Whetting the Appetite

Two Tents, Part 1 by Lynn Townsend

Two Tents, Part 1 by Lynn Townsend

The swearing was only barely louder than the storm, but that was saying quite a bit, as the storm was raging down the mountainside like Alecto with a bad case of PMS. Guil tilted his head to one side, trying to pick out the colorful language between the cymbal crashes of thunder.

“…son of an AIDS-infested weasel…” It was a woman’s voice, not shrill, but fierce. Whoever the weasel’s bastard was, Guil felt sorry for him when this woman caught up with him. “…not have trusted him…crush him with his own fancy car!” Crash, thud. Rustle. She was close to Guil’s tent now. He sighed. The weather was terrible, and it was well past sundown. This was no time for someone to be wandering around blind in the woods. He didn’t get much vacation and he didn’t really want to spend any of it sealed in his tent with an angry woman. An angry, wet woman. And yet, he’d feel terribly guilty if he heard later that a camper was lost, or eaten by a bear in the Appalachians. Amateurs. They should make people get a license to camp out in the wilderness.

“Ma’am?” Guil unzipped the inner lining of his tent and stepped into the tent’s foyer, the enclosed area used to shake off snow—or in this case, not track muddy boots all over the sleeping bags. He pulled an emergency pack with him; it contained a towel, spare clothing, and a few other necessities, sealed in a waterproof bag. It had only taken one bad flood where he’d ended up in the river, tent and all, to start preparing for all the worst outcomes in camping. Once inside, he closed off the main tent; it was pleasantly warm and toasty in his sleeping space. “Are you lost, ma’am?”

The crashing, cursing whirlwind stopped, flashlight flicking along the ground, nearly blotted out by the driving rain. “I know exactly where I am,” she spat. She clawed a hand across her face, clearing the tangle of hair from her eyes. “My tent, on the other hand, seems to have had an appointment it neglected to tell me about and has run off…that way.” She waved the flashlight in a southern direction.

“Why don’t you come in, dry off?” Guil gestured. “You won’t find it tonight. I’ll help you look in the morning?”

“Why?”

“Why what?” Guil twitched an eyebrow up. Why, in the name of all that was holy, was she arguing with him?

“Why would you help me?”

“What, are you from New York?”

She snorted. “Right. Southern hospitality extends to tents?” She hesitated, apparently trying to judge his character through the pouring rain. She took a few steps and ducked under the tent flap. The woman was soaked to the skin. Her hair clung to her face in colorless tangles, snarled with leaves and bits of tree branches. Clothing too sodden to provide protection dragged her down, tugging at her shoulders and hips. The only feature he could see clearly was her eyes, wide and a deep, mossy green, fringed with long lashes beaded with rain.

“I’m Guilford Kendricks. My friends call me Guil.”

“Lane Wilson.” She shivered and offered him one raisin-hand in greeting, the skin clammy. “And right now, you’re the only friend I have, so whatever you want to call me, I’ll probably answer. Thanks.” Her lips trembled with cold and it was entirely inappropriate of him to notice how full and perfect they were, the bottom lip curving into a sweet, kissable pout.

“Not at all. Here. They’ll be big on you, but at least they’re dry.” He handed her the bag. “Towel, comb, and other stuff, too. I was a Boy Scout in a previous life.”

She stared at him, bag clutched loosely to her chest. “Um…”

“Don’t worry,” he said, unzipping the inner lining. “The tent is pretty big. I’ll leave you to your privacy. Just come in when you’re changed.”

Lane dropped her flashlight onto the tent’s plastic floor and was digging through the bag like a starving woman before he’d even zipped down the separator. He pulled out a spare camp stool and set it up, then lounged on his sleeping bag. There was very little that was “roughing it” about his campsite. He was a fan of wilderness and being alone with the vastness of nature, but he spent ten months of the year on a bunk in the middle of the ocean on an oil rig; Guil wasn’t about to give up one moment of creature comfort.

Against the wall, like some sort of s****l torture device, Lane’s flashlight cast her shadow as she stripped. He still didn’t really know what her face looked like, aside from those luscious lips and wide eyes, but her body was certainly something to write home about. Long legs and softly rounded hips shimmied out of her hiking pants, vengefully kicking the sopping fabric to one side. She pulled up a pair of sweat pants and swore as they fell around her ankles. She bent over, giving him a tempting silhouette of sweet, rounded ass, then jerked the sweats into place and tied them firmly.

For mid-April, it was still quite chilly at night, a fact he appreciated as she contorted her torso, yanking off the dripping sweater and shirt, revealing upright breasts, her n*****s so taut from the cold that he could almost taste them through the tent’s thin nylon walls. Guil stifled a groan and rolled onto his belly, a sudden erection pressing uncomfortably against the air mattress. Another problem with working on an oil rig: he couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d been with a woman.