Hot Pickle - J.J. Knight Page 0,52

something.

A long loose tendril of her hair falls across the pillow. I aimlessly twirl it in my finger.

The scenario has definitely flipped.

Before I was concerned about losing my training buddy.

No longer.

Now it’s her.

I wonder how much trouble Franklin can make for his sister in the bodybuilding circuit. He interfered last season, clocking a competitor who wanted to date her.

And then there’s this mysterious past relationship.

Camryn seems to have come through those incidents fine, as popular as ever with her services.

So hopefully Franklin doesn’t exercise any influence there. Or, if he does, he knows not to use it against his own flesh and blood.

Me, on the other hand, he might destroy.

Would that be such a bad thing? Camryn comes first. I’d trade any time on the stage for these hours with her.

I prop myself up on my elbow to watch her sleep. She must sense me staring at her, because she shifts beneath the sheets until she faces me.

“I’m sure you’re used to getting up early,” she says sleepily.

I smooth more hair away from her face. It’s everywhere, glorious in reds and browns.

“Every day,” I say.

“I’m not a morning person.” She buries her head back in the pillow.

“How about I go make us some coffee?”

Her head pops up. “Can you drink any?”

“A little. The next competition isn’t until Saturday.”

She reaches out and pokes my arm muscles. “How long does it take to dehydrate?”

“A few days. I won’t overindulge.”

“Crazy life, isn’t it?”

“It brought me to you.”

Her smile is everything. “Go fetch my coffee, peasant.”

I tweak her nose and slide out of the sheets.

Her kitchen is small and tidy. I spot the coffee pot easily enough and find the bag of ground beans in the cabinet above. Soon, the smell of percolating fills the room.

I pause by her refrigerator. It’s covered in magnets, notes, and old ticket stubs.

She likes pop music. She’s seen Taylor Swift and Katy Perry. Or maybe she has some connection for tickets. Both appear to be comp passes. I wouldn’t doubt that someone like Camryn knows all the right people.

I want to learn everything about her.

I pause on a photo of her and Franklin. It’s from a few years ago, as I remember this haircut of Franklin’s from our college days. It’s one of their birthdays, although it isn’t clear whose as they’re both by the cake.

I wonder again what makes Franklin so overbearing with her. It’s a question I hope I can broach with her soon. We’ll need a game plan for how to break it to him that we’ve become a couple.

Several other images show Camryn and another woman with long black hair. They hold champagne glasses in a shadowy bar. In another, they laugh as they eat tacos in someone’s backyard. Clearly a good friend.

“That’s Sofia,” Camryn says with a yawn. She rubs the heel of her hand into her eye. “She knows about you. I had drinks with her a week or so ago.”

Camryn has slipped on a thin pajama tank top and adorable pink shorts. But the outline of those nipples I feasted on last night are visible.

Her gaze takes me in, stark naked. As usual.

“Someone’s awake this morning,” she says.

I glance down. The morning wood is rising and shining. “It’s my perpetual state around you.”

“Let me get some coffee in me, and maybe we can do something with that.”

Now he’s standing at full attention.

Her hair is glorious chaos, red and brown strands tangled around her face and down her back.

As she pours herself a cup and sips it black, I run my fingers through the long strands to tame them.

“That’s nice,” she says.

When the bulk of her hair is more or less straightened out, I divide it into three sections and begin to braid.

As the plait lengthens, Camryn turns to look at the piece on her shoulder. “Nice work. Where did you pick up that skill?”

“I had an entrepreneurial phase in about fourth grade. I made friendship bracelets and sold them on the playground.”

“A business owner from way back.”

“I think I would’ve gone in the hole on supplies if Mom hadn’t kept me in thread.”

“What was she like?”

My throat tightens involuntarily, as it always does. “Perfect. The kind who made cookies after school. Who asked questions and made you answer. She wanted to know everything.”

“Do you talk about what happened to her?”

“Ovarian cancer. It was quick.”

Camryn turns and I pinch the end of her braid.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Me too. She was a great lady.”

“And your brothers?”

“My youngest brother Anthony is taking over the main