I hadn’t touched the family money since. Money solved some problems, but in my experience it created way worse ones. It corrupted and corroded. Stronger than any smelting fire, it twisted and burned, distorting people’s intentions and desires. It created a world where you never knew who was being honest, who was just using you. You weren’t an individual, you were a Kavanaugh, a dollar sign. And even though I hated using my family’s money to do it, I’d dipped in that one time to secure my escape.

I made my way over to where I kept some sneakers. I wore boots when working with fire, but now it was time to sweat. I’d wasted enough time today standing around brooding, all in my head. I didn’t do that. I was a physical guy, in my work and in how I experienced the world.

One end of my huge corrugated metal warehouse was devoted to CrossFit. Or at least my own version of CrossFit. I was sure I’d be in trademark violation if I used the term, which I never did. I didn’t want to be one of those braggy guys. Someone had once told me a joke that stuck with me: “An atheist, a vegan, and a crossfitter walked into a bar. I only know because they told everyone within two minutes.” I didn’t want to be that guy.

But throwing around tires, climbing up and around on ropes and dragging cement blocks on chains? That was my idea of a good time. And whenever I found myself getting too much in my head, there was nothing like a body-pounding, sweaty mess of a workout in my warehouse to get me back in the game.

An hour later, covered in sweat and panting like a beast, I made my way over to my cabin. After a shower, a burger and a beer, I felt like myself again. So what if I’d met a woman last night who’d knocked my socks off? Who needed socks? And if I did, I had other pairs.

And I didn’t need to respond to my brother right away. I could think on it a little while longer. Maybe there was an out and I just hadn’t discovered it yet. Maybe he’d come to his senses, cancel the whole damn spectacle and decide to elope. Anything could happen.

Meanwhile, the night was still young. I wondered what Violet was up to, whether she was still in town, maybe over at her condo in something silky, sliding between the sheets.

But, see, that was why I needed to get busy. Not get busy, but get occupied. In my workshop. Otherwise I’d find myself in my truck heading on over just to check in, and I knew exactly what that would lead to. While my cock jumped up and yelled hell yes, the rest of me replied gravely, hell no. You had your fun. Now button up.

In my workshop, I liked to have a bunch of projects in the works at the same time. That gave me more room to pick and choose whatever I felt drawn to, plus accommodated delays like waiting for a supply to come in the mail or a layer of clear coat to dry. My workshop was filled with old, classic car and motorcycle pieces in different phases of transformation. But what I felt like working with right now was some wood. Not that kind of wood.

I had a great section of an old farmhouse, probably about 100 years old, torn down and left to rot. The wood had been weathered by the elements and time. No processing could have given it the kind of texture it had, the depth of light and shadows. I’d found it a couple of months ago. I’d grabbed a big piece, hauled it into my pickup—see, tossing around tires for fun did have its practical applications—and I’d been waiting to make something of it. It was slightly warped and jagged but I could picture something more smooth, some shaping to accentuate the pattern within.

I lost myself for the next couple of hours, mesmerized by the rhythm of work, the grain of the wood, the rough texture growing smooth, shaping itself from old into something new. I’d never meditated before, but I’d had some people tell me about it. That feeling of flow, without conscious, formed thoughts, that’s what happened to me when I was deep in it.

Then I sat back, rested my arms on my knees, and realized what I’d done. The wood before me looked soft and sensual, curving and swelling in feminine curves. It looked nearly pornographic. Had I seen that in the grain before? No, I had not.

I knew who was to blame. It was Violet. I’d massaged her out of the wood, working my hands along the curves, caressing them, smoothing them into something smooth and gleaming. The kind of curves that called to you, made you want to touch them again and again. With a groan and a swear, I dropped my head down.

How had she gotten to me so bad? I hadn’t even had her. Maybe that was it. If we’d had a hot night of wild sex, over and over again on every surface of my house, maybe I would have worked her out of my system. Somehow I doubted it, but still, that could be the problem. I’d had a taste of paradise, but all it did was make me want to bathe in it, surround myself in Violet and nothing but Violet for days. So much that I’d just sculpted her figure.

Well, damn. Maybe I’d finish another day. Maybe not. Guess it was time to call it quits. Who knew what else I’d find myself doing if left to my own devices?

I checked my phone. I didn’t know what I thought I’d find. I hadn’t asked for Violet’s number. It was better that way.

Harriet had texted, the leader of our artist’s collective. She made sure the bills got paid for our showroom downtown, plus arranged for a random assortment of folks to provide mostly regular staff hours so it could stay open. She wanted me to head down to the shop tomorrow around one o’clock.

Sure

I replied, without hesitation, without asking why. Harriet didn’t ask for much, and she dealt with a whole hell of a lot of headaches. The wild and wooly types that she managed to corral under one roof took some kind of powerful voodoo magic, and I for one didn’t want to question it. If she needed me at one o’clock, I’d be there at one. And then hope I wouldn’t hear from her again for at least another month.

So that meant I’d be heading into town tomorrow. Downtown, the most likely place to run into an L.A. woman sashaying along in her heels and painted-on jeans. I could picture Violet picking her way along on the ice. Maybe I’d be there when she’d slip, and she’d need to brace herself against my chest. She’d press herself against me, maybe linger a moment longer than necessary. She’d flush all pink like she did last night, maybe gasp softly if I wrapped a hand around at the small of her back.

The way she’d arched into my touch, like she was melting into me, craving more. Her nipples, dark and stiff with need, so delicate and sensitive and begging for my attention. The cries she made as I stroked her, the slick friction along her clit, the pressure on her nipple making her perfect lips open round into an O just for me.

Yeah. It had been a while. That had to be the reason I was so fixated.

But I didn’t do fixated. I shook it off, flicking off the lights in my warehouse and heading back to my cabin. Too bad I’d already taken a shower earlier that night. I could use another one, turned down real cold.

CHAPTER 7

Violet

“I have to warn you, not everyone will give you a warm welcome.” The mayor of Watson, Vermont looked exactly like you’d expect, ruddy cheeked and wholesome in plaid. I’d never seen so much plaid on so many people in all my life. And I’m not talking ironic plaid, like neon throwback 80s plaid or cute little school uniform skirt plaid. It was earnest lumberjack plaid. I wondered where they even bought it.

“Do people here not have TVs?” Sam asked, half-sympathetic, half-appalled, as if he’d just discovered a section of the town carried a mutant, flesh-eating strain of bacteria.

“No, everyone’s got a TV.” The mayor looked at Sam with a hint of the same emotions, like maybe this L.A. guy only had part of a brain. “But not everyone in town will be excited about filming a reality show here.”

“Why not?” Sam asked, dumbfounded.

I jumped in. “I understand, some might see it as disruptive.” I’d dealt with this before, the jitters prior to brokering a deal. Sam focused more on scouting talent, making people’s day by telling them they were about to be given their big chance. I handled all of the associated problems.

In sell mode, I continued, “I assure you, we can accommodate concerns. If we do film here, the show w

ill only feature the people and businesses that have agreed to participate. Once people see the kind of benefits they get through greater visibility, I think the problem we’ll have is picking the ones who get to be involved.”

“Maybe.” He seemed to be thinking over my sales pitch harder than I’d anticipated. “I’m on board. I want you to know that.” He gave me a warm smile. The man was a born politician, I could tell. “But some of the folks around here? They’re more…ah, how to put it? They’re more cranky.”

I nodded, like I totally understood what he meant. Sales always involved connecting with your target, making them feel a bond. You were in this together. But the fact was, I wasn’t even sold on using this town as a site. If we did end up wanting to, though, we’d need the mayor on our side.

“I guarantee—”

He made a face, like I’d said the wrong word. “Thing is,” he interrupted, “you might not want to sell too hard with these folks. They get sort of…”

“Cranky?”

He nodded. “And suspicious,” he added. “Vermonters are an independent bunch.”

Tags: Callie Harper Beg For It Erotic
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