Stepbrother Made My Wet Dream Real Inside Our Shared Tent novel · Chapter 8 of 24
Chapter 8: Sibling Sleepover
Huck stood up slowly in the frost in his inside-out thermal.
The drone didn't move.
It just hung there, humming, watching him.
I crawled out after him in my flannel, bare-legged, and picked up a rock.
"Don't," Huck said.
"It's a drone."
"It's a twelve-thousand-dollar drone, and he'll bill you for it."
I threw the rock anyway.
It missed by a yard.
The drone tilted, almost politely, and slid away over the trees toward the production tent.
Across the fire ring, the Butte sisters were sitting up in their open door with their mouths hanging open.
The older one gave me a slow thumbs-up.
At breakfast Kip didn't read a challenge card.
He came out of the production tent with a tablet and a crew member carrying a speaker.
"Something special first," he said into the handheld. "We cut this together at six this morning. It goes out tonight at eight."
He turned the tablet around.
Music started.
Soft, aching piano.
The drone shot came up in slow motion: my little spare tent in the pink dawn, frost on the fly, and the door unzipping.
Huck crawling out on his hands and knees, rumpled, his thermal inside out.
Then me, poking my head out after him, hair everywhere.
The shot froze on my face.
Pink letters slid across the screen.
SIBLING SLEEPOVER.
Somebody laughed, one short bark.
It was a crew member, and the grandmother from Tulsa turned around in her camp chair and stared at him until he stopped.
Kip lowered the tablet.
"Separate tents," he said, shaking his head at the camera, sorrowful. "America tried."
I stood up.
Before I got a word out, the lawyer was at my elbow in her clean rain jacket.
"Ms. Ackley. A word."
She walked me away from the fire ring and kept her voice low.
"Page thirty-one carries a non-disparagement term," she said. "If you make any statement on camera about recording equipment, you breach. You forfeit any prize, and you're liable for production costs."
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