Page 53 of Pumped

“Everest.” Owen grabs my arm. “I’m driving.”

“The hell you are. Knowing you, we won’t get there till next week.” I try to shrug him off, but his grip is strong.

“You don’t even know where you’re going.”

I hold up my phone. “That’s what Google Maps is for, smartass.”

Owen steps in close, his chest presses against my arm, and he glares daggers up into my face. “I said, give me the keys,” he grits out between his teeth.

Fuck, but I want to say no. I want to shake him off, dive into the driver’s seat, and lock the door behind me. He can get in the passenger side if he wants. Or he can stay in Brooklyn for the weekend for all I care. That would show him.

But there’s something dark and dangerous in Owen’s eyes. Something that slithers right into me and makes my dick plump. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me? I’m fucking angry at him and he’s being a jackass and my dick is like “hot, awesome, yes, let’s go.”

This thing between us is beyond fucked up.

Because I give him the damn keys.

We climb into the car and despite Owen’s claim that he knows where he’s going, I punch his parents’ address into my phone anyway.

We settle in for the long crawl out of the city, inching along with every other family trying to get away for the long weekend. Ivy’s merrily singing along to the kid’s road trip playlist I found, and Owen and I are doing a fantastic job of ignoring each other.

As I expected, it takes ushours, and by the time we’re pulling up to the big suburban house where Owen grew up, we’re all cranky as fuck. Ivy hasn’t stopped whining for the past forty minutes. Owen’s been huffing and grumbling under his breath. I am about to scream.

The second the car rolls to a stop, I shove open the door and scramble out. Fresh evening air hits me in the face and I take in the crisp scent of spring. I stretch, lifting my arms over my head and bending side to side to work out all the kinks and tightness in my muscles.

The front door opens behind me and both sets of grandparents rush out—I’d texted them earlier to let them know we’d be arriving late. I open Ivy’s door and help her with the straps of her car seat. The instant I set her down on the driveway, she’s racing toward the grandmothers.

“Nana! Grammy!”

I watch as the two older women envelop her with hugs and kisses, and the irritation that’s been plaguing me all afternoon and evening finally melts away.

We made it. A few hours later than planned, but we made it in one piece. No one starved to death and no one got strangled, we’re going to have a relaxing weekend, and everything is going to be fine.

The two grandfathers and Owen unload the bags, and with everyone helping, we get all our things into the house in one trip. Owen heads towards the stairs when his mom, Alyssa, calls out.

“Oh wait, Ivy’s upstairs in your old bedroom, but you and Everest are downstairs on the sofa bed.”

Owen’s grumpy scowl deepens. “What? Why?”

“The fourth bedroom is a painting studio now,” Owen’s dad, Martin, says.

“Painting studio?” Owen echoes.

Martin shrugs with a “don’t ask me” expression.

“I took up painting recently and that room has the perfect lighting,” Alyssa explains.

“Since when do you paint?” Owen sounds incredulous.

“Sincerecently,” Alyssa shoots back at him with a pointed look.

The rest of us watch the exchange like it’s a three-way tennis match, and I have to say, it’s kind of fun seeing Owen get put in his place by his mom. Go, Alyssa.

“Fine, whatever,” Owen grumbles before shoving Ivy’s bags toward his dad. “You take these. Give me those.”

Martin hands over the bags and Owen stomps his way toward the basement stairs.

“Come on, Ivy, sweetie. Let’s go to your room.” Alyssa holds Ivy’s hand and leads her up to the second floor. “It used to be your Uncle Owen’s room, remember? Isn’t that cool?”

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