Dirty Little Secrets(94)

“We’re prepared, thanks,” Wesley said. I shivered at the thought and glanced nervously over at my stepbrother, who smiled reassuringly as the pilot went up to the cockpit, closing the door behind him.

Wes could tell I was still a little unsure. “Seriously, don’t worry. The sleeping bags are rated for sub-zero, and we’re going to have a fire every night. I packed three hot water bottles, and we can fill them every night and heat them up. With those and the tent sealed up, you’re going to be just fine. Trust me.”

Trust me, he said. If it was anyone else, I’d never have agreed to this in the first place. But with Wesley, when he said trust me, I did just that.

The sound of the engine cut off my reply, and I sat back while the sea plane taxied. The wheels attached to the plane’s pontoons allowed it to use regular runways as well, although it was a noisy takeoff. Despite the thrill of the adventure, I knew I’d prefer flying in a Dreamliner any day over a seaplane.

Reading my thoughts, Wesley raised his voice over the engine. “This is nothing,” he said, grinning as the ground dropped away and they were airborne. “You should try riding in the back of a C-130 sometime. You spend most of the time wondering if your teeth are going to rattle out of your head or not. And don’t even get me started on what passes for passenger airliners in Eastern Europe these days. Tupolev might make decent bombers for the Russians, but their idea of insulation sucks. You’d think a company that makes airplanes designed for Siberia would be a bit better on the insulation than they are.”

I laughed and shook my head. “This week, you’re going to have to fill me in on some of these details. I feel like there’s so much of your past four or five years that you haven’t told me about.”

“Tell you what, you tell me about what you’ve been up to, and I’ll tell you what I’ve been up to,” Wesley said. “Since we finished high school, it’s always felt like we’re going in separate directions. I sometimes wish we were back in those days, when I was sneaking looks at you in your bikini out by the pool in the summer.”

“I don’t think sneaking is the word I would use,” I laughed, thinking back. “You were flat out ogling me. I’m surprised Mom didn’t throw a bucket of water on you more than once or chase you off with a broom.”

“Well, it was a lot to ogle,” Wesley replied, his eyes traveling up and down my five-foot-ten-inch frame. I’ll be honest, it felt good, because I knew that Wes liked my mind as much as my body. “What I never understood is why you’ve never been able to hang onto a guy.”

“What do you mean?” I replied defensively, scooting over into the aisle seat so as not to yell. “It’s not like I’m some sort of tramp.”

Wesley shook his head. “No, not at all, I know that. You’re not exactly on Taylor Swift’s level, but you’ve gone through a few men.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “I can’t help it. I guess I just have bad taste in boyfriends. I keep picking the assholes who want to jump into bed with me and then won’t commit.”

“You mean you have a tendency to pick bad boys and try and rehabilitate them,” Wesley replied with a smirk. “Mother showed me pictures of one or two of them from when I was gone. Jeez, Robin, could you have picked a scruffier bunch of dweebs?”

“Hey, Tom was an asshole, but he was no dweeb,” I replied. “I met him coming out of the gym, where he’d been in the boxing class. I actually saw him fight once, he’s good.”

“You know, I don’t think you should pick your boyfriends by how good their jab is, Robin,” Wesley said as he stretched his arms over his head. “Besides, you know there’s a lot more to being a badass than just boxing anyway.”

I guffawed and looked Wes up and down. “You know, speaking of rehabilitated bad asses, you seem to have done pretty well for yourself. I remember you getting into quite a few scuffles yourself.”

“You mean like the time I rammed Franky Timmons’ head into the back of his Escalade?” Wes said. “Father wasn’t too happy about that one.”

“Well, you did earn yourself a week’s suspension, and Frank ended up with twenty stitches in his scalp,” I replied. “And to top it off, doing it a week before he took his senior portraits? He looked like Frankenstein in the yearbook with that thing.”

“He called you a slut, he deserved it,” Wes said simply.

“And how do you know I’m not?” I asked, intrigued. Wesley would often tease, and he often said things to me that had an innuendo to them that I knew he put in intentionally, but he was rarely open and honest in his thoughts. “Maybe I’m a slut at heart.”