Page 39 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

I n a bid to appease my ever-suffering mom, I’ve agreed to have dinner with my parents at least once a week. The first two weeks I made it twice, last week once, and after tonight, well, maybe next week it’ll be zero times.

Why? To put it simply, it’s not an enjoyable experience.

Long ago, in a time before my boobs came in and hockey boys came to reign supreme, Dad and I could sit and talk stats for hours after, our chats lasting long after we’d finished eating.

Now, meal times are a race to the finish.

Merely two people shoving food in as quick as they can while participating in the lamest conversations you could imagine.

“How’s school? How’s work?” Coming up a nauseating number of times.

During all this, Mom’s been trying her best to smooth the rough edges, whipping out stories of odd cases she’s working on, or the latest office gossip, but even her enthusiasm is beginning to wane.

I’m supposed to drive over today after my shift ends, but I’ve just had a text from Troye, asking me to join the team at O’Reilly’s.

Dinner with an over-controlling, patronizing father, or drinks at a bar then tipsy sex with my boys?

Hmm. That’s a tough one.

I’m about to message Mom and cancel, when the memory of the drive home from the hospital slaps me sideways. I really am such a brat. I should be grateful my parents care enough to be overprotective. Imagine if they were like Troye’s.

It’s an easy thing to say, but an impossible thing to do. I can’t imagine being scared, alone and hungry. Of growing up being made to feel nothing more than a burden to be shifted or disposed of when the mood strikes. How that trauma must cling to your soul. Not for the life of me.

It’s no wonder why Troye runs from emotions, thinks so little of himself, and why Dad’s original dressing down of him hurt so bad. How could it not when the ones that are supposed to love and keep you safe, rejected you first.

Shit. Now I’m back to being angry at Dad.

“Hmm, hmm. I’d hate to interrupt whatever your latest meltdown is about, but can I please have my order?”

I blink myself free from my daydream and stare into the eyes of Professor Plum.

Of course. I’m too depressed to pull out a smart-ass quip about her age, so I just be professional instead.

“Sorry, Professor. Let me just grab that for you.” Shuffling to my left, I take the apple cinnamon muffin from Mika, the barista who hates me, and fill a to-go cup with drip coffee; the one hot beverage I’m now allowed to dispense.

When I hand it to Plum, she almost looks disappointed.

“What, no-I thought people got more patient as they aged-gag?”

“Not today. I sold the last one to Dean Mankato an hour ago.”

Her eyes narrow in what I think is suspicion. “Are you alright, Quinn? You seem a little?—”

“Flat?”

“Hmm. Yes. Flat is the perfect word. Would you like to talk?”

My first instinct is to politely tell her to fuck right off, but I probably could do with a good vent. Even if it is to a woman I once held a pretty intense vendetta against.

Leaning to my right, I make sure there’s no queue waiting behind her, which there’s not.

“Callie,” I call out to the kitchen/office where she’s working, probably on a spreadsheet. “Would it be okay if I clocked off a little early.”

“No problem,” she yells back. “You did good today. See you tomorrow.”

Removing my apron, I hang it on the hooks behind me then let Mika know I’m leaving. “Yes. I know you’re leaving, Quinn. As you can see, I’m standing right next to you.”

“Oh. Yeah. Duh.” I swear I can hear her eyes roll as I dart around the counter and join Plum who’s walking towards the closest free table.

“She seems friendly,” she deadpans. Annoyingly, I smile.

“The friendliest.”

Plum tears the bag holding her muffin right down the center and nudges it to the middle of the table. “Want some?”

“Wow, first the offer of a talk and now baked goods. If I didn’t know better I’d say you were trying to get into my good books.”

“Not trying.” She smiles back. “But not against it either.” Reaching out, she tears a palm-sized chunk off, and I do the same. Unlike her, I shove it in my mouth like a pig. “So. Tell me how things are going with you, Brady and Troye?” And I spit it back out.

“What do you mean?” I cough, splutter and anything else gross you can do to spit food over someone. “There’s nothing going on between us? I mean there is with me and Troye, but Brady? No. Nope. Not a thing … why, what did he say?”

“At first he said nothing, but when I persisted, noting that I’d seen him smile more in the last two weeks than I have the entire time I’ve known him, he went all gooey-eyed and?—”

I clutch her hand and squeeze. “And?”

“And he said that he had accidentally fallen into a throuple kind of situation-ship. That he now knew for sure he’d loved you all along, and that maybe, he was already half in love with someone else, too.”

“Oh, that.”

“Hmm. Yes. That.”

Because Lotte says sugar makes everything better, I tear off some more muffin, possibly half, and swallow it down in one go. A skill to which the men we’re speaking about are very big fans of. “Is that why you came here and asked me to talk? Are you going to lecture me about sleeping with two men?”

“No,” she says quietly. “I came for the muffin you’re currently devouring, and the rest kind of just happened.” Blushing and twirling the to-go cup in her hand, she shifts in her seat. “I’m sorry if I’ve put you on the spot. I don’t have the best communication skills at times.”

“It has put me on the spot a little, but it’s also a spot I’m kind of desperate to talk about.”

“Okay. So, let’s talk … Right after I get another muffin.”

“Boys. Boys, are you here?” I roar into our place like my ass is on fire and smack right into a rather broad, rather delicious smelling chest.

“Quinny, you nearly knocked my block off. What’s the rush?” Brady kisses me sweetly, then waits, blue eyes big and beaming waiting for my reply.

“Is Troye still here, too, or is he at O’Reilly’s?”

“He’s here too,” he shouts from his bedroom. “We were just about to leave.”

“What he said.” Brady smiles. “Why, you going to come after all?”

“Nope, and I don’t want you to go either. There’s somewhere else we need to be.”

Ignoring all questions, I hustle the boys into the car and we almost make it all the way home before Troye, who’s paid more attention to the skin my short skirt exposed than he has his surroundings, finally realizes where I’m heading.

“Unlock the doors, Quinn. No fucking way.”

“Yes fucking way. I mean no fucking way, I’m not unlocking the doors so you can jump from a moving car, and yes, we are having dinner with my parents.”

“Quinn, your mom is one thing, she’s a woman attracted to men, she can’t resist me.”

“Oh please.”

“Shut it Brady. As I was saying, your mom may love me, but your old man wants to dig up your pool, bury me in the hole, then rebuild it.”

I reach over and pat his cheek. “You’re worrying about nothing, babe. He’s too cheap to pay for all that water.”

Brady releases one of his beautiful belly laughs, but it dies like Troye suspects he will, when I pull into the drive. Dad’s waiting on the door step. Shovel in hand.

“Yeah. See. Mock the guy who suggests dinner, drinks and death, but why else would he have a shovel, Kitty? Why?”

I honestly have no answer, so I don’t even try. “Come on boys. Let’s get this over with.”

Dad doesn’t move an inch as we climb from the car. It’s unsettling.

What’s terrifying is Mom popping out of nowhere with a still whirring hedge trimmer. She’s wearing denim coveralls smeared with dirt, and that’s equally unnerving. “Oh, you’re here already? What time is it? David, you were supposed to keep a watch of the time.”

“Too busy potting,” he grumps, before glaring at his players. “Becker. Basse. Glad you could join us.”

“He doesn’t look happy.” I hear Brady whisper just before he steps forward, hand outstretched, ready to greet with a handshake, or to disarm. Hard to tell.

Dad doesn’t let go of the shovel, just transfers it from right hand to left. “Did you get those extra stretches in today?” He’s speaking to Brady but glaring at Troye.

“Yes, Coach.”

“Excellent. What about you, Becker? You been resting? How’s the head?”

“Never had any complaints.”

“Oh my God.” Brady groans.

Mom laughs.

And Dad? He takes the sharp-toothed machine from his wife’s hand. Now he has two weapons. Great. “What did he say?”

“No complaints, Mr. Harris.” Cool as a cucumber, Brady inserts himself between the raging bulls, bravely places a hand on Dad’s shoulder and steers Dad towards the door.

“He said he’s not had any complaints … since he left the hospital.

Hey that’s a nice hedge trimmer you got there, Coach. What you trimming?”

“Hedges.”

It’s going to be a long night.

Inspired by the words of the youngest psychology professor in BC history, my intention in coming here tonight was to reveal the polyamorous relationship I harbor no shame over.

Yes, it was a bit of an ambush.

And no, I didn’t think Dad would roll out the red carpet and accept him, or Brady, or any of this. But Troye is not what my dad once cruelly called him, a tattooed piece of carny shit. He’s a fighter. A strong, proud, capable man who needs someone to believe in him. And that someone is me.

Brady, too.

Without explicitly saying so, I’ve made it clear via affectionate touch and glances, that I am with both the boys, and that I’m happier than I’ve ever been.

Dad has grunted and grimaced like he’s eating glass rather than an admittedly gritty swordfish, but we’ve made it to dessert, and no one is missing a limb, no one has been kicked off the team, and I count that as a win.

Also a win. Dragging Brady into the bathroom.

Yes, it’s immature. Yes it’s risky. But fuck it.

I happened to wander by as he was washing his hands and pepping himself up in the mirror. It was so cute and sweet, and he blushed so hard when he saw me, I had to have him.

Also, corrupting my baby is so much fun.

“Your dad is going to kill me.”

“Shh. He won’t kill you cause he won’t hear you.”

Who am I kidding? I mean, obviously I don’t want my parents walking in on us, but I can’t deny the thrill of getting caught is kind of a turn on. “Okay so your dad won’t kill me, but Troye might.”

“Nah. He’ll just be turned on.” Smiling, I unbutton his lovely pressed slacks, as he called them, and free his cock, immediately licking his red, weeping tip.

Looking down at me, his teeth biting into his lip, I see the second his hesitation dissolves, freeing him to grip my hair and tap his dick against my cheek. “Let me in, Quinny. Please, taste me.”

When he taps the edge of my lips again, I turn my head to take him deep, sliding my tongue along the juicy, thick vein running from tip to base, then constricting my throat. Once he’s melting, quivering, above me, I slide my hand up from his thigh and slip it between his cheeks to circle his hole.

“Quinn. Jesus. What? How?”

“Shh, baby.” I’m just getting into it, finding a rhythm that has him whining, and mumbling absolute nonsense, and me soaking wet with desire, when he pulls out from between my lips and hauls me to my feet.

“Let me fuck you, Quinny. I promise I’ll be quiet … or at least I’ll try to be quiet.”

“Good enough for me, Big D.”

The words have hardly left my mouth when he nudges apart my legs and fists my panties, tugging down over my hips.

While I shimmy out of them, his hands roam my ass and thighs.

The second he sees I’m free, he digs his fingers into my flesh and hoists me up, allowing me to wrap my legs around his waist. “Want you so bad, Quinn.” He spins us so my back is against the wall then pounds inside me in one fluid motion, forcing me to bite my lip to stifle my cry. “God, you’re so wet. So fucking tight.”

“Shh, baby. I know, I know it feels so good, but we have to be, oh … oh Brady.”

My protest dies on my lips ‘cause he’s biting down on my neck, teeth scraping along my pulse point as he slips his hand between us, fingers brushing over my clit.

The onslaught of pleasure, of feeling him suck, and caress in rhythm to his thrusts, is too much.

I run my hands down his back, grip his ass and pull him into me and hold on for dear life. “Brady, oh God, I’m coming.”

“Yes, Quinny, that’s my girl.”

My orgasm fuels the fire, and it’s filthy now, the way he’s losing control, grunting, begging for more, as his powerful quads drive his cock deeper and deeper inside me.

Weaving in with the sounds of our fucking is the thumping bass of the warm up music. It seeps beneath the door, reminding us where we are, of how risky our little game is.

“Do you think … do you think Troye can hear us,” he grunts, his blue eyes wild with lust and catching mine.

“He can, Brady, he can.”

“Fuck.” He’s so close. I know he wants to come so bad, and I know how to make it happen.

“Imagine he’s watching,” I pant into his ear. “Picture him touching himself as you fill me up. He wants your cum dripping from my pussy as we eat.”

“Yes, fuck. Quinn. Troye. Fuck.”

Relinquishing his bruising hold of my thighs, Brady gives one final thrust. His thick body slams me into the wall and traps me there as he snares my hands in his, and pins them above my head.

His face is buried into the crook of my neck, his scent all over me, hips rolling, grinding as he calls my name and does as I wanted, filling me with stream after stream of warm, wet cum.