Page 40 of Misadventures of a Curvy Girl
To our surprise, Ireland is just as eager to go. She changes into fresh clothes and slings her camera around her shoulder.
“What?” she asks, catching Ben and me looking at her.
“You don’t have to come,” I tell her gently. “It’s not your town, and anyway, I don’t know how much there will be to do—”
“There will be plenty to do, for one thing, and for another, while this may not be my home, it is yours. I’m not a totally heartless city girl; I want to help, and I can help, and I’m coming along too. So long as it won’t be hard on Ben.”
Ben crosses over to her and yanks her close. “I swear it won’t be,” he murmurs, training those intense, dark eyes on Ireland’s mouth. And then he gives her a kiss like he’s just come home from the war all over again.
Holm is flooded with people when we get there—police cars and pickup trucks crowd the debris-choked streets—but Ireland is right. Even with so many people here, there’s plenty to do. While Ben focuses on the tavern, Ireland and I spend the next five or six hours working to help shift rubble and sort through wreckage. We work deep into the humid dark, Greta sticking close and providing moral support by licking everyone’s hands and doing enough tail-wagging for an entire pack of dogs. And Ireland frequently pauses in order to snap pictures of the town at work righting itself.
I don’t know much about photography beyond taking pictures of used farm equipment to sell it on the internet, but even I can see her pictures are striking. An older woman crying in front of the flattened house where her sister died. Dirt-streaked faces gazing out at the sunset. Ben, head bowed in misery as he stands in the doorway of the tavern.
The pictures give me chills, and as we’re sitting around the kitchen table, each with a well-earned glass of bourbon as the night presses in through the windows, I ask her, “Why didn’t you become a photographer for real? Why go work for Drew?” I like Drew quite a lot, but that doesn’t mean Ireland isn’t wasted writing tweets for microbreweries or creating brand strategy for a sandwich chain. Pictures like these could be in newspapers, on the covers of magazines; she could be anywhere, with her pick of people wanting her pictures.
Ireland takes a long drink of bourbon and reaches out to idly finger a sunflower sitting in an old jelly jar on the table. I saw the bloom as we walked in, still fresh and healthy and sheltered from the storm by the porch stairs—knowing Ireland’s fascination with them, I made sure to come out and pick it for her while she got cleaned up. I’m glad I did, because watching her face soften as she studies the flower makes my chest puff out with pride. “I, uh, I turned down a photography scholarship in college,” she says eventually, eyes still on the flower. “And decided to stay local. Major in something more practical.”
It sounds plausible enough—hell, I did the same, choosing a college only two hours away so I could be close to the farm while I got my degree in Ag Econ—but there’s something about the way she doesn’t look at us as she answers that makes me think there’s more to the story than she’s willing to share right now.
She’s saved from me pressing further by Ben’s stifled yawn, and we abandon our bourbon for a shower and sleep. Ben surprises me by climbing into bed with us, folding Ireland into his big arms, and reaching out with one foot to touch mine like we used to do when we were boys sharing a bed. But when I stir in the middle of the night, I find Ireland in my arms instead, my foot encountering nothing but cool sheets under her tucked-up legs.
He still doesn’t trust himself to sleep with us the whole night through.
“…haven’t talked to them yet at all. I wanted to ask you first, of course.”
Ireland’s voice filters through my groggy brain, and I roll over to see her perched on the edge of the bed, her legs curled up beside her, a phone to her ear. Like this, the mouthwatering angles of her hips and ass are perfectly delineated by the morning sunshine pouring in through the window. I move closer to her and start shamelessly squeezing her curves and stroking her stomach. She ineffectively bats at me as she keeps talking.
“I’m so glad you like them, and we’re going back today, so I’ll take more. I think this is a much stronger pitch in the long run, but I’ll need to come back a few more times. I want to capture all the rebuilding efforts and stuff like that.”
I hear Drew’s voice on the other end, but I ignore it, busy exploring Ireland’s body and teasing fingers over her hip to the soft vee of her pussy.
She gives a delicious shiver, and her voice when she answers her boss is a little strained. “Yes, let’s make sure to add this to the meeting tomorrow. I want everybody’s feedback.”
They exchange a few more words before she hangs up, and I curl my hand possessively over my new favorite toy.
“You’re going back to Kansas City,” I say. I knew she’d have to, but I can’t fight the irrational urge to truss her up to my bed and keep her here at the farm forever.
She sighs and parts her legs enough for me to pet her cunt properly. “I’ll leave tonight, since my meeting is first thing tomorrow. I’m going to see if we can pitch a different angle to the Tourism Board. Rather than ‘farmers at work’ for Real Kansas, I want to show Holm. The citizens working together after the storm, grieving together and helping each other.”
I think of her pictures last night, of the goose bumps they gave me, and make an approving noise. “I like that idea.”
“So does Drew, so it’s really down to convincing the client. At any rate,” Ireland says, her eyes shyly glancing away, “Drew thinks I should sell some of the pictures too. He’s reaching out to his friends at some local and national papers now.”
“That’s wonderful!” I slide my arms around her and tug her even closer so I can reward this good news with more caresses and strokes where she’s growing wet and needy. “Your pictures should be in every paper, in every magazine.”
“You’re just saying that because you want to have sex with me again,” she mutters, but she blushes.
“No, I’m saying that and I want to have sex with you again. Now, I’m going to holler for Ben, and when he gets in here, I suggest you be ready.”
Watching Ireland leave is painful, even with as tired as Ben and I are from working in town all day. We each kiss her senseless before she climbs into the car, crowding her against the car door and taking turns with her lush mouth until we’re all breathless and she can barely stand.
“Come back to us,” I plead against her lips.
“You’re ours,” Ben says simply, and then he leans down and bites at her neck. She shudders against us.
“Yours.” She smiles. “I’m yours.”
She calls us every night, and for once, the internet connection at the farmhouse is strong enough for the three of us to use video chat for its best purpose—so she can see Ben and me stroke off for her while she leisurely fingerfucks herself. From her calls, we also learn the Tourism Board is thrilled about the new pitch and that the Kansas City Star has been running her pictures with the promise to buy more.
