Sloane is at my side. She’s slipped back into her red dress, smoothed her hair into a perfect, glossy cascade, and refreshed that lethal lipstick.
If it weren’t for the faint flush still coloring her throat—and the way her fingers curl around my arm just a little tighter than necessary—no one would guess she was on her knees between my legs twenty minutes ago, showing me the gates of heaven.
But I know.
I feel it in every nerve ending—my body still electric, satisfied, emptied out and overflowing all at once.
My legs are basically jelly, but I’m walking in a straight line.
Or at least attempting to.
My brain is fog, but my eyes?
Laser-focused on her.
The lodge’s main hall at Elm Hollow Mountain has been transformed into some kind of alpine Moulin Rouge—red velvet, crystal candelabras, round tables, and a stage lit up like aBroadway revival.
Onstage, three women are mid-performance.
The music cuts out the second we step inside.
Silence drops over the room.
Everyone turns.
Joe, at table eight, narrows his eyes.
Brenda and Steve check their watches like we’ve committed a felony.
Francis Grande already has his camera raised.
But Sloane?
Sloane doesn’t blink.
She lifts her chin, unleashes a smile that could rule kingdoms, and walks toward our table—number nine, obviously, positioned right under the stage—like our lateness is a deliberate fashion choice and not the direct result of the best blowjob ever given in the history of human civilization.
“Sorry we’re late,” she says as we take our seats, flicking her hand as if dismissing the entire room. “Technical difficulties.”
A strangled laugh escapes me, which I quickly disguise as a cough.
Technical difficulties.
Right. If by technical difficulties she means my absolute inability to let her walk away.
As soon as we sit, the show resumes.
And it is… well.
It’s Elm Hollow.
Three blonde women are onstage, wearing sequin gowns so bright I’m convinced they could blind a pilot.
At the center stands the tallest of the three women, draped in a pink ostrich-feather stole and carrying herself like she genuinely believes she’s on Broadway circa 1950. She sings, gestures, and commands the stage like a diva whose spotlight is a birthright.
To the right is Aunt Tina, dressed in black with blood-redaccents, attempting to follow the choreography but occasionally stopping to prod at her neck as if checking her lymph nodes.
On the left, the smallest and most agile of the trio moves with a soft, understated grace—an anomaly among them.
