wait. Stare at her, silently coaxing her to spit it out, whatever it is. Surely, this isn’t what Aubrey wants to be talking about, either. It’s written all over her pretty face.
The next song on my Zepp playlist comes on. “Since I’ve Been Loving You.” As it gets going, Aubrey taps her sneakers in time to the music and looks down at her hands in her lap.