Page 40 of Kitty Season
“There is no more, whooo?—”
Brady watches them disappear to do God knows what, then turns to me, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It fades as he approaches, switching to a scowl when Troye falls into step beside him. “Well, I feel like a dick … as per usual. Happy Birthday, Quinny.” Warm, soft lips press a chaste kiss to my cheek. “I have a prezzie, but … can I give it to you later? When it’s just us, please?”
“Of course, Brady.”
Troye clears his throat, slides his hand between us, and kisses the same cheek, in the same spot, amplifying the gentle hum of tension to a deafening roar.
“If Skip will change his mind and lend a hand, perhaps, tonight, we could be alone, altogether, and I can give you my gift too.”
Brady stills, his whole demeanor shifting. “I told you to drop it, Becker, and I think you should listen.”
“And I think we should ask the birthday girl what she thinks.” Before Brady can move away, Troye grabs a fistful of his BC tee and pulls him closer. “Can you guess what it is, Kitty? What I wantusto give you?”
“Becker, don’t,” Brady’s voice is sterner, deeper, sexier than I’ve ever heard.
“It’s okay, Brady. I want to know.”
“That’s my girl.” Seizing my jaw between his thumb and index fingers, Troye ghosts his mouth over mine, and whispers, “Ménage à trois.”
On a pathetic, broken whine, I place a palm on both their chests, take what feels like it may be my last breath. It’s dizzying, how much I want this. What havoc the mere notion of being shared between them can cause in my body.
No matter how wrong it might be, picturing how good it could be, how right it might feel, has my world twisting into akaleidoscope of colors that settle at the apex of my thighs as a throbbing, bone deep ache. “Yes.”
Brady rears back, tanned skin paling. “Yes? Quinn. You’d … you’d want that?”
“Who wants what?”
Reemerging with her BC tee on backwards and inside out, a giddy looking Lotte clings to the side of an equally smug Noah.
“Breakfast,” I yell, pushing both boys away like they have rabies. “I’m starving.”
“Yeah, she’s ravenous for something.”
If my glare to Troye, whose body is shaking with silent laughter, or the flush burning every inch of my body betrays how shook I am, Lotte doesn’t let on. Instead, news of my appetite has her snapping from her sex haze, and skipping into the kitchen.
“Perfect. I’ve got everything here for pancakes, birthday girl French toast, and for those avoiding carbs, Brady I’m looking at you, my famous three egg omelet.”
Troye’s eyes dart to Brady who is still as white as a ghost, and backing towards the hallway. “Sounds great, Lotte. Personally, I love French things, and three is my favorite number. Right guys?”
“Right,” Brady, says to the wall. “You know what? I’m not hungry. I gotta go to … um … not here.”
“Don’t leave, Skip.” Troye makes a mad dash to block him, but Brady easily nudges him out of the way. “Wait! What about Quinn’s present?”
“Yeah,” Lotte whines. “I want to see you give it to her. Come on Big, D. Give it to her. Right here in front of all of us so I can film it.”
Now almost translucent, Brady backs into Lotte’s freshly painted mural wall, dislodging her God-awful Hula girl lamp from the credenza before he turns and runs.
Noah zips to the window, needlessly pulling aside the sheer curtains to watch his best friend tear down the stoop and front path. “What the fuck? First that Hip hop hoo-ha thingy, then this. I swear, just when I think he can’t get any weirder, he does.”
“He’s not weird,” I argue. “He’s a goalie.”
My goalie.
The secondwe’re done eating, Troye leaves for a physiotherapy appointment, promising he’ll meet up with me at my parents tonight, then whispering, “wear that jersey,” in my ear. Suddenly, I’m pumped for a dinner that’s graduated from pot roast with the folks to a hundred person pool luau. I shouldn’t get my hopes up, though. With the situation with Dad being what it is, I’m not convinced Troye will make an appearance. Then again, if Lotte had asked me yesterday if he’d join us for breakfast, I would have laughed in her cute little face.
Something I can’t laugh at—or tell Lotte about—is thegiftTroye teased me with. Disbelief over what happened heavies my every breath, but unlike the scarf, the skincare pack, and the team signed B’s jersey Lotte and Noah gave me, that particular present was not spoken of again. Not directly anyway. All the eyebrow wiggling and double-entedres like, “Look at you taking two at once.”When I picked two pieces of toast from Lotte’s overflowing pile made up for it though.
I erupt into random laughter at the thought and draw an inquisitive glance from my bestie. “What’s so funny.”
