Dax
The phone rings at noon on Wednesday, and I’m annoyed with myself for feeling so damn elated to see Lisa’s name.
“Hello, hot stuff,” I say.
She laughs, and I flip up the shield up on my welding visor and wonder what she’s wearing.
“Hello—crap, I can’t think of any good pet names for you,” she answers.
“Pookie?” I offer.
“Ew.”
“Custard bunny?”
“Gross.”
“My steaming hunk of man meat?”
She laughs again, and the sound leaves my body humming. I settle back against the workbench in my warehouse and set down the welding torch I was messing with when she called.
“Now I’ve forgotten why I called you,” she says.
“It wasn’t just to hear my sexy voice?” I say. “Or for phone sex?”
“That’s a terrific idea, actually,” she says. “Can we schedule that in sometime before The Test is over?”
“You don’t schedule phone sex, Lisa.” I ignore the pang in my gut that comes from thinking of The Test ending. I’m not ready for that yet, and we still have ten days to go. “It’s not something you put in your day planner and color code with stickers.”
She giggles again, and I think I could do this forever. Not just cracking jokes on the phone to make her laugh, but this. This easy camaraderie and companionship filled with humor and banter and lots and lots of good sex.
“So, what’s up?” I ask, figuring I should get on with it before I go too far down that rabbit hole.
“Well, next week is my birthday.”
“Oh. Shit, I should have known that, huh?”
“No, no—that’s not what I meant. I’m not fishing for gifts or anything. I usually keep my birthday low-key. Maybe a spa getaway with my sisters or an overnight trip to some luxury resort.”
“That’s your idea of low-key?”
She sighs, but I can tell she’s not really pissed. How have I reached this point where I can read her demeanor over the phone without a single word?
“In honor of The Test, I had an idea for something I’d like to try for my birthday,” she says. “I was hoping you could help with it.”
“Sure,” I say, sitting up a little straighter. “Whatever you want. Anything.”
Jesus, Kensington. Desperate much?
I clear my throat and try to play it cool. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about roughing it.”
“Roughing it?” Visions of whips and chains swirl through my head, and I imagine Lisa tied spread-eagle on my bed with silk scarves.
“Not like that,” Lisa says, and I wonder if she’s read my thoughts. “Camping,” she says. “I’ve never gone camping, and I thought I’d like to try it.”
“Camping,” I repeat, erasing the spreader bars from my brain and replacing them with tent poles. “You’ve never been camping?”
