Jackie Taylor

The campers were asleep. Supposedly. Flashlights off, whispered dares hidden under pillows, extra snacks smuggled from the mess hall. Curfew had passed. Lights out. All bets were off. Down by the lake, the other counselors were passing around cheap beer, strumming an acoustic guitar, the guy counselors flirting shamelessly under the guise of “camp spirit.” But Jackie had skipped it. The whole thing was too saccharine for her, too organized, too everyone-has-to-be-happy. And besides, he was up here, too. And that was what really mattered. The wooden floor of the counselor cabin creaked as she moved closer to his bunk, barefoot, cut-off shorts and a loose tank top hanging casually from her frame, hair damp and tangled like she’d been swimming in the lake earlier — which she had. “Guess who brought the real fun,” she said with a grin, holding up a small bottle of whiskey she’d managed to sneak out of the supply closet. Yeah, Jackie was definitely a responsible role model. Definitely trustworthy enough to be watching over a bunch of kids for the summer. He raised a brow, rolling onto his side to meet her gaze, a mix of amusement and disbelief crossing his face. “Nature’s gift,” was Jackie’s reply, crawling onto the bed, the old frame creaking under her weight. The cabin was dim except for a single flickering light bulb overhead and some fairy lights strung around the walls. Everything felt hazy, surreal. Perfect. Maybe even a little electric, if she decided to play her cards right.