The words sputtered out of Stan’s mouth as he continued to be mesmerized by Keisha’s presence, in particular the revealing outline of her damp upper body that the thin cotton sleeveless garment clung to like cellophane wrap. “Bryce needs a script.”
“I’m a classically trained thespian. I didn’t sign up for…” Bryce grabbed a gob of soggy dirt and hurled it at Stan’s feet. “THIS!”
Stan hopped aside and avoided the mud pie. “Hold on to that rage, Bryce. I can use it later.”
“Whatever.” Bryce bowed his head, deflated and spent.
Keisha knelt down across from him. She placed her hands on Bryce’s
shoulders and leaned toward him. He gazed up and Keisha inched closer. She moistened her lips and spoke with an earthy, seductive purr. “You mean I don’t inspire you, Bryce?”
Bryce looked at her like a monk who just received a shipment of Uzi’s. Keisha giggled and squeezed his cheeks. She swung her head back and forth and splattered him with water as he retreated in a panic. “No, stay away. You’re wet,” he cried out. “You’re dripping on me for god’s sake!”
Within a few feet, as Bryce scooted backward in some spastic version of a crab crawl, he reached the limit of available shore and conked his head against a solid projection tucked into the wall of earth he’d just body-surfed down. “Ow!”
The heavy thud made Keisha cringe. “Oops. Sorry!”
Bryce rubbed his noggin, annoyed by yet another bruise, and turned toward the culprit. It was evident from the confounded look on his face that it was not what he expected. “What the…?”