While she gets the coffee, I finally take off my jacket, yank the preppy white shirt from my pants, unbutton it, remove it. That leaves me in a black long-sleeve turtleneck and worn black jeans I’d bought ten years ago for Nemanja’s funeral. My on-the-job uniform doesn’t fit the cabin mood, but I should have some clothes upstairs. Unless the Homers cleared out my closet.
The girl puts my coffee on the table, and I note she doesn’t put in creamer or ask if I want sugar. I drink it plain anyway, but still, maybe she’s judging my character already.
She sits back on the couch and sips her brew, eyes everywhere besides me. The boring shit on TV gets more attention from her than I do. Or maybe she’s at a loss for words now because she’s feeling a bit awkward.
That’s all right. We’d do small talk, yet important talk. People often skip the basics. I love the basics.Hi, how are you? Let’s fuck.“You here on vacation?”
“Kind of. I’m studying for my thesis.”
“Which is about?”
“Toxicology.”
Impressive. “I barely survived high school,” I lie.
She laughs. A cute little sound, not too much, but enough so that I know I eased the tension.
I’m a big guy, and I know the second she sees my tattoos, she’ll either wanna fuck me or bolt. There is really no other option. Women either love or hate guys like me. I love me, and I want her to fuck me, so I’ll do my best not to show the tattoos immediately.
I smile, and she blushes. Good girl. I liked the shyness of her. Not so shy that I have to drag words out of her, but shy enough not to go around yapping about random shit to random people. Family business is private business, and we pick our marriage material carefully. Not that I plan to marry her.
Although… I purse my lips. I could marry her. “How long do you plan to stay?”
“Three days. That’s what I booked.” She eyes me suspiciously since Mr. Homer should know this. Never mind Homer. I have a single night to get her upstairs so I can fuck her for the duration of the next day. She’ll work on my dick, not on her thesis, unless the study of my dick becomes her thesis. Then we can call it mission accomplished on both sides and part ways.
“I’m gonna go hop into the shower, so…”
She’s telling me to leave. “You do that, Ms. Bentley.”
“Isla.”
“Isla,” I repeat. It rolls nicely off my tongue. I could flick her clit with my tongue while chantinglalalalareal fast.
“Thank you for the coffee,” she says. “Please lock up when you leave,” she throws over her shoulder as she climbs the steps.
Yeah, she’s trying to get rid of me. Good fucking luck with that, girl. This is my house, and she’s stuck with me for three days.
“Okay,” I say, and snicker at the snow piling up on the driveway outside. If we get snowed in, nobody’s leaving this bitch for a week.
That’s what I love about this place. In winter, you can’t be a meteorologist, you gotta be a fucking weather seer to know when to get up here. Otherwise, nobody comes, nobody goes, and if the feds start searching for the killer, I have hours before they can get up here.
3
Iwonder what she’ll do when she gets out of the shower and finds me still sitting on the chair. I check the time. It’s been over ten minutes, and I know—also because I grew up with a girl in the house—women take long showers, at least longer than most dudes. And I’m definitely most dudes. Unless I’m jerking off, I’m in and out quickly. If I’m jerking off, it’s ten minutes tops. My hand is fast and furious and knows how to stroke my dick.
Yawning, I contemplate getting some shut-eye, but decide to grab more coffee, sit back in the chair, and browse the news and scroll through the tiring shit the world’s yapping about. I get to the local news, which is generally way better than national. The target’s mistress found him in the hotel room and called the cops, who promptly came, then notified his wife and two previous wives.
The paper then went on and on about the wife and mistress’s squabble, and I keep scrolling, finding the locals still handling the case. They won’t be for long. The feds will move in fast.
Upstairs, the water shuts off, and I place the coffee on the table, throw my head back, and close my eyes, but the second Ido, the hair dryer wakes me right up. It’ll take another twenty minutes to style all that hair, and I set an alarm just to see if I’m right. Sure enough, twenty-two minutes later, Isla comes down the stairs. I turn.
She wears jeans, fur boots, a white sweater, and lip gloss. I love licking lip gloss. “You’re still here,” she says.
I open my mouth to answer when someone knocks. Well, well, well, here comes Mr. Homer. Been looking forward to this moment since last night. Usually, I’d answer my own door, but I don’t want Mr. Homer to run before I have a chance to scare the shit out of him.
“Are you expecting someone?” Isla asks, because she believes I’m Homer.
“Yes,” I tell her. “Let him in.”
