Page 167 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series
Hurry up, Marc mouthed before turning back to Harper.
Gritting his teeth, ignoring the pulse of straining pressure in his groin, Keith pressed his foot harder to the accelerator. The main billabong on Farpoint Creek Station was five kilometers up the road. The sooner he got into the cool water, the better.
Of course, that would be tricky while he was sporting a bloody inconvenient hard-on. He didn’t want to scare Harper. Stripping off and plunging into the water had seemed like a good idea when Marc suggested it an hour ago. “Let’s take Harper for a swim. Show her what life on Farpoint is like. She spent all day Sunday with the boss and all day today teaching. Bet she’s keen to blow off some steam.”
Neither Keith nor Marc addressed Big Mac’s claims the American woman was gay, and when Keith had tried to call Amy in Chicago yesterday to ask, she hadn’t answered. Didn’t surprise Keith in the slightest. It had been one a.m. where she was. She was either sound asleep or partying hard.
So here they were, with a woman who may or may not be gay, about to swim buck-naked together.
Brilliant. Bloody brilliant. How the fuck did he let Marc talk him into stuff like this?
Because he makes your life fun, dickhead. That’s why.
Chuckling to himself, his pulse pounding far too fast in his ears, his dick far too hard for his jeans, he directed the ute under the old ghost gum tree growing beside the billabong, applied the brakes and killed the engine.
“Here we are,” he heard Marc say a second before the ute dipped a fraction to the side and Marc jumped out of the tray.
He opened his door, watching Marc run toward the large body of still water, stripping as he went.
“Oh God, he’s…”
Keith leaned out of the driver’s seat and looked toward Harper. However she would have finished her exclamation, it never made it past her lips. She stood frozen in the ute’s tray, her stare locked on Marc’s naked backside.
The splash of Marc diving into the water, followed by his shouted “Holy fuck that’s cold!” jerked her from her stunned state.
She burst out laughing. “And you want me to swim in that?” She glanced at Keith, her eyes sparkling, her hair a wild tumble of golden-blonde waves around her face and shoulders. “Is he serious?”
Christ, she’s gorgeous.
The thought stole Keith’s reply. Thankfully, Harper returned her attention to Marc before his silence became obvious.
“Get your arse in here, Ms. Shaw,” Marc called.
Keith turned his gaze on his best mate, finding him standing waist-deep in the water, his upper body glistening in the sun’s rays. The tattoo on his chest—a red-back spider building its web in between the stars of the Southern Cross—seemed to ripple over his flesh.
As always, the sight of the ink made him remember the night Marc had gotten it. The night Marc had celebrated his eighteenth birthday in Cobar. The night Marc’s dad had been killed by a bike-gang member a mere block away from the tattoo parlor in which Marc and Keith sat, waiting for Marc’s turn to go.
The night Keith promised the devastated young man he’d always be there for him, that he was his mate, that he’d never let him down. And he’d proven it by getting a tattoo on his own chest—a red-back spider perched above his heart.
“You too, Blue.” Marc grinned at him from the billabong. “Before my dick shrivels up to nothing and you embarrass me with that?—”
“Shut the fuck up, Thomo,” Keith called. He turned back to her. “I’m going in. I apologize in advance for the view.”
She frowned at him. “The view?”
For an answer, Keith stood, shucked off his boots, removed his hat, yanked his shirt over his head and, with a quick breath, unzipped his fly and slid his jeans down his legs.
He heard Harper’s gasp. Heard Marc’s laugh.
He felt the warm autumn air wrap around his suddenly exposed erection. And then he was ignoring it all, running toward the billabong, his attention set on nothing but the water and its depths. He dove in, piercing the surface with his hands. His dick strained against the cool water, dragging like a bloody anchor as he plunged toward the billabong’s silted bottom.
The dull splash behind him indicated someone had broken the water’s surface in another dive. Lungs burning, he touched the bottom of the billabong, let out a short stream of breath then planted his feet on the silt and propelled himself upward.
Upward.
Upward.
Marc was laughing when he broke the surface. As was Harper. Treading water, Keith turned, finding them both a few feet away. If Harper was naked, Keith couldn’t tell. The only thing above the water was her head, her wet hair clinging to the shape of her skull before floating on the surface behind her like a golden fan.
