Chapter 1: Seven Minutes in Heaven
The fire snapped, sending a spray of orange embers twisting up into the blackness between the pine boughs. The air was cold and clean, smelling of damp earth and woodsmoke, a stark contrast to the warmth on Brandon’s face. He rolled the cool beer bottle between his palms, the label peeling. He was here to forget. To fill his head with anything other than the silence of his new apartment, the ghost of Gabby’s perfume on a sweater he still hadn’t moved to donate.
“Truth or dare, Brando.” Andreia’s voice cut through his thoughts. Her smile was all teeth in the firelight, her red hair a dark corona. She was perched on a log, leaning into Matt, who just stared into the flames with a vacant, amused expression.
“Come on, give the man a break,” Zane rumbled, but he was grinning. He had his arm around Raquel, his massive hand absently rubbing her shoulder. “He’s here for peace and quiet, not your juvenile interrogation.”
“It’s not interrogation. It’s bonding,” Andreia said. “Truth or dare. Default is dare.”
Brandon took a swig. “Dare, then. Get it over with.”
Andreia’s eyes flicked to her sister, then back to him. A silent conspiracy passed between them, one he was too numb to decipher. “I dare you,” she said, drawing the words out, “to go into the tent with Raquel for seven minutes.”
The fire crackled. The owl in the distant woods went silent. Zane’s rumbling laugh burst out, loud and disbelieving. “Oh, hell no. Pick another one. That’s my wife, you gremlin.”
Raquel didn’t laugh. She slowly untangled herself from Zane’s arm, her sharp eyes not leaving Brandon’s. A slow, enigmatic smile touched her lips. “Scared, Zane?” Her voice was low, a challenge.
“Of you? Never. Of Brando’s fragile state? Absolutely.” Zane chuckled, swigging his beer. “He’s emotionally vulnerable, babe. It’s like kicking a puppy.”
“I’m fine,” Brandon heard himself say. The air felt thicker. This was a line, fuzzy and undefined, but it was there. He’d known Raquel for years. She was Zane’s. She was a fixed point. But Gabby was gone, and every fixed point in his life had proven not so fixed after all.
Raquel stood, brushing pine needles from her jeans. The firelight sculpted the curve of her hips, the confident set of her shoulders. “Well? A dare’s a dare.”
It was just a stupid game. A joke. Zane was laughing. Matt was snickering into his collar. Andreia watched, her blue eyes glittering with something that wasn’t just mischief.
Brandon stood up. The world tipped slightly, from the beer or the sudden pulse in his throat, he wasn’t sure. He followed Raquel the ten paces to the dark green dome tent, the one she shared with Zane. The fabric glowed faintly from the fire behind them as she unzipped the flap.
“In you go,” she said, and her voice had lost its teasing edge. It was just quiet.
He ducked inside. The space was immediately intimate, filled with the scent of sleeping bags, clean cotton, and her perfume—something deep and vanilla-like. She zipped the flap closed from the inside, plunging them into near-total darkness, striped with faint lines of firelight through the mesh window.
Silence. He could hear his own breathing. Hear the muffled boom of Zane’s laugh outside.
“Seven minutes,” he said, his voice rough.
“Plenty of time,” she whispered.
He felt her move in the dark before he saw her. A shape against the dim light. Then her hands were on his chest, solid and sure, pushing him back until his shoulders met the sloping wall of the tent. Her mouth found his neck, just below his ear. Her lips were hot, her breath a damp shock against his skin.
“Raquel—” It was half-protest, half-gasp.
“Shhh.” One hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt. The other slid down, fingers deftly finding the buckle of his belt. The metallic scratch of the prong loosening was obscenely loud. “I’ve wanted this,” she breathed into his skin, her words barely audible, raw and stripped of pretense. “For years. Since before it was wrong.”
His mind went white. All the careful walls, the numb acceptance, the hollowed-out feeling—it shattered under the sheer physical truth of her. Her want was an animal thing, palpable in the dark. It ignited something feral in him, a desperate hunger to feel anything this acutely.
He didn’t think of Zane. He didn’t think of Gabby. He stopped thinking altogether. His hands came up, tangling in her long hair, pulling her mouth to his. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a collision. She met him with equal force, her tongue against his, a low groan vibrating in her throat.
She wrestled his jeans down over his hips, her own movements frantic. The rasp of her zipper. The rustle of fabric. Then her skin was against his, hot and smooth. She guided him, her thighs gripping his hips as she lowered herself onto him, taking him in with a sharp, controlled gasp that she muffled against his shoulder.
The world reduced to sensation. The strain of the tent fabric against his back. The desperate, silent rhythm of their bodies. The choked, hitched sounds she made, sounds she swallowed before they could escape. Her fingers dug into the muscles of his back, claiming him. He moved, driven by a deep, aching need to lose himself completely inside this moment, inside her. This was not love. It was consumption.
Outside, Zane’s laughter boomed again, followed by the clink of another bottle. “Time’s almost up, you two! Keep it clean in there!”
Raquel stiffened for a second, a terrible, thrilling pause. Then she moved harder, faster, her eyes gleaming in the dark slivers of light, her expression fierce. A final, wrenching surge and he was falling, a silent, shuddering release that felt less like pleasure and more like being ripped open.
They froze, locked together, breathing in ragged, syncopated bursts. The reality of the tent, the sounds of the campfire twenty feet away, came crashing back in.
Slowly, she disengaged, her movements now fluid and quiet. She found her clothes, dressed in the dark. He fumbled with his jeans, his fingers clumsy.
She leaned close again, her lips brushing his ear. Her voice was a wrecked, satisfied thing. “Now you know.”
She unzipped the tent flap and slipped out into the firelight, a silhouette adjusting her sweater. “God, it’s stuffy in there,” she said, her voice perfectly normal, almost bored.
Brandon sat in the dark, the cold from the ground seeping through his clothes. The scent of her, of them, filled his lungs. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, sickening drum. He heard Zane ask a question, heard Raquel’s light, laughing answer.
He had wanted to feel something. Now he felt everything, all at once: a roaring, shameful heat, a terrifying weight, and cutting through it all, sharp as a cold knife—the pure, undiluted thrill of it.
He zipped his fly with trembling hands. The seven minutes were up. Everything else was just beginning.
Everything else was just beginning. The sound of his own breath was deafening in the tent. He could still feel the press of her teeth against his shoulder, a phantom brand. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a useless gesture.
He had to move. He couldn’t stay in here.
Unzipping the flap felt like performing a magic trick, revealing a world that had continued without him. The fire. The laughing friends. A play where he’d just missed his cue. He stepped out, the cold air hitting his heated skin like a slap.
“There he is!” Zane boomed, holding out a fresh beer. “We were about to send a search party. Get over here, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Brandon took the bottle, his fingers numb. He avoided Raquel’s eyes, but he felt them on him, a weight. She was back on the log, leaning into Zane’s side, one leg tucked under her. She looked serene. Satisfied. She took a delicate sip of her wine.
Matt chuckled, a dry, papery sound. “So? How was paradise?”
“Stuffy,” Brandon managed, echoing Raquel’s line. His voice sounded foreign.
“Told you,” Raquel said, a smile in her words. “Needed some air.”
Zane laughed, squeezing her. “My wife, the delicate flower.” He planted a loud kiss on her temple. Raquel’s eyes met Brandon’s over Zane’s shoulder. They held no apology, only a dark, shared knowledge. It sent a fresh current through his gut.
Andreia watched it all, her gaze flicking between Brandon’s stunned face and her sister’s composed mask. A slow, understanding smirk spread on her lips. She uncurled herself from Matt’s side.
“My turn,” she announced, her voice bright and challenging. “Truth or dare, Brandon. Again.”
“Give him a break, Dre,” Matt said, but he sounded bored, already reaching for the whiskey bottle.
“No breaks. The night’s young. Truth or dare?”
Brandon felt trapped. The dare had led him here, to this shaking, guilty feeling. Truth felt like a minefield. “Dare,” he said again, the word tasting like ash. He was on a track now, hurtling forward. Might as well see where it went.
Andreia’s blue eyes glittered with conquest. “I dare you,” she said, drawing it out for effect, “to go back into that tent. For seven more minutes.”
Zane groaned, laughing. “This is harassment! Poor guy’s gonna get PTSD from that tent.”
But Andreia wasn’t looking at Zane. She was staring right at Raquel, a silent, sisterly challenge thrown down. Raquel’s smile tightened, just at the corners. She gave an almost imperceptible shrug, as if to say, Your move.
“And,” Andreia added, her tone dropping to something lower, more intimate, “I’m coming with you.”
The fire cracked. Matt’s head snapped up, his cynical detachment slipping. “What?”
“It’s my dare. I make the rules.” Andreia stood, all long limbs and fierce red hair. She walked toward Brandon, holding out her hand. “Come on. Clock’s ticking.”
This was madness. A different, deeper kind of line was being erased right in front of everyone, with Zane laughing and Matt’s eyes turning hard. Brandon looked at the offered hand, then past it to Raquel. Her expression was unreadable, a calm lake over impossible depths. She gave a tiny, almost encouraging nod.
It was the nod that undid him. It was complicity. It was permission to fall further.
He took Andreia’s hand. Her skin was cool. She pulled him, not toward the tent she shared with Matt, but back to the same one. Zane’s tent. The fabric was still warm from the inside.
Her touch was different from Raquel’s—less calculated, more hungry. She fumbled with the zipper, her breath coming fast, smelling of wine and mint. The moment the flap closed, she pushed him against the same sloped wall, her mouth finding his in the dark. This kiss was all need, unpolished and searching.
“I knew it,” she whispered against his lips, her hands frantic on his waist, under his shirt. “I saw her face. I knew she did it.” She bit his lower lip, not gently. “Was it good? Was she good?”
He couldn’t form words. His mind was a riot of sensation and guilt. He was a thing being acted upon, a current passing through him. Andreia’s hands were everywhere, pulling, claiming. She guided his hands to her hips, her own moving to the button of his jeans—the same button Raquel had opened minutes before.
“My turn,” she breathed, and there was a raw jealousy in it, a competition. She was quicker, less controlled. The sleeping bag rustled loudly as they sank down onto it. This was not a silent, stolen thing. This was a statement.
And outside, around the fire that was beginning to die, the world held its breath.
Zane’s laughter had finally stopped.
Matt slowly set his whiskey bottle down in the dirt, the thud final and too loud.
And Raquel, staring into the embers, allowed her slow, knowing smile to fully bloom in the shadows, listening to the faint, unmistakable sounds of her dare being fulfilled.
And Raquel, staring into the embers, allowed her slow, knowing smile to fully bloom in the shadows, listening to the faint, unmistakable sounds of her dare being fulfilled.
The noise from the tent wasn’t subtle. A zip. A rustle. A low, muffled gasp that was definitely Andreia. Zane’s grin had frozen, then melted away like wax in heat. He stared at the dark green dome, his broad shoulders tense. “What the actual fuck,” he muttered, not to anyone, just to the night.
Matt stood up. The camping chair scraped loud against a rock. He didn’t say a word. His face was a blank, stunned slate in the flickering light. He looked at the tent, then at the bottle in his hand, and threw it into the fire.
The glass shattered. Flames leapt up, blue and greedy from the whiskey, casting wild, dancing shadows.
“Hey!” Zane barked, lurching to his feet.
Matt ignored him. He turned and walked, not toward the trail to the cars, but into the deeper woods, swallowed by the black between the trees.
Silence descended, heavy and toxic. The only sounds were the crackle of the enhanced fire and the soft, rhythmic rustling from the tent. Zane looked from the woods where Matt vanished to the tent, his hands clenching and unclenching. He took a step toward it.
Raquel’s voice stopped him, cool and clear. “Don’t.”
He whirled on her. “Don’t? Are you hearing this? That’s my sister-in-law. And my best friend. In our tent.”
“You heard the dare,” she said, shrugging. Her eyes reflected the flames, calm and unblinking. “A game’s a game.”
“This isn’t a game anymore!” Zane’s voice was a roar that echoed off the pines. Somewhere, the owl took flight.
Inside the tent, the sounds ceased abruptly.
Raquel stood. She faced her husband, a foot shorter but unwavering. “Then what is it?” she challenged, her voice low. “You laughed when it was me in there. Why isn’t it funny now?”
Zane had no answer. His mouth opened, then shut. The hypocrisy was a physical thing, hanging between them, fat and ugly.
The tent zipper hummed.
Andreia emerged first, her hair a wild mess, her lips swollen. She avoided everyone’s eyes, straightening her shirt with trembling hands. She looked into the woods where Matt had gone, hugged herself, and sat on a far rock, staring at the ground.
Brandon came out next. He felt hollowed out, scraped raw. The cold air bit his exposed skin. He couldn’t look at Zane. He couldn’t look at Andreia. His gaze landed on Raquel, and in her face he saw no judgment, only a deep, simmering anticipation.
“You,” Zane spat, taking a step toward Brandon.
“Zane,” Raquel said, a warning.
But Zane just shook his head, a bull confused by the gate. The anger seemed to drain from him, replaced by a bewildered hurt. He looked at his wife, then at his best friend, and let out a short, choked sound that was almost a laugh. “Unbelievable.” He picked up a full beer, turned his back on all of them, and walked to the edge of the firelight, a dark, hulking silhouette against the stars.
The standoff was brittle. Andreia shivered. Brandon stood frozen, the adrenaline leaching away, leaving a sick nausea in its wake. The fire popped.
Raquel moved.
She walked to the tent, not looking at Andreia, not looking at Brandon’s stricken face. She pulled the zipper all the way down, the sound screaming in the quiet. She ducked inside.
For a moment, nothing.
Then her hand appeared, fingers curling in a ‘come here’ gesture aimed directly at Brandon.
His breath caught. Every cell in his body screamed this was the point of no return. Zane was twenty feet away. Andreia was watching now, her blue eyes wide and shocked. The woods were vast and black. His old life was a smoldering pile behind him.
He went.
He had to duck again. Inside, it was chaos—the smell of sex and perfume and sweat, the disordered sleeping bags. Raquel was on her knees. She didn’t kiss him. She didn’t speak. She pushed him down onto the fabric with a firm, undeniable pressure.
Her hands were business-like, urgent. She dealt with his clothing, then her own. There was no seduction now. This was something else. A claiming. A correction.
“You’re mine,” she whispered, her voice guttural, as she straddled him. Her eyes locked on his, daring him to look away. “You were always mine. You just didn’t know it.”
This time, there was no pretense of silence, no fear of discovery. The sounds were open, vocal. She rode him with a furious intensity, her nails biting into his chest, her head thrown back. It was punishment and reward fused together. Brandon gripped her hips, his mind blank, reduced to pure sensation and the obliterating truth in her eyes.
Outside, Andreia began to cry, soft, hiccuping sobs.
Zane turned from the darkness, hearing it all—his wife’s fierce, ragged cries, the unmistakable cadence from his own tent. The beer bottle cracked in his hand. He didn’t move.
When it was over, Raquel collapsed against Brandon, her sweat-slick skin hot against his. They breathed in the ruined air. After a moment, she lifted her head. She kissed him, slow and deep, a proprietary seal.
Then she got up, dressed with efficient grace, and unzipped the tent.
She stepped out into the campfire light, leaving Brandon lying there in the wreckage. She walked past her weeping sister without a glance. She went to her husband, took the broken bottle gently from his hand, and led him by the arm toward the smaller tent. “Come to bed,” she said, her voice now soft, wifely.
Zane went, silent and pliant.
Brandon was alone in the dark. The numbness was complete. He heard the zipper of the other tent, then nothing. The fire died to a red glow. The woods were infinitely quiet.
He finally stirred, pulling his clothes on with clumsy hands. He crawled out. The clearing was empty. Andreia was gone, probably to her car. Zane and Raquel’s tent was dark.
He walked to the dead fire and sat on the cold ground, the last man standing in a field of silent, unexploded mines. He watched the embers fade from red to gray, waiting for the dawn, wondering what brutal shape his world would take when the sun finally rose.