- Author: Abby Knox
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511 Kissme Lane
Copyright © 2021 by Abby Knox
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Edited by Aquila Editing
Cover Designer: Cormar Covers
About the Author
More by Abby Knox
Don’t you hate it when your dreams incorporate what’s happening in the real world?
Today, before I was totally awake, my alarm clock played the part of a tornado drill at school. So you would think I’d be happy to wake up from a dream like that.
But you would be wrong.
See, this morning was my first exciting dream in a long time.
Okay, I admit it. I had a sex dream. That by itself is no big deal. But the sex dream was about my best friend, Hudson.
I know what you’re thinking: if you spend a lot of time with someone, you’re bound to have a sex dream sooner or later.
That may be true. But what does it mean when you don’t want to wake up from a sex dream about your best friend?
“If you must know the details…well, you’re just out of luck. You’re my children; I can’t share that with you. The neighbors will hear me, and then they’ll call CPS on me. Or the humane society. Or something.
“Anyway, never you mind that. You get the picture, don’t you? The bottom line is? I just need to forget it and get on with my day.
“We simply forget about dreams as the day wears on, don’t we?”
Peanut, Butter, and Jelly stare back at me like I’ve lost my ever-loving mind. Or they’re just waiting for me to feed them. It’s hard to tell with cats. Their faces don’t give you much, except perpetual adorableness.
“All right, kids. Here you go.”
I fill each of their bowls with cat food and then flip the switch on my hotel-room-sized coffee maker and set about making lunch.
First, for Hudson: a great big foot-long sub. And I’m not talking Wonder Bread and cold cuts. This is homemade whole-wheat bread and fresh roasted chicken. Because I care about his heart. I pack an extra one for Hudson’s newest employee as well.
I’ve been bringing Hudson lunch every day since Frenchie’s Ferris Wheel started to turn a profit.
I’m not rich by any stretch—I live in a small Airstream trailer in the Cherry Falls RV park on Kissme Lane, close to the marina where Hudson works and just down the road from my beach-front Ferris wheel. But I make enough to get by and keep myself and the kids fed.
After I’ve packed all the goodies into a cooler, I say goodbye to the kids with hugs and kisses. “Be good for your grandma.”
I hop into my pink convertible VW bug, put in my latest mix CD of love songs, and crank my stereo. Just then, Justin from next door saunters over with his two pugs, and I roll down my window.
I lean out and observe him as he signs the words. I’m learning, so he very kindly goes slow with me. “Tell your mom, if she can walk my dogs today, I’d appreciate it.”
I sign back to him, “I’ll tell her. She’ll be here to look after the cats and give Peanut his injections.” Justin and some of the neighbors will let her walk their dogs while they’re at work, too. “If you need anything, just knock on the door.”
He nods, and we high-five each other, and then I speak to the pugs. “We’re going to give my mom a chance, okay? Try not to give her too much of a hard time on the leashes?” The pair simply look back at me with that familiar pug-like expression.
And with that send-off, I’m on my way to the marina.
I don’t have to bring lunch to Hudson every day, but I enjoy it. It’s become part of my daily ritual. Besides, I know he would never remember to take a break to eat something healthy if it weren’t for me.
The drive up Kissme Lane as I head toward the water is pretty today—it’s pretty every day—but something about the way the sun is sparkling off the waves lifts my heart. It gives me the feeling that something good is about to happen.
I try to tell my heart it has nothing to do with that dream I had about Hudson this morning—the one in which he breathed sweet, sultry words in my ear while his hand skimmed over my nipples over and over until I wet myself. That’s never going to happen; you’re just horny.
Still, my stomach does a backflip when I turn the wheel and drive up to the parking area at the marina.
The sea breeze and the sailboats bobbing in the water make me smile. I don’t particularly enjoy boating, as I get deathly seasick out on the waves, but the sight of them makes me happy. Lots of boats mean lots more income for Hudson, who runs the place. More income means he can hire more people and also save money for the log cabin he wants to build in the woods on the hill above the inlet. It’s a big dream, but Hudson thinks big. That’s just one of the things I love about him.
I get a view of the top of the wooded hill as I tromp up the dock to the shed where I usually find him this time of day. I only hope and