Page 45 of Vying Girls (Girls of Hazelhurst #2)

Tilda laughs, a lilting little giggle that makes my lips twitch. ‘No. Not Tommy. I do like him though. Shame you don’t get on. He’s alright.’

I nod slowly, watching the moths in the trap. ‘I know. We…had a chat.’

‘Yeah? How’d it go?’

‘Fine, I suppose. Just wanted to find out what Damien’s up to.’

‘And did you?’

I draw in a breath. ‘Nope. Still in the dark with that.’

Tilda releases the last eggbox, peering around the forest as she gets to her feet. ‘I keep forgetting about him.’

‘Wouldn’t get complacent.’ I stand up too. ‘Come on. My tent’s just up here.’

The forest is infinitely darker after basking in the trap’s backlight. I keep my torch pointed at our feet, but Tilda arcs hers around more fretfully.

‘I have a knife in my tent.’

‘Is that for me or him?’

I chuckle, stepping into the clearing where my tent is. ‘Haven’t decided yet.’

‘So, this is where you’ve been hiding.’ She looks around. ‘Not so close to the cliffs this time.’

She stands by the tent, peering at me as though waiting further instruction.

‘Go on then.’

‘What, you’re actually going to let me?’

I push past her with a shrug, yanking open the zip. ‘Walk back to the lodge if you want.’

She follows me in as I knew she would. It’s a two-man tent but with her inside too, it seems to shrink to the size of a thimble.

She’s shivering as she looks around, balanced on her knees, trying not to touch my sleeping area.

I flick on the LED lamp, doing my best to ignore how my skin crawls having her here.

‘Why do you always sleep out here?’

I pour some water into a pan, clanking it down on the tiny gas stove. ‘For the peace and quiet.’

‘Reminds me of our tipi,’ she says with a small smile. ‘Do you remember?’

I grunt in acknowledgement, pulling the tent flap wide so I don’t carbon monoxide us. Tilda rubs the goosebumps on her arms in silent protest.

Suppose that would put an end to all this shit. Not like that hasn’t been at the forefront of my mind these last few months. Might be bad taste to do it on our birthday.

Although—I smile grimly—she would probably see the poetry in that.

Once the water’s heated, I pour it into an enamel mug and hand it to her. She takes it gratefully, her entire body shuddering upon first sip.

‘Are you not having one?’

‘Only got one cup. Besides, it’s not me freezing to death.’

Ignoring the tenderness of Tilda’s smile, I fish around for something for her to wear.

I find my rumpled grey joggers and a hoodie, holding them out. ‘I’ve worn them a few times but better than sleeping in that dress.’

‘Thank you,’ she says quietly, pulling the offerings onto her lap.

I turn away, loosening my tie and waistcoat. The suit will do me. It’s comfortable enough. Need to go back to the lodge at some point to do a wash. Maybe stay a night or two. Feels like an age since I last hung out with the others.

I glance back just as Tilda’s fighting to get her feet into the joggers. The hoodie rucks up, baring her scars. Except they’re not scars, they’re stark and red and angry. I grit my teeth, blood simmering as it does each time I see them.

‘When did you start that?’

Tilda looks at me then down at her cuts. She sighs, yanking the trousers up to cover them. ‘A long time ago.’

‘And you still do it.’

‘Clearly.’

There’s a certain finality to her tone that I choose to respect. It’s past midnight now, no longer our birthday, but I’ve no desire to break this truce.

I unzip my sleeping bag so it’s more of a quilt, better fitting for two people. Even with that, it’s going to be a cosy fit. But then I already knew that didn’t I?

‘Lie down if you want. Be warmer.’

Tilda obliges, albeit hesitatingly. She shivers out loud once she’s under, shuddering beneath the sleeping bag. ‘Literally don’t know how you manage out here. I’d be frozen to death by now.’

‘I’m pretty warm blooded.’

‘Is that a lesbian thing? Haz and Elly are too.’

‘Dunno. Aren’t you one now?’

‘No. Not a lesbian. Bi, maybe. Dunno.’ She shrugs, picking up her phone. ‘Still figuring it out.’

‘And experimenting with my friends in the meantime.’

She releases an annoyed sigh. ‘Am not.’

I zip my lips shut. Every time I open them, I seem to fuck things up. Suppose it’s habit at this point, a peculiar comfortability.

I take her cup and dump out the rest of the water, ensuring the stove’s off before closing the tent.

Then I just hover there, strangely reluctant to get under the covers with her. It’s a hell of a lot more cramped in here than it was in my bed.

Swamped in my hoodie, I watch her smile at her phone, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. She looks so small, so young. If I squint hard enough, she can be that eight-year-old again.

For a split second, I feel a softening in my heart, a crack shooting up it.

‘What are you smiling at?’ I demand, seeking the distraction.

Tilda glances at me briefly then shakes her head.

‘Tell me.’

She pauses, lowering her phone. ‘You really want to know?’

I gesture impatiently.

‘Elly and Haz,’ she begins, looking back at her screen, her smile shyer now, ‘they set a challenge for twenty orgasms today. You know, for twenty years. They’re just telling me there’s still one left.’

Her thumbs fly over the phone, the light of it illuminating her eyes.

She looks relaxed lying there. Soft from all those orgasms. I remember catching her outside her room, her body feverishly warm for once.

The look in her face she couldn’t conceal quick enough.

Sultry, half fucked to death. That t-shirt barely covering her, nipples shadowy points beneath it.

In a flash, I saw myself throwing her against the closed door, fingers seeking the wetness still seeping from her. Wouldn’t take long to wind her up again. She’d still be sensitive, primed for me.

Then she uttered those words. Wouldn’t you like to know?

In that moment, I wanted more than to just know. I wanted to experience. It pissed me off. So I threw her off me, retreating to familiar ground.

In this tent though, it’s me who holds all the cards. Doubt she even knows where we are.

Leaning into the throb in my pussy, I say, ‘Better get on then.’

Tilda chuckles absently, still typing on her phone.

After a moment, she looks up. Her smile falls. ‘What? Are you kidding?’

‘I wouldn’t wanna piss Haz off, but’—I shrug—‘that’s just me.’

Tilda glances down herself. ‘What? Just—do it? Right now? With you here?’

‘Would you rather I waited outside?’

She laughs out a hesitant breath. ‘I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not. I thought you didn’t want… Are you tricking me?’

‘Have you ever known me not to be serious?’

She shakes her head wordlessly, phone forgotten in her hands. She stares at me. I stare back, aware of my breaths sounding louder through my nose.

‘Nic…’ she whispers.

I tilt my head. ‘Hm? Is this not what you had in mind when you left that kiss on my bed?’

‘I don’t know why I did that.’

I chuckle darkly. ‘Oh, I think you do. I don’t have a fucking clue, but I think you do.’

Her phone pings again. We glance at it, then back at each other.

I see the exact moment she makes up her mind. The resolve settling over her face, phone dropping to the tent floor. Not taking her eyes from mine, she lowers a hand beneath the sleeping bag.

‘This better not be a trick.’

I don’t reply, can barely breathe. There’s movement under the quilt, the material bunching slowly, rhythmically. Is she really doing it? Or is she the one tricking me? I watch her face carefully. It doesn’t change. There’re no heavy eyelids, no gasps. She just watches me defiantly.

‘I’m doing this for them.’

I grin. So fucking full of shit. Both of us are. ‘Sure, cutie. Just keep that hand moving.’

Now she caves, a loud breath flowing from her lungs, her legs shifting to give her more room. She closes her eyes, blocking me off from that green fire. I frown, feeling bereft. I put a hand on her leg until she opens them again.

She runs her gaze over my dishevelled state, lingering on the amount of chest bared through the unbutton shirt. Her eyes meet mine. ‘I need some inspiration for this.’

It only takes half a second before I throw back the sleeping bag and straddle her. I work the button on my trousers almost frantically, shoving my hand inside and meeting my wetness. A breath escapes me, Tilda’s mouth falling open in response.

She touches herself faster, her breaths stuttering. ‘Are we doing this hatefully?’

I huff through my nose. ‘So hatefully.’

There’s a strange clarity in my mind as I touch myself above her. I’m not drunk. Not high. I’ve no excuse to be doing this. Nothing but being wet from hearing them all fuck for hours, my own orgasm barely touching the sides.

Maybe it’s the tent. The dark. The nearly full moon. Just another pocket away from reality and consequence.

‘I did this earlier,’ I find myself confessing. ‘Listening to you and the others.’

Tilda stares, something like awe in her face. ‘Tell me.’

‘Nothing to tell. I rubbed so hard, so fast, it was over in a minute.’

Her brow puckers, head pushing into the camping pillow. ‘You liked hearing me?’ she breathes, eyes closing.

‘No. Fucking hated it.’

She opens her eyes. ‘But you liked hating it?’

A smile curves my lips. ‘Loved it.’

She hums, beginning to writhe now.

‘Do it faster,’ I demand through clenched teeth.

Tilda gasps, hand speeding up. I think she’s inside herself. I can hear how wet she is.

I groan at the bolt that shoots to my clit. Tilda’s breath catches. She watches me raptly.

‘Fuck, fuck,’ she breathes, arching her hips below me.

She sneaks her other hand onto my thigh. The touch burns. I shake my head, taking that hand and pinning it above her head. She winces when I tangle our fingers, bones protesting.

I’m looming over her now. Our hands meet through our clothes, as close as we’ve been to touching each other.

Tilda gazes up at me. ‘Are you close?’

‘Shut up.’ I tighten our clasped hands, making her gasp, her other hand moving faster. She’s in that place where even pain feels like pleasure.

I am close. So fucking close I don’t know how I haven’t fallen over the edge ten times already. Each frantic stroke feels like fire, my pussy already clenching hard.

Tilda draws in a sharp breath, her brow still puckered, head thrown back. I hold my breath as she cries out, her body twisting beneath me, shuddering, legs fighting. I come a second after she does, so focussed on her I can’t be sure of any noises I make.

She sinks bonelessly into my sleep mat, eyes closed. I unthread our hands and sit back on my heels.

Fuck.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

Before she opens her eyes again, I get off her, hunting around for something to clean my hand with.

I dangle a wipe until she sits up and takes it. We catch eyes as we clean off our fingers, the incongruity of the moment making us both snicker.

‘Twenty orgasms, huh?’

Tilda groans, tipping her head back. ‘I mean, they weren’t all mine, but shit. I think I’ve hit my limit for this year.’

I shake my head, tossing the wipe in the plastic bag doubling as a bin. ‘One’s enough for me.’

Tilda regards me with interest. ‘Really?’

‘Two if I’m really feeling it.’

‘Wow. There’s so much we need to catch up on, but at least I know that about you, hey?’

I shrug. Sexploits seem about the easiest topic in all of this.

Tilda picks up her phone again, releasing a long, shaky sigh as she resettles herself.

‘Are you gonna tell them…?’

‘No,’ she says with a huffed laugh. ‘Don’t worry. Can’t give Haz the satisfaction.’

She glances at me as I get in beside her. It’s beyond a tight fit. If I don’t want to freeze in the night, I’m gonna have to deal with touching her. Which, given what we’ve just done, shouldn’t be too much of a big deal.

After a moment, she darkens her phone and puts it down. Then she rolls over so our faces are mere inches apart.

It could be our tipi. When we moved into the new house, we lost Tilda’s den. Dad promised to build us another, a real, proper witch’s hut made from logs with windows and a door. He never did, offering us the tipi as consolation when we nagged on for too long.

I was too tall for it, bearing many a night with cold feet whilst Tilda slept curled up like a hibernating dormouse. She stuck her stickers all over it, fingerpainting her sigils, the ones she made up herself and kept track of in a notebook.

Dad had her for that one, droning on with a lecture on defacing property. I remember Tilda crying, fat, angry tears rolling down her cheeks as she hunted around for one of her curses. One I was all too happy to partake in.

It’s probably the dopamine fall that’s causing this sadness. This sensation of loss in my chest, that former desolation racing to the surface.

My eyes sting, too scared to blink in case Tilda notices.

‘Everything turned ugly,’ I say hoarsely.

Tilda blinks sleepily. She doesn’t need to ask what I mean. It’s ugly for her too. I’ve made it ugly. Turned an already awful situation into something unbearable. No wonder she cuts herself. I’d have slayed myself for less.

‘Do you know what else is ugly?’ she mumbles, voice heavy with sleep.

‘Trees in winter. Dead leaves on the ground. When it’s dark at four o’clock.

’ She closes her eyes for a moment, rubbing her cheek into the pillow.

‘But guess what happens after? Trees bud. Leaves turn green. The days get longer… Things don’t have to stay ugly, Nic. ’

I search her eyes, able to see every orange fleck amid the green. ‘We just have to wait for spring?’

She smiles. ‘Yeah. It’ll be here before we know it.’