Page 12 of King of Jokers
Fucking hell.
It was not a new phenomenon that Winter Lennox was hot. You’d have to be a complete fool not to notice, and most people did – although her lack of reciprocation meant they would turn on her fairly quickly. But never me. Although the pull was something I had always known but never needed to acknowledge.
She was my friend.
The one who was always there, in my corner, through the good times and the bad. The first person I called because she was the only one who could tell me to pull my head from my arse without offending me. Because she knew me better than most. It didn’t matter how many months went by between visits, when we were together, it was easy and there was no need to pretend or be something everyone wanted or expected.
When everything turned to shit last season, she was the first person I called because she would be the one who would settle me. And she had – with a few home truths and a whole lot of love.
There were no expectations or pressures with her.
I was Jack and she was Winter. And it was exactly as it should be.
But something shifted tonight and there were feelings long ago buried which were now vying for the surface.
Washing away the evidence of those salacious thoughts, I turned the shower off and reached for my towel – I was still fairly drunk which was weird considering I didn’t have that many drinks.
Maybe it was just Debbie’s orange magical liquor making me fantasise impossible things. I’d have to get Win to ask her mum where she got it because it was definitely potent if it was causing my mind to wander the way it had.
My quick getaway was a dick move. I could picture her pacing in her room, viciously seeking a calming texture, possibly freaking out over my Usain Bolt style departure. Which was incredibly selfish of me. Because, while I didn’t stick around to clarify exactly what she meant, I was fairly certain I knew what she was implying. Subtlety was never a strength of hers and even when she floundered, I could read her like a bolded and underlined headline. Because she was suggesting afriends with benefitsstyle agreement. A mutual deal which would help her with her writing and as a red-blooded single male, be more than beneficial for me too. Hence, I was actually considering saying yes. We were adults now. Gone was the ridiculously hormone driven teenager who found any excuse to swim with her in the hopes of seeing her in her swimwear. Things were different and it would keep the holiday interesting, right?
I shook my head trying to get my mind out of the gutter, I needed hydrating before I went to bed or I would be waking with a hangover and that was not what I wanted on my first day out in Willow Bay.
I paused at the closed door of Winter’s childhood bedroom. The beaded seashell curtain she’d begged her parents for on her tenth birthday, still hanging and probably still just as annoying. The rhythmic clatter of keys from inside the room broke the silence of the night and my face split into a smirk. The heavy metallic taps were the exact opposite to her previous assertions of writer’s block, and it was with a smug confidence that I headed to the kitchen for a drink and something to eat.
Maybe there was merit to creating these scenes with her. Our friendship had withstood many storms. A friendship forged in trust and tested by the complexities that the years brought with them. And it was as sturdy as ever.
The mechanical slide and click of the carriage resetting was evidence that our little role play appeared to have helped her. Ultimately, I knew as well as she did, if she asked something from me, I would do it. I couldn’t say no to her – I never had been able to. And maybe, selfishly, I pondered if this was just another hill to climb and I needed to fuck whatever this was out of my system so we could move back to being the platonic friends that we were.
Her earlier words uncoiled like ribbons, taunting me to agree.
Help me with the spicy scenes — we would have rules — use that experience of yours to show me what passion really is.
The soundtrack of her voice accompanied by images floating around my mind like leaves in the wind. Innocent eyes begging for my help. Hungry, slightly parted lips, her demeanour tense, clearly affected when I moved into her space. A space I had entered hundreds of times before but never with a proprietary hand on her back and an unspoken intention in the alignment of our bodies.
Even after a drink, I fought the urge to take another shower to re-live everything I couldn’t forget.
And when I finally did drift off to sleep, it was to visions of just how different this summer could be.
The sun was high in the sky when I eventually woke from a fitful sleep. The few hours I did manage consisted of a patchwork of uneasy dreams showcasing a deep brunette goddess with dark eyes and a full and generous body. A figure I could paint from memory alone, although now with far more skin and new angles – areas a younger me dodged at all costs. There was no avoidance last night though, because Winter refused to be ignored with her wet body and devastating mouth.
The smell of a cooked breakfast awakened my stomach and I didn’t bother reaching for a shirt, instead padding into the kitchen in my sweats with my hat thrown on backwards just to cover the state of my hair. I was not prepared for the smorgasbord of food scattered on the bench and table. My girl was still a morning person it seemed. Flashbacks to a scrawny twelve year old with braces waking me up at nearly lunchtime, desperate for someone to hit the beach with, while I fought for just another hour of sleep.
“Hey.” I greeted on a yawn which indicated, regardless of my fractured rest, I was stillnot amorning person.
Winter was already dressed for the day, her orange swimmers visible under a white kaftan and I speedily averted my gaze knowing lingering would result in nothing good.
“I couldn’t decide. Hence the food massacre, which also means we need to hit the store today.” She replied with a flick of her hand to the numerous dishes which evidenced this.
“You have too much energy.”
“Coffee is over there,” she said, pointing to the machine, before flipping the eggs onto two plates.
“I heard you writing last night.” Turning to lean against the bench, I watched her finish plating the food.
“I think I wrote for three hours straight. Do you know how long it’s been since that has happened?” She asked incredulously. “Forever.”
I took a sip from my mug to hide my self-satisfied smirk.
