Page 38 of Hooked on Trouble

She presses the curve of her ass into my groin. “I couldn’t agree more.”

I grunt and push her forward, unable to handle the contact. These free-loving hippies might not bat an eye at two people going at it in the kitchen, but I want Raven all to myself. No prying eyes. No interruptions. Just her and me and a lot less clothing.

I grab her hand to keep her close as we weave through the twenty-odd people in the house. This place looks like a rainbow puked on it. So do the guests. Unfortunately, so do I. I can’t stop scratching at the wig, the hat is ugly as sin, and I’ll be burning this Hawaiian shirt the second it leaves my body. Raven doesn’t seem to mind. She keeps glancing at me, her eyes as dark as I’ve ever seen them, like I’m in nothing but my boxer briefs.

The briefs barely containing me.

She was smart, though. If I were in my black T-shirt and aviator glasses, I doubt Lake would have given us the time of day. I spot him in the same beanbag chair as earlier, same guitar in his hands, probably still plucking out the same damn tune. I stop beside him, and he doesn’t glance up. Raising my voice over the crowd and music won’t win me any favors, so I fall into the beanbag chair beside him, all arms and legs. Sawyer and Kolton would have a field day with me in these clothes, in this chair, my knees bent up to my ears. When I stop shifting around, Raven sits between my legs and tucks her knees to her chest. Suddenly, this stupid excuse for a piece of furniture doesn’t seem so bad.

I wrap my arms around her. “Lake,” I call, but the dude doesn’t budge.

Raven leans forward and taps his thigh. When he doesn’t twitch, she smacks him harder.

His lids flutter open. “Oh, hey.” His pupils dilate like a cartoon character. A stoned, dreadlocked cartoon character. He sways toward us then pulls back. “Spirit, right?”

Yep, the guys would kill themselves laughing. “Yeah. You mentioned Clara would be here tonight. Has she arrived?”

He glances around the room, but I’d bet all he sees is a blurred rainbow. “Yeah. Probably.” Then he closes his eyes, his fingers strum, and he returns to his corner of the world.

Fucking hippies.

Raven sighs. She leans heavier into my chest, tilts her head, and brushes her nose against my neck. A bolt of heat strikes my groin. She kisses me, a slow taste with her tongue that has me crushing her to my chest. If she had any doubt what effect she has on me, my hard-on against her back should reassure her. Needing a taste, too, I nuzzle my face into her hair until I have her ear between my teeth. Her replying whimper is all the reward I need.

“Like I said, Petal, let’s find Clara and get out of here.”

“You sure, Spirit? Because I’m pretty comfortable.”

“I’m sure. My plan for your petal doesn’t involve a room full of people.”

She laughs. “I like it when your inner hippie talks dirty.” She grinds backward, but I still her hips.

Slow, intense, deep, I remind myself.

When Raven admitted she’s never felt this close to anyone before, my heart nearly busted through my ribs. All my nerve endings shot to life—being near her hurt, swallowing hurt, looking at her hurt. This morning it was a relief hearing she’d never done hard drugs. I didn’t like learning she’d lied to cops to cover for some punk, but that was years ago. I won’t second-guess her. If she says that part of her life is done, it’s done. All I want now is to make up for the months I’ve wasted since Aspen. The time I’ve wasted the past couple weeks.

Starting with making love to her tonight.

“My inner hippie plans to get you nice and high, naturally. But not here.” I grab her hips to lift her up and give myself a minute to avoid embarrassment. Then I push to my feet and search for the only other person we know. Hopefully Wispy’s breast is tucked away tonight. Nikki used to do that in the house, breastfeed on a whim. I get it. I approve of it. But damn, if it doesn’t make me uncomfortable.

Sixties music comes from a nearby stereo, guests swaying, some with their hands in the air. The smell of pot is unmistakable. I smoked once in high school, but it wasn’t my thing. I prefer my mind sharp, in control. Occasionally I drink too much, but I’ve never been face-first in a toilet like Sawyer and Kolton. I never let things go that far.

When I spot Wispy, her flowing dress is intact. She’s with a couple of women, their eyes closed and heads swaying to the music. I move in behind them and tap her shoulder.

Without pausing, she opens her eyes. A lazy grin sweeps across her face. “Spirit, hi.”

Raven snorts, and I ignore her. The sooner we get the information we need, the sooner we get back to the motel. “Lake mentioned a girl named Clara would be here tonight. You know her?”

She nods and sways, and nods and sways. She nudges the redhead beside her. “Clara, these folks wanna talk to you.”

That was surprisingly easy. Unlike Wispy, Clara stops dancing and studies us warily, eyes lingering on my wig and beret. “Do I know you?”

Her red hair is in two braids, like a doll my sister had. She tugs one, bites her lip, and swallows, everything about her shifty. I’m about to speak when Raven pushes in front of me. “I’m looking for my sister. Rose Hunt? Lake said you might know where she’s living.”

Clara stops fiddling with her braid and settles her weight on one hip. “I didn’t know Rose had a sister.”

Raven sags forward. Hurt maybe? Upset Rose doesn’t talk about her? I move closer, pressing my chest to her back. “They haven’t seen each other in a long time,” I say. “Any chance you know where we can find her?”

More swallowing and braid spinning, and worry snakes up my spine. I’ve been around enough skittish criminals and degenerates to sense when someone has something to hide. After she’s twirled her hair umpteen times, she says, “Last I heard she was crashing at a friend’s in Vancouver. A guy by the name of Russ Adams. Around East Hastings, I think.”