"Hey, Kim," he says to me, looking up in surprise. "What's going on?"
I'm panting from running over basically from the Boathouse. But Lisa is so right. I can't believe I never even thought to ask my stepdad where his son was. I mean, I heard rumors sure; my Mom passed along everything that she heard. He was in Europe. He was working at a bank somewhere.
But I should've gone to the source. I mean, sure, it wasn't like we had family dinners or anything where I could casually ask where Cody was at. We only really did Thanksgiving and Christmas.
"I need to know where Cody is," I tell him. "Please it's important."
He leans back and looks at me.
"Why is that?" he asks me.
I'm done hiding the truth.
I'm done hiding my feelings for him.
"Because I love him," I declare proudly to his dad.
That's when I feel a touch on my shoulder...
86
Cody
One hundred and eighty.
That's how many times I've thought about Kim. Roughly twice a day where I sit, let my mind wander to her cute as a button face, her fucking hot body, and her delectable curves. Twice a day where I sit back and dream of one day fucking her again. Of holding her in my arms and squeezing that tight fucking ass. Of biting those nipples and running my cock between those tits. Of cumming all over that svelte and slender body and then making her lick it up. Of seeing her fat lips wrapped around my cock - just like a good little sister should do. Yeah, it's no wonder I had to go to Europe to get my shit together. Otherwise I would have given up on Day fucking One.
Six thousand.
That's how many dollars a last minute business class flight costs from New York's JFK Airport to London Heathrow. I left that night, after putting Kim to bed. I went home and packed my shit and called my travel agent.
Once in London, I called my Dad.
"Time to clean up my life, Pops," I said into the phone.
"What changed?" was his only question. I mean, he knew not to look a gift horse in the fucking mouth.
"Girl," I said. Yeah. our conversations were pretty fucking terse.
"Have I met her?" he asked me.
I smiled to myself and said, "You married her fucking mom."
There was a pause on the other end of the line and then Dad asked me. "You love her, son?"
"I do," I told him. "I had to get away to clean the fuck up."
I could almost hear him nodding on the other side.
"Talk to my friend Alastair Reynolds," Dad said. "He'll get you sorted."
Three.
That's how many hours later I made it to the office of Alastair Reynolds - a Managing Director with Carter Jeffries' London office.
"Joseph Brooks sent me," I said as I sat down in his office.
"Ah yes, the prodigal son," Alastair replied, leaning back.