Page 6 of Something to Prove (Smithton Bears #2)

WALKER

Let me just say…this was a lot.

A lot.

I hadn’t slept a wink since the night of the BJ incident.

I’d tossed and turned, reeling from spiked adrenaline and nefariously gained newfound knowledge.

I’d felt like a dirty peeping tom, and maybe I was.

I might not have sought out the sexy scene, but I hadn’t run away from it either.

I’d been a deer in headlights, frozen in shock and wonder ’cause yes, yes, yes, it had been hot with a capital H.

So hot that I’d actually jerked off to the visual. More than once.

Okay, at least five times.

It couldn’t be helped. I’d had no power over my fingers inching under the elastic of my PJ bottoms and briefs, and wrapping around my cock. I’d been in a haze, lost in a kaleidoscope of naughty imagery.

I’d gripped my dick firmly, stroking to the rhythm of Ty tugging his lover’s head, fucking his mouth, whispering nasty nothings.

My X-rated brain had turned up the volume a few notches till they’d both been naked in the alley in the middle of the day…

so I could see better, of course. The scene had morphed into deep kisses, rough nips, and a short decisive battle to see who’d top whom.

Ty won. He’d pushed the faceless man against the brick wall, buried his thick cock inside him, and—I’d come.

The first time I’d been overcome by that fantasy, my orgasm had hit me so hard that I might have blacked out for a few seconds. I’d woken at some point with dried cum on my T-shirt and lower abs. I hadn’t bothered cleaning up, which was so not me.

But wow, I’d felt like a new man in the morning light—rejuvenated and clear minded…until I remembered my predicament and my stomach clenched unhappily.

I’d been a jittery mess throughout our meeting, but it had gone pretty darn well, if I did say so myself. My idea to help him reset his social media output was genius. It was the perfect trade.

Even Robin agreed.

“Good one! Let me know when you’re doing the interview, and I’ll carve time out of my very busy schedule for photography and videography duties.”

“Thank you, but I’m still awaiting Ty’s final go-ahead.”

Robin narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “How long have you been waiting?”

“A week.”

Yep, a whole week of constantly checking my cell and randomly replaying our meeting in my head.

I’d made good points, and he’d seemed interested.

I’d tactfully dropped the inquiry about his partner-slash-possible-secret-boyfriend, even though the curiosity and certainty that I knew him was driving me mad.

So why hadn’t Ty responded to my messages?

“Oh.”

I winced. “I know. My last text went unanswered.”

Along with the previous three.

“Oh,” Robin repeated. “Maybe call him?”

I sighed, wrinkling my nose. “I will. In the meantime, we’re discussing beehives and honey harvesting with the Clancys on Friday. Beeeee ready for some sticky good fun.”

“Bad pun alert.” Robin adjusted his glasses as he pushed away from the monitor and the newest episode of What’s New, Smithton? we’d been editing. “I’m off. Don’t let anxiety get the better of you, my friend. Ty Czerniak’s cooperation isn’t a reflection of you.”

Actually, it was, but Robin was gone before I could argue the point. I worried my bottom lip between my teeth and scrolled through the barrage of friendly text messages I’d sent over the past week.

Hello, this is Walker. It was great to meet with you yesterday. Lmk your availability. I’d love to set up a time to chat about your social media options. Have a great day!

Hi there. Checking in. Are you free tomorrow, by chance?

Walker again. Hope all is well. I know you’re busy, but I’d still love to sit down with you. Call or text at your earliest convenience.

Yuck . I sounded desperate. Not a good look. I shot another text message off to Ty just as my phone buzzed with an incoming call.

I smiled in spite of my blue mood. “Hi, Aunt Kay. How are you?”

“Darling, I’m living the dream! The sun is shining, birds are chirping at my kitchen window, and the trees are positively laden with apples.

Big, fat, wondrously luscious honeycrisp lovelies ripe for the pickin’…

or they will be at the end of the month.

Tell me you’re coming home. Cider never tastes the same without you, sweetheart. ”

“Will there be apple fritters?”

She gasped theatrically. “What sort of dog-and-pony operation do you think we’re running in the wilds of Ontario? Of course we’ll have fritters.”

I chuckled as I wandered into the living room and settled in for a chin-wag with my fabulous auntie who had a knack for popping up when I needed her most. Not that I was in dire straits, but I was…unsteady somehow. Not quite myself.

This kerfuffle with Ty had morphed into a two-fold opportunistic campaign to secure a timely interview for my channel while righting a past wrong.

It seemed selfish, as if I were using him for my own gain.

And maybe I was. Maybe I’d accidentally sold my soul to a virtual world that valued my online content and subscribership over personal substance.

Trading my social media expertise for Ty’s trouble wasn’t a fair exchange. Yes, I could certainly help him. But it would be nicer if the gesture wasn’t tainted with desperation.

And greed.

Please let me fix what I’ve done wrong…while I take advantage of your rising star and hopefully net a few hundred thousand more followers.

Had I lost my way? Perhaps, but unless I took Robin’s suggestion and used my parentage to seek favor with the jock, social media was my currency.

Thanks to the success of What’s New, Smithton? I had money in my savings account, I owned my car, and I was up-to-date on my tuition. I rented a recently remodeled two-story Victorian with a generous front porch, high ceilings, tall windows, and original hardwood flooring, and…I lived alone.

Not only was the house adorable…it was a sweet write-off too.

If I wasn’t filming on site, I was here, covering current events in Smithton.

I lived downstairs, and ran the business from the two upstairs bedrooms—one was an office while the other had been transformed into a mini studio, complete with a news desk, comfy chairs for my guests, and professional lighting (a must with my bright locks).

Was this a cushy gig? No, not at all. I worked ding-dang hard, but I was well aware that this wasn’t how most twenty-three-year-old seniors lived.

Then again, I had more to prove than the average college student.

You see, the Woodrow name was synonymous with journalism.

My great-grandfather was a war correspondent in Britain during World War II, my grandfather was a speech writer for two presidents, and two of my uncles had worked with the most influential rock bands of the ’70s and ’80s and founded a widely regarded industry magazine.

But in my opinion, my mother outshone them all.

Mom had been a political correspondent in dangerous war-torn areas in Afghanistan, Libya, and Syria, risking life and limb in her quest to report atrocities of human suffering. She’d used her own resources to help fund a school for young women in Kabul and had taught English in her spare time.

Me? I had an appointment with Bill and Janet Clancy to tour their beehives this week. Not quite living up to expectations, was I?

But let’s face it, I wouldn’t last five minutes in a military zone in the Middle East, and though I loved music, the thought of hanging out with a rock band for months on end sounded like hell. Unless we were talking Gaga.

So yes, I had big shoes to fill, but I had to do it my way—and ideally, not lose my integrity for the sake of a measly story.

I sank deep into the cozy leather chair by the fireplace, curling my knees under me like a human pretzel while listening with half an ear to Aunt Kay’s chatter about the upcoming harvest and Uncle Richard’s hip problems. Her melodic tone and cadence reminded me of home.

God, I wished I lived closer. I would have loved to sit at her table, solving the world’s problems over tea and apple cake. Or stroll through the orchards with the dogs like I did when I was a kid, playing hide-and-seek with one eye on the road, looking out for my dad’s car and?—

“Walker? Darling, are you there, or have I bored you to tears?”

I sat up, shaking off unwanted memories like a spider web clinging to my clothes.

“I’m here, but I should get going,” I replied.

“Busy, busy! Just tell me you’re coming to visit next month.”

“I’ll be there.” I grinned at Aunt Kay’s whoop of joy, feeling lighter than I had in days.

And three point five seconds after we’d said our good-byes, a new text popped up on my screen.

Ty: Meet me at the rink tomorrow at 5.

My heart pounded in my chest.

But this was good. This was what I’d been angling for. This was a major story I could make sweeter with a note of redemption.

So why did I feel as if I’d been asked to cover a Category 5 hurricane barreling straight toward Smithton?