Eventually, I hear something else. It comes from a cluster of trees close to the lake. I approach carefully and then with less caution as I realize what’s going on.
“Oh, yes. Yes,” cries out a woman’s voice, breathy. She moans just as I come around the corner. It’s a brother and sister, both buck naked, their pale flesh lit silver by the moonlight. They’re having sex, pressed up against a tree. The man’s back is to me, but I can see the sister’s face with her eyes squeezed shut in pleasure. It’s Gwen. Which means the man is Peterson. They’ve been a couple for the past year, basically inseparable.
“Fuck,” grits out Peterson, his hips pumping faster. “I love you so much.”
“Oh my god, I’m so close,” she gasps. “I love you too. You’re going to bond me, aren’t you? When we get to college.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course. There’s only you, Gwen.”
I pull my eyes away from them to survey the scene. Their clothes are in a haphazard pile ten feet from where I stand. Piled on top are both of their paint guns.
Idiots.
They’ve left themselves exposed in more ways than one.
I stroll closer and lean against a tree with one ankle crossed over the other, waiting for them to finish. I don’t feel bad about watching. None of us would.
When we boys lost our virginity to the prostitutes at age fifteen, we came back from that night changed, louder, bolder, reeking of sweat and smoke and self-importance. Like sex was a disease, we quickly infected the girls. Soon they were as reckless as we were, choosing partners like chess pieces.
Add in the fact that we weren’t raised with normal boundaries. Not with each other. Not with ourselves. We fought together. Bled together. Grew up in one another’s bedrooms and backyards. By the time sex entered the equation, we’d already erased the lines that were supposed to keep things separate. That’s why wedon’t think twice about fucking in front of each other. It’s a show of dominance. A way to prove who you belong to and, more importantly, who you can own.
So no, it doesn’t bother me when Gwen and Peterson keep going, moving faster, moaning louder, like I’m not even here. Finally, Gwen opens her eyes mid-thrust and spots me. She lets out a startled squeak, her legs tightening instinctively around Peterson.
He whips his head around, his eyes wild, but when he sees it’s me, he just scowls. “Are either of us your targets, Carrson?”
“Nah. You’re safe.”
“Then fuck off,” he growls, dragging his lips along Gwen’s neck. She tilts her head for him, eyes fluttering shut again.
“I will,” I say casually. “Just one question. Either of you seen Nelson?”
Peterson keeps moving, slow and deliberate now, fucking her like they’ve got all night. Gwen breathes, “Last I saw, he was down by the boathouse. Hiding.”
“Perfect.” I straighten. “Thanks, Gwen. Very helpful.”
She moans in response. Peterson picks up speed. Their bodies crash together, rough and frantic, like they’re trying to fuse into one. Kissing her, Peterson flips me off without breaking rhythm, then gives a lazy shooing motion.
Chuckling, I raise my voice so they can hear over all the groaning they’re doing. “Have fun. Oh, and you might want to bring your guns closer.”
They don’t hear, too busy moaning and thrashing as they come.
I shrug and mutter, “It’s your funeral.”
I turn and head for the lake.
The boathouse is a single-story structure at the water’s edge. In a rare moment of whimsy, my father had the exterior designed to look like a miniature replica of the main house, down to the dormer windows and painted shutters. Inside, it’s one large room, the far end built out over the lake to cradle our sixteen-foot sailboat.
When I was small, I used to come here to play. I’d race wooden cars across the warped, oak floorboards or scale the exposed rafters like some half-wild thing. Back then, it felt like freedom. A secret world all my own.
Now, older and wiser sleeping me notices the rusted nails, the splintered floorboards. I see how it was dangerous. A place where a kid could drown or fallor disappear without anyone noticing. But there was no one watching. No one to stop me. No one who cared enough to keep me safe.
Younger seventeen-year-old me looks through the window of the boathouse. Lights are on inside. There’s movement. Someone walking back and forth, pacing, just out of view, but I can see their shadow, sliding across the ground.
Gun held down by my thigh and my finger on the trigger, I creep to the door.
It’s open. I peer around the edge and see Nelson inside.
He’s sweating and tense, with his eyes darting everywhere. His finger trembles as it rests on the trigger of his gun.
