“Griff should be here,” Ryker says during an extra-long laugh from the audience that has the show pausing.
“We can show this—or any of her recorded shows—again anytime,” Simon tells him.
Ryker stares at him. “If you hurt Bea, they’ll never find your body.”
“I should hope not. You’ve the land and the tools to dispose of me correctly. It would be a pity to cost Bea both her heartandher brother to prison.”
“Oh my god, Simon.” I tip my head back and laugh.
Ryker cracks a smile. A real one. “I’m pissed that I might actually like you.”
Simon merely beams.
The show continues on the screen, and after it’s over, when Lana’s packed the boys off and taken them home, Hudson calls Griff, whose game is over for the night too, and we sit in the field in front of the screen sharing stories about our parents until long after midnight, with Simon wrapped around me from behind.
Eventually, Ryker grumbles about the chickens waking him too early, and he takes off.
Hudson pauses long enough to give Simon a hug. I hear athank you, but I don’t make out whatever else my brother whispers to my boyfriend.
And then it’s just Simon and me and the night air and the crickets and the fading moon.
Tank and Pinky have made themselves scarce, though I know they’re somewhere close by.
I loop my arms around Simon’s neck. “Is that projection shack empty?”
He runs his hands down my side. “If it’s not, I’m acquainted with the management, and I do believe they’ve succumbed to my charms.”
“We should go check.”
His smile is brighter than a full moon. “Should we? Whyever should we do that?”
“Because I stole the honey from your kitchen.”
I don’t know which of us pulls the other faster to the little shack, but as soon as the door is closed behind us, all of our clothes go flying.
I pull the honey bear from my bag.
Simon slaps a strip of condoms on the projection table.
And then he’s squeezing the life out of that honey bear while he attempts to drizzle honey onto my chest.
Attemptsbeing the key word.
He squeezes.
And he squeezes.
And my breasts stand there, perky in the half-moon light, waiting to be covered in honey so he can lick it off.
But the honey isn’t coming.
“Why do I have to squeeze so hard?” he murmurs.
I’m giggling so hard I almost can’t answer. “Old honey. Crystallized.”
He screws the lid off, dips his finger into the bear’s head, and smears the grainy substance all over one of my nipples. “This shall do. I’ll purchase fresh honey first thing in the morning.”
I’m still giggling.
