Page 20 of Daddies' Holiday Toy
I bite back a curse, tightening my grip on the wheel.
Honestly, I don’t know why I’m even surprised.
Carson’s a flake on good days and a total ghost on bad ones. Ditching us on the boys’ tripheput together is right in his wheelhouse.
“Don’t tell me we’re hauling up a mountain in a snowstorm and you’re blowing us off for a booty call.”
“It’s not like that,” Carson says quickly, but I can hear the defensive edge in his tone. Again, classic Carson. “I told you I’ll be up there. Don’t give me shit.”
Jack leans an elbow on the door, shaking his head while muttering something I don’t catch under his breath.
“Sounds exactly like that. What’s her name this time? Or are we doing the whole ‘mysterious man of business’ routine again?”
“Jack,” I mutter in warning. There’s no sense in riling Carson up, despite him deserving us ribbing him.
The blow out is never worth it in the long run.
Carson lets out a sigh like he’s trying to sound bored instead of downright caught.
“It’s not a girl. It’s something else. Look, I’ll explain when I get up there. Just keep the beers cold.”
“Beer will be gone by the time you drag your ass up here,” Reece shoots back.
“You guys are so dramatic.”
“Whatever,” I say flatly. “We’ll see you when you get up here. But hurry because the snow is already starting to fall and stick to the ground. You’ll get stuck coming up if you wait too long.”
“Yeah. I got it. I’ll see you guys soon.” With that, he hangs up.
I sigh as Jack tosses the phone down onto the bench between us. “Wanna bet he doesn’t show up until tomorrow?”
Reece snorts, settling back in his seat. “Probably. Either that or he got in trouble with whatever poor girl he’s stringing along now.”
Probably.
Not that I want to jinx it, but even if he does manage to “fix” whatever he’s got going on in the next hour, I have a sneaking suspicion he’s going to call us to bitch about trying to get up the mountain while the storm is really starting to pick up.
In hindsight, we should’ve picked him up on our way out of town, leaving him with no excuses to fuck around doing whatever it is he’s so busy “dealing with.”
Jack had the suggestion earlier, but Reece and I figured it would be more hassle to try and cram us all into my truck than to take two separate rides.
Even with just the three of us, Reece is struggling not to lose circulation in his legs back there.
The rest of the drive is quiet, save for the low murmur of the radio and the occasional tapping of fingers against the glass from Jack.
Outside, the snow’s falling harder, swirling in thick white sheets that practically pelt across the windshield.
The tires crunch and slide slightly as I guide us carefully up the last steep incline.
When we finally turn onto the narrow drive leading to the cabin, the visibility’s down to maybe ten feet.
It has me leaning forward, squinting through the whiteout just to make sure I don’t ram the front end into the staircase.
“Wait,” Jack says suddenly, his voice sharp. “Who’s car is that?”
Sure enough, there’s a small hatchback parked at an awkward angle near the cabin, already half-buried in snow.
I don’t recognize it, but then again it’s too covered in snow to tell what the license plate says.
