Chapter Text
“So, what you’re sayin’ is you’re gonna fuck him.”
“No, Shae,” you explain for the thousandth fucking time. “That’s, like, the exact opposite of what I’m saying.”
You lean your head against the passenger-side window, thankful for its tint as the evening Texas sun attempts to claws its way through and cradle your cheek.
You’d missed it - the suffocatingly humid heat that comes free with Summers in Austin. You missed your friends, too. Shae included.
So when your post-grad internship hit a dead end, and your hometown had been calling relentlessly, begging you to come back, you’d reluctantly picked up the phone - talked it down, packed your bags, and moved back in with your dad.
Reluctantly. Key word.
But the three fucking dollars you had left in your checking account didn’t exactly leave you with a ton of options, now, did it?
And at least your dad was happy to have you back.
Right?
“C’mon, it’d be the easiest damn lay in the world,” Shae laughs her raspy laugh. “He’s practically droolin’ over you anytime you’re near. Mia and I are startin’ to feel bad for the poor guy.”
You look at her, unamused, brows scrunched. She glances at you. Adjusts her sunglasses. Lowers the music.
“What?” she asks, all innocent. “Don’t look at me like that. Causes wrinkles.”
“I can’t fuck him,” you sigh, slinking down in your seat, “there’s, like, way too much lore there. Known him practically my whole life, and he lives way too close.”
“Hm,” Shae hums, acrylics tapping on the steering wheel to the dull tinking of her blinker before she takes a right onto your street. “All I’m hearin’ is that you guys got history—chemistry, if you will. And that it’d be easy access.”
You roll your eyes. Not like she can see you with her eyes on the road, but it’s the thought that counts.
“I’m not gonna have sex with Tyson, end of story,” you say plainly. “Doesn’t he have a girlfriend, anyway?”
“Nope. Cassie’s toast. Dumped her ‘bout a month ago.”
“He broke up with Cass?” You shoot up, posture fixed, just like that. “Weren’t they together for years?”
“Three,” Shae says, pulling into your driveway. She puts the car in park and looks at you. “She hates you by the way. Mia ran into her at the salon a couple ‘a days before you got back.”
You scoff, gaze fixing down the street toward Tyson’s house at the head of the cul de sac.
You see his mom, Diane, flustered and dusting her hands on white capris while she rummages around the garage.
Your eyes narrow, focus pointed back on Shae - on her honey brown eyes and last night’s eyeliner she can never manage to fully scrub off.
“Tyson asked you to talk to me, didn’t he?”
“No—”
“Shae,” you warn.
You can tell she’s lying. She looks you dead in the eyes when she does - like a fucking sociopath.
“Fine,” she admits, breaking eye contact, “he asked me to talk to you. But not about the ‘are you gonna fuck him’ stuff - that was all me, swear. He just asked me to feel you out. See where you’re at with the whole, y’know…seein’ someone again stuff.”
“Well you can tell him to ask me himself, instead of enlisting your dumbass to do it for him.”
“M’kay, yeah,” she says, pulling her sunglasses back down to her freckled nose. “I’m not tellin’ him that.”
You twist around to grab your duffel from the back seat, eyes lingering out the back window and toward the house across the street, staring at the truck in the driveway. At the little pot of zinnias on the porch.
At Joel Miller’s house.
Shae follows your eye-line, smirking when she sees the orange flowers.
“You could always fuck Mr. Miller,” she giggles, like it’s some absurd, arbitrary idea.
Maybe it is, if you take into account the fact that Joel Miller’s twenty-something years older than you.
...And your dad’s best friend.
His fishing buddy. The only guy your dad trusts to give any input on whatever sports game's on the TV. Fellow single father who raised a daughter without a goddamn clue.
The bullshit list goes on.
So really, it is absurd to even be tossing around the idea of fucking Mr. Miller.
Doesn’t stop you from thinking about it every time you see him, though. Which is a fucking lot, considering he and your dad run a damn contracting business together on top of it all.
Doesn't stop those cryptic, lingering stares he's been shooting your way since you moved back, either.
“Why do I have to fuck someone?” You shake Joel's darkened gaze from your thoughts and clear your throat. “Shouldn’t I be focusing on myself, or something?”
“Sure,” she says, “but why do that when you could be getting your shit rocked?”
Okay. Valid point.
“I have too much to worry about right now.”
“Oh, yeah? Like what?”
Like the middle-aged man that lives across the street, and somehow manages to keep a pot of zinnias alive every Summer.
“Like - like work,” you stammer.
She raises a brow. “You realize I just drove you home from the job we both work, right?”
Yeah, and in this moment, you’re deeply regretting this whole carpool agreement.
“We work at a dance studio,” she adds. “It ain’t like it's brain surgery.”
Ask a neurosurgeon to teach a class of twelve three-year-olds with little tutus, slicked ballet buns, and sticky hands some spatial awareness. Let’s see who's got it harder then.
“Whatever.” You gather your things and climb out of the passenger-side door. “I’ll see you tomorrow. My dad wants you and Mia here by seven.”
“Seven?” she rasps. “What is he, Amish?”
“Said he wants to make it to the campground before all the good spots are taken.”
“But no one ever goes to that campground,” Shae whines. “That’s, like, his whole thing about it, right? He's always braggin' that it's his secret spot, or some shit like that.”
“Super secret spot,” you correct. “And you try arguing with the man. Lemme know how that works out for ya.”
Shae pauses. Thinks.
“See ya at seven."
————
The house is dead quiet.
Your dad’s truck wasn’t in the driveway, so you didn’t bother calling out for him before you went upstairs to change out of your work clothes.
You threw on a pair of baggy gray sweatshorts -a dream compared to the tight, sweat-soaked spandex you’d been wearing for the last eight hours. Which is also why you’d opted out of wearing a bra underneath the little tank top you found crumpled at the bottom of your drawer.
Kinked whiskers and a grizzled meow greet you at the bottom of the stairs, asking politely for daily snuggles as you make your way down.
“Hi, Miffy girl,” you coo, like she isn’t deaf as a doornail, scooping the cat into your arms and scratching at her favorite spot.
You round the corner, making your way toward the kitchen - stomach grumbling and Miffy in tow - hoping your dad at least had the courtesy to leave you a slice of leftover pizza before he went off doing whatever the hell he does when he’s out.
You never ask anymore.
You’re not even past the threshold when you hear it - a familiar, irritated drawl filtering through the wide-open french doors that lead out to the backyard from the kitchen.
“Don’t be a cheap-ass,” the drawl says. “Get the three-man. They’ll be squished like sardines in the two-man, an’ you know how humid it gets up there at night.”
You readjust Miffy in your arms, hold her like a baby the way she likes - her thick fur absorbing the sudden, rapid pounding in your chest.
“And why didn’t you tell me he was here?” you whisper to the cat. She responds with a slow blink. “What the hell am I s’posed to—” you lower your brows at her “—oh, you can’t fuckin’ hear me.”
You peek your head through the open doors, and there he is.
Joel Miller.
Walking around with his phone up to his ear and his hand on his hip. Scowling the way he does when your dad’s being difficult.
Which is always.
“Sweetheart?”
You jump when he spots you, unable to dodge him in time.
“That you?”
“Fuck,” you breathe, turning on your heels, gearing up to make a break for it.
You hear dead grass crunching beneath a pair of old work boots before it turns into louder, closer footsteps thudding on the pave-stone lining the patio.
“Think your daughter’s home. Jus’ get the bigger one, moron—I’ll send ya the money f’ya need it that bad. Yeah—okay, mhm. I’ll tell ‘er.”
You get at least five good steps in before boot prints thud on the kitchen tile.
“Where d’you think you’re runnin’ off to this time?”
You freeze, shoulders tense as you whirl back around - cat still limp in your arms - dumb look on your face when you see Joel standing there in front of you, phone still in hand with his arms crossed.
There’s sweat pooled on the neckline of his faded black tee, remnants of wood shavings stuck to the fabric. His Wranglers have splotchy green stains on the knees. His favorite pair.
You know, ‘cause last Fourth of July you suggested he throw them out, and he got all huffy and mean. Told you grass stains ain’t grounds to throw anything out, ‘n you’d know that if your daddy made ya do any ‘a the yard work ‘round here.
“I didn’t, uh - I thought, um,” you choke on all the cotton in your mouth. “Where’s my dad?”
“Went to the store to grab a couple ‘a things for tomorrow. Told me to tell ya there’s pizza in the fridge.”
His brown eyes scan the length of your body - the bruises on your knees from the maple wood floors at work, the chipped pedicure on your toes, the sweat shorts that are two sizes too big and rolled twice at the waistband, the senile cat purring in your arms.
You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until he speaks again.
“That damn cat still alive?”
“Yes,” you breathe, finally. “And you left the doors open.” You point at the white-paned doors and evening light spilling all over the kitchen tile. “She’s not allowed to go outside.”
“She’s a cat.” He gestures toward Miffy, who’s kneading sloppily on your arm. “Ain’t they s’posed to be outside?”
“No,” you answer, a little defensive. “You’re only s’posed to let ‘em out if you can watch ‘em.” You pet Miffy’s fluffy belly and she curls her tongue in a yawn. “Plus, she’s deaf. And also kinda stupid. She’d last maybe, like, five minutes. ‘Specially with you as a babysitter.”
The corners of his mouth twitch into a grin, and you can see him running over the list of things he could say right now that’d piss you off.
Maybe something along the lines of how useless cats are, or that Miffy’s so old she’s probably only got five minutes as it stands.
He even inhales, opens his mouth to say the words, and everything. But instead, he just exhales. Rearranges his thoughts.
“Sorry, kid. Won’t leave doors open anymore, alright?”
You wish he’d stop fucking calling you ‘kid’, but whatever. You’re not about to pick a fight when the most stubborn man on the face of the Earth just offered you an apology.
You’re about to say thank you when he cuts you off, pointing behind him with his thumb.
“Need your help with somethin’ out there. Put the old lady down ’n follow me.”
“Fine,” you say, setting Miffy down slow and steady, trailing behind him once he makes sure the doors are latched shut.
You tip-toe around those prickly weeds in the grass, trying your best to ignore the way your pulse is thrums in your ears and wrists when Joel starts up again.
“So, how ya likin’ bein’ home? Ain’t seen much ‘a you since ya been back.”
‘Cause you’ve been avoiding him like the fucking plague.
“Uh, yeah - I’ve, um - it’s been nice. I’ve been busy,” you lie, blades of grass squishing between your toes.
“Busy, huh? Busy doin’ what?”
“Working,” you answer too quickly, like you rehearsed it, “settling in, I don’t know.”
“Settlin’ in,” he mutters in front of you. “Don’t take a goddamn month to settle in.”
Alright, fine. He’s got a point.
You haven’t exactly been subtle about your sudden need to run off any time he makes an appearance.
Which, lately, has been every other fucking day - watching ball games with your dad or coming over for dinner or helping out with some random thing that apparently needs fixing.
Last week it was your bathroom sink, which you didn’t even know had a leak.
So in turn, you haven’t really been home - like, at all.
The second you heard his honeyed drawl seeping through your walls, you’d bail. It was just easier that way.
And besides, it’s his fault you made it a point to distance yourself.
You had to after that little run in you had when he caught you in the kitchen rummaging through your purse before a night out with Shae and Mia a few days after you got back.
“What’re you lookin’ for?” he asked, grabbing a beer out fridge and heading towards the drawer beside you for a bottle opener.
“My license,” you said, tucking your hair behind your ear to get a better look.
“Goin’ out tonight?”
“Yeah, if I can find my fuckin’ license.”
You were running late before you realized your license had vanished out of thin air, and you were starting to get frantic. Sweaty. Tetchy. Ears all hot like they get when you’re frustrated.
“Alright, easy, darlin’,” Joel drawled, setting his unopened beer down on the counter. “Hand it over. Lemme take a look.”
You paused. Looked at him - the shadow on your lids, glinting in the amber light pendants hanging above the kitchen island.
He held out his hand. “C’mon. Set ‘a fresh eyes ’n all that.”
“Okay,” you conceded, hesitantly.
Then he started digging, combing through the cesspool that is the bottom of your purse - loose tampons, about a thousand different tubes of lip glosses, lip oils, and lip stains, crumpled receipts, hair ties, one of Mia’s epipens just incase she accidentally ingests mango around you for some reason, your half-soles for dance, a granola bar, wrappers from granola bar’s past, and—
“Christ,” Joel chuckled, “no wonder y’can’t find anything in here.”
He fished out your wallet and popped open the snap, running his fingers over each slot, looking behind cards and pulling some out for a closer look.
“You think I haven’t checked my wallet?” You crossed your arms. “That’s the first place I—“
He slipped a card from the last slot, held it up with a smirk that made your ears burn hotter.
“Oh,” you said, barely, snatching your license from his hand and sliding it beneath your phone case.
“Yeah, oh,” he repeated, drawl thick with sarcasm.
You felt the warmth of his stare on skin, exposed beneath your sheer, lacy top as you promptly made your way over to the microwave and used its reflection to slather on a layer of lipgloss before heading out.
“You gonna thank me, or what?”
You turned to look at him, his eyes darker than before, and already fixed on you - flitting down to your shiny lips for a split second. So quick, you would’ve missed it if you blinked.
“Thanks, Joel.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” he said, eyes trailing the length of your body now. ”Y’look real nice tonight.”
And before you could say anything back, he turned around, his back toward you while he popped the top off his beer and added a quiet, “Real pretty.”
Real pretty.
Those were his exact words.
You remember 'cause of the way your heart rose to your throat when he said them.
They played in your head on a loop while guys at the bar offered to buy your drinks and take you back to their place.
You drank their drinks, of course. They were free, and you’re not a fucking idiot.
But that was it. You didn’t kiss anyone. Didn't fuck anyone. Didn’t even give out your number.
You just sat there and drank with this dazed frown painted on, because that wasn’t the only thing Joel had said before you left that night.
You were about to take off, shoes tapping on the tile and squeaking when you halted at the threshold to the sound of your name.
“You behave tonight,” he said, tone stern while he gave you this look you hadn’t seen from him before. “Be a good girl.”
And you nodded, void of any and all thought.
You’d fought the urge to call him all night. Tell him just how well behaved you’d been. That you could’ve fucked whoever you wanted, but you didn’t, ’cause you’re such a good girl.
For him, you were a good girl.
So naturally, you’d done everything in your power to avoid him since. And you were doing a pretty good job of it, too.
Till now.
Joel leads you past the pool and the pile of freshly chopped wood with a yellow-handled hatchet lodged into one of the logs, and toward your dad’s work shed in the back left corner of the lawn.
You halt in front of the two tents that sit all put together just to the right of the shed. One big and one small.
“Why’re these all set up?”
“Gotta set ‘em up ‘fore ya go campin’,” Joel says, like it’s something you should already know. “Gotta check to see ‘f there’s anything wrong with ‘em first - holes, missin’ parts, that sorta thing.”
“Yeah, but no one actually does that, right?” You size up the two tents in front of you - your dad’s single tent he still has from the 80’s that he insists still works like a charm, and the one you’re always forced to share with Shae and Mia. “All that work just for nothing to be wrong. It’s kinda pointless, isn’t it?”
He walks around to the back of the larger tent. Waves you over to come take a look.
You do, shoulder grazing his arm when you file in at his side. He points at the gaping hole at the bottom of the tent, the seam completely ripped - a slight breeze in the air making it billow. Mocking you.
“Your daddy’s at the store pickin’ up a new tent for you ’n the girls,” Joel explains, smile plastered across his face.
“What’d you want my help with again?” you ask before he gets to the whole ‘I told you so’ part.
“Need you to reach a few things from the shed,” he says, guiding you that way.
Joel flicks on the light, and it flickers twice before kicking on. The scent of gasoline and wood creeps into your nose the second you step inside - power tools, rakes, hatchets and axes, and more junk than you could ever acquire in a lifetime, lining the walls and shelves.
You didn’t realize your dad kept your pink bike with tinsel spilling from the handlebars and the training wheels with those flower decals - but there it is, full of cobwebs and shoved in the corner behind the push-lawn mower.
“What makes you think I can reach something you can’t?” you ask, one brow raised.
“You ever jus’ wait ’n see what someone’s gotta say first ‘fore ya ask questions?” he chides.“Y’always just assume things, don’t ya?”
“No,” you mumble.
Joel shakes his head, grabs the old, rickety wooden stepladder hiding in the corner with your bike, and sets it in front of the wall of shelves to your right. Points up toward the three lanterns sitting at the top, covered in dust, and packed full of corroded batteries.
“Y’can start by grabbin’ those f’me.”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“‘Cause this ladder’ll snap the second I try climbin’ it.” He nods at the lanterns. Taps the ladder. “Now, c’mon. Ain't got all night.”
You shuffle over, avoiding the wads of dirt and loose nails.
You step up on the ladder, taking your time when the ancient wood creaks beneath your feet. Joel spots as you make it to the top, reaching for the first lantern and passing it down to him.
“Excited t’go campin’ this year?” he asks, setting it down and reaching up for the next.
“I guess,” you answer, holding in your grunts while you pretend like these stupid lanterns don’t weigh a million pounds.
“’S ‘a matter? Don’t like campin’ anymore?” He takes the last lantern and places it next to the others, dusts his hands on his jeans, then helps you scale back down the ladder - hand on your lower back. “Your daddy started plannin’ this trip the second ya told him y’were movin’ back.”
“Think it’s more for him than for me.” You follow Joel as he carries the ladder to the other side of the shed. “Sorta gives him an excuse to get hammered all weekend without anyone giving him shit.”
“Y’might be right about that one,” Joel huffs a laugh. “Cut your old man some slack, though. He missed ya. Talked about ya every damn day y’were away.”
A ghost of a smile grazes your lips. “I missed him, too.”
“Mhm,” he hums. “Missed his cookin’ more’n ya missed him, I bet.”
True.
The man's a barely functioning alcoholic, but he could whip up a meal that’d bring you to your knees when he wanted to.
Joel chuckles at the way you shrug, then points up to the shelves. “Need ya to grab those flashlights, too.”
You don’t hear him. You’re too busy staring at the sliver of skin that shows above his belt with his arm raised like that. So tan and soft and lick-able.
You wonder what he tastes like. What noises he'd make if—
“You there?” He snaps, pulling you out of it, your eyes darting back to his. “Go on ’n grab those flashlights f’me.”
“Wouldn’t kill ya to say please,” you grumble, walking around him to climb up the old-ass ladder again.
“It might,” he says, rough palm settling on your thigh when you wobble a bit.
It’s warm and it makes you wanna scream, but instead, you just swallow. Take another step up while his fingers dig into your skin.
“I got it, Joel,” you say. “I’m fine.”
He lets go, and you don't miss the way his fingers flex before he balls them into a fist.
You grab the two flashlights, slowly make your way down the ladder, and set them down next to the lanterns - your thigh still branded with the warmth of his hand.
“Sarah back from that soccer camp yet?” you ask, because bringing up his daughter right now seemed like a good idea, apparently.
“You mean the one ‘s drainin’ my bank account?”
He drags the ladder over a couple feet. Taps on it again.
“Sure, that one,” you say, climbing your way up before even asking what he wants this time.
“She ain’t gonna—no, the tackle box on the left, sweet pea. Your other left. Yeah, that one—ain’t gonna be back for another couple 'a weeks. Gettin’ back around her birthday.”
“Gonna miss her this weekend,” you say, knuckles white around the steel tackle box as you lower it to Joel, once again pretending it’s not way heavier than it is. “Stuck dealin’ with Shae and Mia by myself, I guess.”
He snickers knowingly, taking hold of the tackle box, and setting it down next to the ladder - eyes back on you the second you start scaling down.
You don’t make it very far this time, though - the old, paint-splattered wood groaning when your foot slips off the second rung.
“Shit,” you yelp, knees buckling as you tumble backward.
Before you have a second to think, Joel’s hands are on you - strong and secure. One wrapped around your middle, and one on your ass.
On your ass.
Like, under your shorts and on your ass, callused fingertips brushing the waistband of your thong.
He moves it quick, slides it out from your shorts, and wraps it around your waist while he lowers you gently to the ground - your back flush against his chest before he lets go and you take a step foreword.
“Sorry,” he says, voice low. “I didn’t mean to—m’sorry.”
You turn to look at him, eyes flicking to the bulge in his jeans, then back up - just checking to see what you felt pressed against your ass a second ago is what you thought it was.
It is.
“It’s fine,” you say, ignoring the faint crimson color blooming on his cheeks. Ignoring the heat pooling in your own. “It’s, um - thanks for catching me.”
“I wasn’t tryin’ to - I didn’t mean for...” He waves a hand at the shorts swallowing your hips whole. “Christ, it ain’t my fault your shorts are so damn baggy.”
“I said it’s fine,” you bite back with the same tone. You look down, unable to maintain the eye contact he’s so hellbent on not breaking. “It’s not like - it’s just - it’s okay. You can touch me, Joel.”
Silence. Absolute silence save for the heartbeat growing louder in your ears.
“You can touch me,” you repeat softly, eyes still lowered, too afraid to read his expression.
The air between you is thick and humid and still, and the quiet wraps around you like a blanket.
An itchy, heavy, suffocating fucking blanket.
“That what you want?” he finally asks, and your gaze snaps back to him and his raised brow. “Want me to touch you?”
Fuck it.
You’re tired of avoiding him. Tired of pretending not to notice the way he’s always looking at you. Tired of tasting his name on your tongue when you’re alone in your room, hand between your legs, wondering if he’s stroking his cock to the thought - moaning your name all the same.
You're fucking exhausted.
So you look him dead in the eyes, and say in a tone as leveled as you can manage, “Yes.”
“No,” Joel says. Stern and quick. He crosses his arms. “Go on back to the house now. ’Fore ya say somethin’ else you’ll regret.”
“But I—”
“Don’t,” he demands, drawl sharp. “Don’t say what you’re about to say, don’t ask what you’re about to ask, jus’…don’t.”
Maybe the gasoline fumes in this tiny-ass shed are seeping into your brain, but you stay put, cross your arms back, and let the words just fall out of your mouth.
“And don’t fuck anyone else, right?”
His jaw tics, biceps tensing beneath the sleeves of his tee.
“‘Behave’?” you continue, despite the pit of nausea rising in your gut. “‘Be a good girl’?”
“Watch it,” Joel warns with a point.
“I’m not an idiot, Joel.” You swat his hand away because evidently, you have some sort of death wish tonight. “I know what you meant.”
Your eyes flit between his, the crease between his brows deep.
“Don’t give a shit who you’re fuckin’ around with,” his voice falters slightly. “That ain’t my business.”
“Gave enough of a shit to be up at two in the morning, waiting for me to get home that night.” Something like shame flickers in his eyes when you say the words. “Made it your business sitting there on your porch swing.”
No porch light on, so you wouldn’t know he was out there, but you saw him before you even got out of the car, sipping from a mug next to his pot of zinnias. Even through the haze of all those vodka crans, you saw him.
“I saw you—”
“Enough,” he rasps. Points toward the house. “You know what your daddy’d do if he found out we were even havin’ this conversation?”
You inhale.
“You ain’t thinkin’ about that, though, huh?” he cuts in before you can get anything out. “You ain’t thinkin’ about that when you come home from work in those tight lil’ shorts and those fuckin’ bras that don’t cover shit - paradin’ around the livin’ room askin’ your daddy what’s for dinner.”
He takes a step closer, and you resist the urge to retreat back into the house like he told you to do before you were stupid enough to keep pushing.
“Sure as hell ain’t thinkin’ about that when you go upstairs ’n change. Come back down every time with no goddamn bra on.” His eyes lower to your chest before they snap back up to you. “Do that on purpose, don’t ya?”
Yes.
“No.”
Your eyes fall back to the floor, fixating on the grass littering the dirt-stained wood beneath your feet, unable to face Joel now that he’s close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. Close enough to smell the sweat and wood shavings on his shirt - see the soft wrinkles around his eyes and the grays peeking through his dark brown curls.
“Got everybody thinkin’ you’re such a good girl,” he grits, low. “That you’re so damn sweet ’n innocent.”
He pauses, and your breath snags when he tilts your chin up with his finger, making sure your eyes aren't fixed on anything other than him.
“But you ain’t lookin’ at any ‘a them the way you look at me.”
The tips of your ears heat. “The way I look at you?” you push past the knot in your throat. “How ‘bout the way you look at me?”
“You think I wanna be lookin’ at you?” he snaps. “Think I feel good about lookin’ at a girl ‘s twenty-six years younger’n me? At my best friend’s fuckin’—at his daughter?” He drops his hand from your chin, takes a half-step back. “Don’t matter who’s lookin’ at who, ‘cause we ain’t doin’ nothin’ about it.”
The question’s already past your lips and out in the open before you can stop yourself.
“Why not?”
“Fuck’s sake, girl. Were ya not listenin’ to a goddamn word I jus’...” he trails off, takes a steadying breath.
And then he looks at you. Really looks. Takes in all your features through eyes that grow more sullen with each passing second.
Eyes that make your chest tighter than it already is.
“Look,” he starts, drawl softer now. Almost sweet. “There’s things that I - things I-I can’t…” he scratches at the peppered scruff on his jaw with a defeated sigh. “I can’t do this, darlin’. Can’t touch ya. Not the way you want. Don’t matter how bad I…I can’t.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, brows knitting while you think of what to say next.
“Gotta quit lookin’ at me like that, too, honey. You jus'—ya can't be lookin' at me like that.”
There’s a beat of silence before you step into him - eyes still locked on his.
You raise your hand to his cheek, and he lets you. Doesn't move, doesn't protest, doesn't tell you to run back to the house.
“Joel…”
It’s brief, the way he melts into it your touch, and you swear he starts to lean in before you both jump to the sound of your dad’s stupid fucking voice echoing across the lawn.
“Hello? You out here, Miller?”
You rip your hand from his face, and Joel’s across the shed leaning against the shelves before you can even blink.
“The hell’s goin’ on in here,” your dad asks, poking his head inside. He sees you, then the ladder. Cocks his head over at Joel. “You puttin’ my little girl to work?”
“Someone’s gotta do it,” Joel says coolly, as if nothing ever happened. As if you’d just imagined he was about to fucking kiss you. “Ya got ‘er spoiled rotten.”
“No he doesn’t,” you mumble, fists balling at your sides.
He does. Always has.
He drinks like a fish, says things he doesn’t mean while you clean up after him or haul his ass up to his bed - and instead of apologizing the next morning, he just gives you money for whatever you’re heading off to do that day. Lets you slack on chores. Whatever it takes to help you forget, really.
You always remember, though. You remember it all.
“Don’t be an asshole, Joel,” your dad says, “she’s a good girl.”
A laugh escapes before you can catch it. Joel scoffs, turning toward the clutter on the shelves.
Your dad’s eyes dart from you to Joel. “I ain’t even gonna ask.” He looks back at you. “Work?”
“Good,” you answer, heart still in your throat.
“Shae?”
“Annoying.”
He laughs, spotting the tackle box, lanterns, and flashlights littering the floor.
“You excited for tomorrow?” he asks.
You’re still coming up with a story as to why your cheeks are so flushed while Joel’s busy looking through shelves, gathering matches and lighter fluid and whatever the fuck else - calm and collected.
It sorta makes you mad, how calm he is - like whatever the hell just happened didn’t affect him at all. Not the way it affected you.
“Sweetie?”
Your eyes snap to your dad. “Hm?”
He readjusts the sun-bleached, sweat-stained Rangers ball cap he always wears. “You excited for campin’ tomorrow?”
“Oh.” You clear your throat. Wipe the feeling of Joel’s wiry scruff that lingers on your palm against your shorts. “Yeah, sure.”
“C’mon, kiddo,” he pushes. “It’ll be good for ya, bein’ out in all that nature. Right, Joel?”
Joel switches out a box of matches for an unopened one, looks over his shoulder.
“Sure it will, Charlie.” He smirks. “Reckon it’ll be good for her to spend some time 'round some real Texans for a change. Startin’ to lose her drawl after all that time in California.”
Your dad chuckles, tossing his head back like a seal sucking down a fish. “Told ‘er the same damn thing jus’ last week!”
“M’goin’ to take a shower,” you say through clenched teeth, ears white hot as you shove past the two of them.
“Comes out when she’s all pissy, though. Notice that?” your dad mutters to Joel, who fucking laughs.
He laughs.
You resist the urge react, trudging through the grass without taking the time to look for prickly weeds this time.
“Oh, Honey Bee!” Your dad runs out after you.
Honey Bee.
You were still getting used to hearing that again, even though it’d already been a month of Honey Bee this, Honey Bee that.
You pivot, shielding the evening sun with a hand above your eyes, squinting toward your dad, who’s standing just outside the shed.
Joel files out, too. Starts working on collapsing the tents beside your dad.
“Forgot to tell ya that Tig an’ them are taggin’ along this weekend.”
“What? Why?” Your tone's a little whinier than you intended. “You hate Tig.”
And you hate that Tig is Tyson’s dad. Meaning ‘an’ them’ includes Tyson.
“Yeah, Tig’s an asshole, but he always brings a cooler full ‘a beer. Right, Miller?” he laughs so hard he doesn’t even notice the fact that Joel’s not. “Plus, you like Diane, right? She’s real excited to see ya.”
You remain stoic, regardless of how much you really do like Diane. She’s always been there since you’d lost your mom. Taught you all the things your dad couldn’t.
“Oh, don’t gimme that look, hon’.” He mocks your pout. “It’ll be fun. You’ll have the girls - oh, an’ Tyson’s in town, so you’ll have him, too. Be like old times, huh?”
Sure, like old times - like before Joel admitted he wanted to do…things to you. Things that you’d be up all night thinking about while you sweat in that stupid three-man tent Joel offered to pay for.
“Y’know, I heard he’s single now,” your dad adds. “Broke up with what’s-her-name ‘bout a month ago.”
“Cassie,” you say, deadpan.
“S’it, Cassie,” he agrees. “Think this’d be a good time for the two ‘a you to get reacquainted, don’t you?”
Joel mumbles something you can’t hear beneath the swishing of the nylon tents he’s meticulously folding.
“I’m goin’ inside,” is all you have to say to that.
“Pizza’s in the fridge!” he shouts once you’re halfway across the lawn.
“M’not hungry!”
“Watch that fuckin’ tone!” You don’t look back, not even when you hear him say to Joel, “What’d I tell ya? Drawl comes out when she’s pissy.”
Their laughs cut through the trill of crickets hiding in the grass and mourning doves that lull the sun to sleep with their gentle coos.
You slam the door shut behind you, silencing it all.
————
It didn’t matter how far left you turned the knob in the shower - even with the water scalding, Joel’s words wouldn’t melt away. Wouldn’t swirl down the drain with your shampoo, or conditioner. Clung to you, no matter how hard you scrubbed your skin.
By the time you got out, the sky was already dark enough to be dusted with ill-lit stars.
You heave out a sigh as you slump down onto the green gingham cushion that lines the bench of your bay window, fluffing the throw pillows behind you - the dull haze of the string patio lights flood through the window panes as you scan your view of the backyard.
The tents are gone, and so is the wood pile.
Everything that had been laid out for tomorrow - tarps, coolers, fishing rods, the tackle box, and the lanterns - now packed tight in Joel’s truck bed, you assume.
Joel’s gone, too.
You can tell because your dad’s watching the game alone downstairs, based on the fact that it’s only his voice you hear swearing at the umps tonight.
Your bag's already packed for tomorrow, and technically, you're ready for bed - big, comfy sleep shirt on, underwear underneath, hair and teeth brushed.
But you weren’t tired. Not with Joel’s drawl still ringing in your ears. Not when you can still feel his hands on you.
Not when he’d basically admitted he wanted to fuck you.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?” you mumble to no one in particular.
The dull-ass stars don't even twinkle in response.
You decide there’s really only one thing you can do. Something that'd quiet your mind, at least until you have to face Joel tomorrow.
So you hike your shirt up and mindlessly slip a hand beneath the waistband of your panties, thinking about that last split-second before your dad interrupted the two of you.
The way Joel inhaled through his nose, his eyes fluttering shut briefly when you placed your palm against his cheek. The way your breath mingled with his when he leaned in.
He leaned in.
You close your eyes, and picture him, just like you always do. The way you would’ve done tonight, regardless of everything that happened in that shed.
You trace your clit gently. Lazy at first, like he’d do.
At least, you think he would.
You go through the same routine. Imagining the things he’d say and the ways he’d touch you until you’re there - whispering his name and teetering on the brink of pleasure.
You remember the way he said it that night you went out with your friends, ‘Be a good girl’.
You remember his inflection and the look in his eyes. You think he’d say it right now if he knew what you were doing - if he knew how close you were.
“Fuck,” you breath, the heat in your core threatening to snap already.
Be a good girl an’ cum for me, he’d say. You know it.
Your breath is uneven, sheen of sweat on your forehead, stomach tightening with your orgasm fast approaching - fingers pressing firmer, circling faster and faster and faster and—
The bench cushion starts vibrating, your phone lighting up next to you, ripping you from the clouds and tossing you face first back to reality.
You let out a sharp, irritated sigh, hand stalling between your legs while you try to temper your breathing.
It’s probably Shae, calling to ask which bikinis she should pack. Or Mia, wanting to know if she should bring tanning oil and sunscreen, or just tanning oil, or just sunscreen, and if she brings sunscreen what spf should she—
Your heart skips when you finally grab the phone with your free hand and read the name dancing across the screen.
Joel Miller...
You push out a curse with the little air you have left in your lungs. It takes all your restraint to not just throw your phone across fucking the room.
Your thumb hovers over decline for a good five seconds before you finally press accept and hold the phone to your ear.
“H-hello?” your voice breaks, hand still settled between your thighs.
“Slower.”
You swallow down the pine needles in your throat, heart beating as fast as it was a few seconds ago when your eyes were clenched shut, saying his name.
“What?”
“Y’heard me,” his drawl slices through the static. “Know it’s my hand you’re picturin’ between those pretty legs, ‘n I’d be takin’ my time with you. So go slower.”
Your brain stutters, and you rip your hand from your panties, fingers glistening with your slick.
“I’m not—I don’t know what you’re—“
“Stop,” Joel says. “Don’t even try. Now, put your hand back where you had it, darlin’. Y’were so close ‘fore I interrupted.”
Is he in your fucking room?
“Are you in my fucking room?”
Your eyes dart across your bedroom.
“Wouldn’t be callin’ ‘f I was in your room. Use your head.”
That's when it clicks.
The window.
You’re literally sitting in front of a giant, three-paned view into your bedroom. Might as well be a goddamn fish in an aquarium.
Your head whips toward the glass, and you’re met with Joel peering up at you - phone held up to his ear in one hand, and a hatchet, dangling at his side with the other - the patio lights surrounding him in a soft, yellow haze.
A grin materializes across his lips the second your eyes settle on him.
“Hi, baby.”
The butterflies in your stomach grow teeth, gnawing at your insides, looking for a way out.
“What’re you - I thought - I thought you went home,” you stammer, adjusting your posture while your heart threatens to blow the fuck up.
“Left this.” He holds up the hatchet with the yellow handle you saw earlier. “Came back here t’get it. Saw you puttin’ on a show up there—back archin’, sayin’ my name. Figured I’d call, make it easier for ya.”
“I wasn’t saying your name.” You can feel the blush staining your cheeks.
“My mistake,” he says, grin still plastered on his face. “Now, c’mon, sweetheart. S’get to it - ‘fore your daddy gets suspicious.”
“But before in the shed...you said—”
“Know what I said,” he interrupts. “Ain’t touchin’ ya, am I?”
“No.”
“No,” he echoes. “And there ain’t nothin’ wrong with you touchin’ yourself, is there?”
“No,” you answer softly, settling back into the pillows while your hand slowly finds its way back into your panties - your slick-soaked fingers like ice against the sweet warmth of your cunt.
“So you want my help, or not?” he asks, all smug because he already knows the answer. “Want me to let ya go? Let you finish up yourself?”
“No,” you say too eagerly. “I want…you.”
“’S what I thought,” he says. “Go on, then. Put a finger in.”
You listen, a soft moan filtering from your speaker to his when you plunge your finger inside.
“Good,” Joel praises. “Nice ’n slow. Tell me how wet you are.”
Your jaw goes slack, brows knitting tighter with each pump of your wrist. Slow, like he asked.
“Really fucking—oh, shit—really wet.”
“Lemme hear.”
It’s like you’re under a goddamn spell the way you put your phone on speaker and hold it to your cunt without fucking question.
You let him listen, your finger pumping in and out while your soaked walls clench around it.
“Fuck,” his gravelly drawl sounds between your legs. “Know y’can take more. Show me.”
You add another finger, head tipping back at the stretch - half the fucking stretch it’d be compared to Joel’s thick fingers. Half the fucking pleasure.
“Joel,” you whine, despondent enough to make your voice crack.
“Oh, poor girl,” he coos. “So damn pitiful. What is it? Tell me.”
You bring the phone back to you.
“Want—want you,” you whine again. This time more pathetic.
“Can't.”
“Why not?” You’re three for three on whining.
And who could blame you?
You heard his voice coming from between your legs and you’re supposed to, what? Not imagine what it’d be like to run your hands through his curls while his head's dipped between your legs?
“Already told you why not,” he says, no pity in his voice.
You plunge your fingers deeper, pump faster, back arching as you grind your swollen clit into the heel of your palm.
“It’s fine,” you press, “just—fuck, Joel, please—just tell my dad you need to grab something upstairs.”
“Don’t remember tellin’ ya you t’go faster,” he grits. “'N that’s the dumbest fuckin’ plan I ever heard.”
You slow back down, protesting with a groan before you do.
“It’s not—he won’t—ngh—won’t care.”
“He won’t care?” he almost laughs.
“No.”
“So I should just walk in there, tell ‘im I need to grab somethin’ upstairs, jus’ so I can go ’n touch you? Make you feel good?”
You whimper at the thought. “Yes.”
“Yeah? What happens when—go faster now, honey, good—what happens when your daddy goes helpin' me look for somethin’ s’not even up there 'n finds me with my head between your legs? Think he won’t care then?”
“Fuck, yes,” you moan. “I mean, no - no, he won’t care.”
You don’t give a shit how desperate you sound.
Not when you’re this close. Not when his drawl is in your ear while he watches you writhe for him. Not when the just thought of his tongue on your cunt could make you cum right now.
“I don’t care. Please. I want—”
“No!” your dad shouts from downstairs. “The fuck are you guys doin’?”
Your breath catches in your throat, fingers stilling in your cunt while your stomach drops to your toes.
Your clit continues to throb against your palm as you crane your neck to look at Joel, whose focus is pulled elsewhere.
“S’fine,” Joel says, tone steady and even - eyes fixed through the window to your living room. “Rangers gave up a couple runs.”
You exhale, shoulders relaxing instantly while Joel’s gaze raises back to you.
“Gotta be quick, now, darlin’. Your daddy’s gonna be comin’ out here soon now that his team ain’t winnin’.”
You don’t argue this time - don’t beg him to come up to your room and touch you himself. Not when you could’ve fucking thrown up the moment you heard your dad yell.
So you spread your legs further and focus on curling your fingers the way you like, setting your phone on your chest while your other had tends to your aching clit.
Joel watches, his honeyed praises pouring through the line while you start to unravel - and you can’t help the noises that slip out of you.
“Oh, I know it,” he drawls. “S’my girl. So good at touchin’ that perfect fuckin' pussy, ain’t ya?”
Another broken moan - this time laced with his name.
“Look at me,” he says, and you do, head resting against your heart-shaped throw pillow. He’s white-knuckling the handle of the hatchet, cock pressed tight against the zipper of his jeans. “You wanna cum?”
You nod sheepishly, and he shakes his head.
“Mm-mm,” he hums. “Don’t get all shy on me now. Gotta tell me yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“Ask me nice, then. Since you’re such a ‘good girl’.”
“Please, Joel. Please, can I—“
“Goddamnit,” Joel spits. “Keep fuckin’ goin'. Don’t you dare stop.”
Why the fuck would you stop—
“You find that hatchet, Miller?”
Your dad comes into view, beer in hand.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Joel holds up the hatchet, then brings your dad’s attention to the fact that he’s on the phone.
He's a busy guy. Gotta business to run, y'know?
You freeze, mouth agape and breath shaky, watching carefully as your dad sips his beer and readjusts his ball cap.
“I said keep goin’,” Joel says. Demands. Eyes not daring to raise up to your window.
“I don’t—I can’t,” you breathe, “he’ll hear me.”
“Rangers are playin’ like a bunch ‘a fuckin’ little leaguers tonight,” you hear your dad over the speaker. “Who ya got on the phone?”
“Wrappin’ up a work situation,” Joel tells your dad, calm, like he was in the shed. “Tryin’ to quit the job ‘fore it’s done.” He grips the phone tighter. “Keep. Goin’.”
And because you’re so close you can’t think straight, because you’re unwilling to unpack the way this spurs you on even more, and because you already know you’re going to hell, you keep going.
You work yourself with your fingers until you're begging him - pleading with him to just—
“Lemme cum. Please, Joel. Please—need it so bad.”
You watch as Joel taps his finger on the side of his phone to lower the volume, flexing his fingers around the yellow handle of the hatchet while your ragged breaths, whimpers, and curses cut through the line.
“’S Cal, ain’t it?” your dad asks. “Or, no—sounds more like somethin’ Mouse would—“ your dad pauses, throws a hand up “—y’know what? Don’t even wanna know. I’m off the fuckin’ clock.”
He pivots. Walks back inside without a glimpse up in your direction.
Joel waits. Watches through the downstairs window before his gaze raises to you - full of lust and laced with guilt.
When he finally speaks, it’s sharp. A single word. A command.
“Now.”
The tension snaps then, spills over every nerve-ending while you cum around your own fingers. Hard.
The sound of his drawl melts through the phone, and his stare licks at your skin as you ride out your orgasm - his name falling from your lips way louder than it should.
Louder than you’ve ever said it all those times he wasn’t there to hear it.
“S’it,” says, voice gentle while he watches you come down. “Good. Relax now.”
There’s a beat of silence. Nothing but static coming from the other line.
You pick up your phone, take it off speaker, hold it back up to your ear - screen pressed against your tingling cheek.
“Joel?” your voice is soft, worn - your breathing finally calmed.
He’s already looking at you, waiting for you to speak when you turn your head again to look at him.
“When you’re alone - I mean, when you…um—” even after all that, you feel too shy to get out the question you’ve wanted to ask since you'd moved home “—when you t-touch yourself. Do you picture me?”
Joel stares at you for a moment. Blinks. Gives you this look, like you’re fucking stupid for even having to ask.
“Get some rest,” he says. “Got an early mornin’ tomorrow.”
Then, the line cuts.
You watch as he shoves his phone into his back pocket, shakes his head, and mutters something, heading back inside without another glance up.
You listen to the deep, stifled voices beneath the floorboards, the footsteps leading to the front door before it swings shut, and you know you’re not getting any sleep tonight.
Not now.
Not when you know Joel Miller's going home to picture you.