Chapter 11: The Weekend Begins
The road to the cabin was a black ribbon unwinding through a tunnel of pines. Aidan drove, the headlights cutting through the deepening twilight. No one spoke much. The thrum of the engine was the only sound, a bass note under the weight of what they’d done, and what they were about to do.
Freya sat in the passenger seat, her head against the window, watching the trees blur past. In the back, Catriona scrolled through her phone, the glow lighting her face in sporadic flashes. Jenny was a silent outline, staring out at the nothingness, her bag of legal pads and precise instructions on the seat beside her.
“Here,” Jenny said finally, her voice cutting the silence. A gravel track appeared on the left, nearly hidden. Aidan turned, the tires crunching.
The cabin was a dark squat shape against a sky bruised purple and orange. He killed the engine. The silence that followed was absolute, dense with pine and cold mountain air.
“Well,” Catriona exhaled, popping her door open. “Home sweet home for the weekend.”
They unpacked quickly, hauling groceries and duffel bags into the single-room space. It was exactly as Jenny had described: one main room with a kitchenette, a stone fireplace, a door to a basic bathroom, and a sleeping loft overlooking it all, accessible by a steep wooden ladder. Two large, worn sofas flanked the fireplace, and between them sat a rickety card table with four mismatched chairs.
Jenny got the fire going with methodical efficiency. Soon, flames were licking over split logs, casting dancing shadows on the low, pine-paneled ceiling. The room transformed from a chilly shell to a warm, intimate cave. The scent of woodsmoke began to overlay the dust and pine.
Catriona poured four glasses of whiskey from a bottle she’d brought, passing them around. They stood in a loose circle near the heat, sipping, not meeting each other’s eyes. The normal buffers—separate rooms, routines, the city outside—were gone. They were in a box, together, with the memory of Freya’s breathy cries still hanging between them.
Jenny set her glass down on the card table with a definitive tap. She turned to face them. The firelight played in her dark curls, made her brown skin glow.
“So,” she said. Her voice was calm, lawyerly. “We’re here. The rules of the old game are void. The IOUs are settled.” Her gaze swept over them, landing on Aidan. “I think we need a new game. One with clearer stakes.”
Freya took a slow sip of whiskey. “What did you have in mind?”
Jenny reached into her bag and pulled out a brand-new deck of cards, still in cellophane. She tore it open with a sharp rip.
“A tournament,” she said, shuffling the cards with a crisp, professional efficiency. The sound was loud in the quiet room. “Strip poker. But no limits. No clothing chips. You lose a hand, you remove an article of clothing. Your choice which. Last person with anything on wins.”
Aidan felt the whiskey heat in his gut intensify. “Wins what?”
Jenny stopped shuffling. She looked at him, and for the first time, he saw the crack in her analytical veneer. It was a raw, hungry look. “Winner gets to choose what happens next. With whoever they want. However they want. No objections. No discussion.”
Catriona whistled low. “Fuck, Jenny. Going straight for the throat.”
“It’s efficient,” Jenny said, but her cheeks were flushed. “It resolves the… tension. It’s a final hand, for everything.”
Freya set her glass down. Her yoga instructor poise was back, but her eyes were bright. “I’m in.”
“Obviously,” Catriona grinned, already pulling her sweatshirt over her head and tossing it onto a sofa. She stood in just a tight black tank top and jeans. “Deal me in.”
All eyes turned to Aidan. The fire cracked. He could feel the weight of the last week, the unspoken competition, the want that had curdled in the air of his bedroom. He thought of Freya’s defiant moan, of Catriona’s hungry gaze, of Jenny’s controlled, possessive stare from the armchair. The old friendship was already ash. This was the new thing, and it demanded a commitment.
He took a final swallow of whiskey, the burn a welcome anchor. “Okay,” he said. “Deal.”
They took their seats at the shaky table. Jenny dealt five cards each, her movements precise. The first hand was a quiet, tense affair. Everyone playing cautiously, learning the new terrain. Aidan looked at his cards—a pair of eights. Nothing.
“Fold,” Freya said softly, after the betting went around once.
“See you,” Jenny said, matching Catriona’s bet.
Catriona grinned, laying down three queens. “Read ‘em and weep, counselor.”
Jenny’s lips thinned. She tossed her cards down. A loser’s hand.
“Well,” Catriona sang, leaning back in her creaking chair. She made a show of thinking, tapping a finger on her chin. Then, with a flick of both hands, she reached behind her back, unclasped her bra, and slid the straps down her arms. She pulled it out from under her tank top and tossed it onto the growing pile of discards in the center of the table. The black lace landed on the king of hearts. Her nipples were visibly hard against the thin cotton of her top.
“Your deal, Jenny,” Catriona said, her voice a little huskier.
The next hand was faster, more aggressive. The whiskey was working. Freya lost, biting her lip. Without a word, she pulled her soft cashmere sweater over her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra beneath. Her small, perfect breasts were bare in the firelight, the tips puckered from the chill or the attention. She crossed her arms, not in shame, but with a quiet, challenging lift of her chin, just like she had the first time at their old table.
Aidan’s mouth went dry. His cock, which had been semi-aware all evening, began to thicken against his jeans. He adjusted his position, trying to hide it.
Jenny noticed. Her eyes tracked the movement, then returned to her cards. A slow, deliberate smile touched her lips. It wasn't friendly. It was predatory. Calculating.
“Your bet, Aidan,” she said, her voice smooth as the whiskey.
He looked at his cards. Nothing again. His mind was a riot of skin and firelight. He shoved a pile of matchsticks—their makeshift chips—into the center. “Raise.”
Catriona called. Freya folded, watching.
Jenny studied him. Her gaze felt like a physical touch, tracing the line of his shoulders, the visible strain in his jeans. She stacked her matchsticks neatly. “Call,” she said.
They revealed their cards. Catriona had two pair. Aidan had a measly high jack. Jenny laid down a straight, seven to jack.
She’d won.
Catriona groaned, laughing. “Damn it.” She stood up, unbuttoned her jeans, and shimmied out of them, kicking them away. She stood by the table in just the thin black tank top and a pair of crimson panties, her freckled legs pale and endless in the flickering light.
But Jenny wasn’t looking at Catriona. She was looking at Aidan. The rules were clear. He’d lost. He had to remove something.
His heart hammered against his ribs. The atmosphere was so thick he could taste it—smoke, whiskey, anticipation. He could take off his socks. His watch. He could remove his shirt.
Instead, his fingers went to the button of his jeans. He popped it open. The sound of the zipper going down was obscenely loud. He saw Freya’s breath catch, saw Catriona’s lips part. Jenny’s predatory smile widened, just a fraction.
He stood, pushed the jeans and his boxers down in one motion, and stepped out of them.
He was fully, blatantly erect now, his cock standing thick and heavy against his stomach in the warm air. The firelight danced over the muscled lines of his thighs, the defined V of his hips.
For a moment, no one moved. No one breathed. The only sound was the crackle and spit of the burning logs.
Then Jenny leaned forward, resting her chin on her steepled fingers. Her eyes, dark and unreadable, held his. The game was on her terms now, and she knew it.
“Much better,” she murmured. “My deal.”