Inn on the Edge

by Gail Bridges

  But we hadn’t yet had anything to eat when we met the old man.

  “Hey,” I said, shrugging, “we’re done here. Let’s get rid of the table. Help me shove it into the hallway, will you? It’s on wheels.”

  He heaved himself out of his chair. “Fine. But I’m warning you. One wrong move and I’ll tip over. You’ll have to roll me across the floor. I’m that full.”

  But the door wouldn’t open. I shoved and pushed and it still wouldn’t open. I found the room key and tried it in the lock. It didn’t work. Then I stood between the stuck door and the table full of dirty dishes, baffled, unsure what to do. This was not good—not good at all.

  “Here, let me try,” said Josh, frowning. He snatched the key from me and jammed it into the lock. It didn’t turn. Josh turned to me. “What the hell, Angie?”

  I gave a helpless shrug, biting my lip.

  “We’re locked in!”

  “It’s just stuck.”

  “Well then, I’ll unstick it!” Josh raided the table, grabbing whatever might be of use. He banged on the doorknob with a candlestick, jimmied the lock with the tine of a fork and slid a butter knife between the door and the molding to poke at the lever. Nothing helped. The lock didn’t turn. The door didn’t budge.

  “You’d better stop before we damage the door,” I said.

  “Then you do something! Call that old geezer.”

  I dialed the front desk. It rang and rang. “They’re not answering.”

  Josh threw his makeshift tools back onto the table. “Now what do we do?”

  “Someone will let us out in the morning.”

  “But it’s not morning! What kind of monkey house is this? We’re locked in—I hate that!”

  “I know,” I said softly.

  Josh didn’t like locks, didn’t like being shut in, didn’t like small enclosed spaces. I figured it was a mild form of claustrophobia, but I don’t really know about those things. He’s been that way since the day I’d met him. It was something I’d got used to, going around after him locking things. The front door of our house. The windows. The chain on his bicycle. I was the one who locked the car, who made sure to beep it when we left it in a parking lot. I was the one who slipped the suitcase keys onto my key ring—and used them. After our years together, I barely noticed anymore. I knew how to deal with it. But this was different. Unexpected. A little frightening.

  “We’re locked in!” he said, his voice rising.

  “I know, sweetie.” I put my hand on his arm. “But you’re not alone. I’m here too. Let’s do something to get your mind off it. Umm…how about a shower?”

  “A shower?”

  “You’ll feel better.”

  Still turned away from me, he kicked halfheartedly at the door. It was more of a nudge than anything, his slipper-clad toes barely making a sound. The door didn’t even rattle.

  Good. He was calming down. I waited.

  After a moment his eyes flicked from me to the door, then back again. He looked mildly embarrassed. “It’s just that it makes me nervous, to be shut in here with no way out.”

  “I know it does. We’ll be fine.”

  “There could be an emergency.” It almost sounded like a question.

  I laughed. “Yeah. One of us could spontaneously combust.”

  Sheepishly, he turned toward me. He held out his arms. “That would count as an emergency for sure.”

  “So would too much sex,” I said, finding the ties of his bathrobe. I tugged and the soft terrycloth fell apart, revealing a long expanse of lovely skin and muscle, all lightly covered with fine, soft hair. The nicest view I’d seen all day. I tore my eyes away and looked questioningly at him. I saw that he was almost the old Josh again—my happy, carefree Josh. “Are you okay? All better now?”

  He nodded. His breath slowed. His color, little by little, returned to normal.

  “That’s good.” I kissed him. “Because I have something for you.”

  He smiled, his eyes telling me that he wanted what I had to give. Very much so.

  It was all I needed. Shivering with pleasure, I ran my palms slowly down his chest, his stomach, his hips. I carefully avoided any pitfalls, such as nipples. Or the growing erection between his legs. Definitely the erection. I wouldn’t want to set off a dangerous chain reaction, now would I?

  I opened my own bathrobe. “I’ve heard too much sex can be harmful to the health,” I whispered, stepping into the warm envelope of his body, pressing myself against him.

  “Is that right?”

  “You smell good,” I said, sniffing long and deep. “Yummy. And yes. Sex sends people to the hospital all the time. So we’d better not do anything that could hurt us. The emergency rescue people couldn’t get in here, now could they? We have to think about these things.” I put my hand flat in the middle of his stomach. I considered my next move. “Fondling your dick might lead to something dangerous, you know. It’s like a gateway drug—hazardous to the health. But surely I can do this?” I rubbed myself against his already hard cock.

  “God yes. You can do that.”

  “How about this?” I pressed my hand over him. Then I squeezed. He shuddered and his bathrobe fell to the floor.

  “Yes! Yes!”

  “And all this?” I massaged it and pushed on it and kneaded it and worked it with my hands. “Doing okay there?” I whispered after a good few minutes. “No signs of sudden sexual collapse?”

  He sucked in his breath. “No, none.”

  “But I’ve heard you shouldn’t swim for an entire hour after eating,” I said, taking my hands from him. “At least an hour. Maybe the same is true for sex. Perhaps we should stop.”

  “That’s a bullshit old wives’ tale.”

  “Oh dear. We just ate,” I said, shaking my head.

  He fingered my breasts. “We’ll be extra careful then, yes?”

  “I suppose.”

  He pulled on my nipples. Kissed my neck, my shoulder, the tender place below my ear. He drew me close, his erection poking me.

  I thought my legs might give way, they were shaking so hard.

  “Watch how careful I can be.” Holding me tightly around the waist, our bellies together, he leaned his back against the door that had so vexed him only a few minutes earlier. He nudged my legs apart, arranging them on either side of his own. Standing sex. When had we last had standing sex? Had we ever…? Slowly, he slid his back down the door, an inch, two inches, three, until he was at exactly the right angle. The tip of his cock nudged my cleft. An impressive feat of athleticism. “See?” he said, “I’m being so very, very cautious.”

  “Ohhh! Maybe can you be cautious…a little faster?”

  “Absolutely not. A master takes his time.”

  He was paying me back. Well then, let him. His fingers slowly followed my curves, walking around my back, over my butt, between my legs and down, down, down.

  I gasped.

  Then in.

  I moaned.

  He played inside me, his fingers exploring my warm depths. “It feels different like this,” he breathed.

  “Yes, yes! It does.”

  “Deeper somehow.”

  I threw back my head, shuddering. Oh yes, it was deeper. Way deeper. He bent his knees another inch, thighs trembling, giving his hand even more leverage. His fingers moved in me, farther inside me than I’d ever felt them before. I sucked in my breath and squeezed my eyes shut, my lips parted. Then he found my breast with his mouth and began to suck.

  I shrieked, trying to muffle the sound on the top of Josh’s head. Then I thought, what the hell, and I yelled out loud for all to hear, broadcasting my passion.

  “Shit, Angie,” panted Josh. “You almost made me come!”

  We were both taut, every muscle straining.

  “Now,” I said between gasps. “Josh! Now!”

  His fingers slid away. Suppressing a moan, he grabbed my butt cheeks and kneaded them so hard in his strong hands that it should have hurt. Should have but did
n’t. And then his hands and my hands were at his erection, guiding it, helping it, bringing it to me, to the place it belonged. His cock pressed against my cunt, and I thought I would melt from the pleasure of it.

  “Angie,” he said.

  In one smooth motion, he was inside me.

  “Josh.” I looked into his eyes, his sexy eyes, those gorgeous Ultramarine Blue eyes that sparkled with flecks of purest Quinacridone Gold, but only when we made love.

  “Angie,” he whispered again, loving me. “Angie. Oh Angie…”

  “You’re just a scaredy-cat,” I said, riding his thrusts, “letting that little-bitty door get the better of you.”

  His hands circled my waist, keeping our hips together. “And you’re just a show-off. Trying to act so brave and all.” His eyes screwed shut. “Oh my god, Angie… Oh my god!”

  We fell silent for a moment, just fucking the daylights out of each other.

  It was wonderful. Just wonderful.

  “You are brave, you know,” he said.

  “I am not.”

  “You are.”

  “No,” I said, meeting his every thrust with my own. Something was rising in me, a pool of molten lava. I was so close to coming. “No, not brave. If you ever saw me frightened…you’d know…” I was finding it hard to talk between gasps, “You’d know…how fast I can fall apart…” I sucked in my breath. “Oh! Oh! Oh!”

  We moved together in a beautiful dance, joined body and soul. And then we were spirited away, first me, then him, by orgasmic rushes that left us panting and weak-kneed, slumped against the door.

  Do I need to say again how marvelous it was? Because it was.

  After a while my heart slowed. I brushed hair from my mouth. I touched Josh’s cheek. He opened his eyes and smiled. The golden flecks were gone. He found my hand and sucked on my knuckles, like a baby, my darling Josh.

  “Somehow I doubt that,” he said, his words wet and slippery. “I don’t think you’d fall apart at all.”

  “I love you,” I said.

  “Angie,” he said. He kissed me.

  Chapter Six

  The next morning, Sunday, we met our fellow guests.

  But we were late. And it didn’t happen quite like we’d expected. A rapping on the door awoke us—a very persistent rapping, peppered with annoyingly cheerful greetings. “Good morning! Good morning! Breakfast already started! Come on down. It’s a beautiful day at the inn! Come join us.”

  I groaned.

  “Angela! Joshua! Everyone’s waiting for you.”

  I yawned hugely. What was so important about breakfast? I already knew Josh and I weren’t getting a prize. We’d quit the game the night before. Who was at the door? It didn’t sound like Zenith. Maybe it was the aforementioned Zora? I buried my head in my pillow, willing her to go away. She didn’t. She tapped again and again, determined. I squinted in Josh’s direction. Squinted, because light was streaming in through all those enormous windows the old man had warned us about.

  Josh’s eyes were puffy. He turned to me, whispering, “It’s like what—four o’clock in the morning?”

  “It’s after eleven!” called the voice. “Rise and shine!”

  “Okay! We’re coming,” I called. Then I lowered my voice. “Zenith. Zora. What’s with the stupid ‘Z’ names, anyway?” I stretched. Yawned. “Does your name have to start with ‘Z’ to work here? That’s so screwed up.”

  “Get up! Get up!” cried our human alarm clock.

  “Zarathustra,” whispered Josh. He gave me a sleepy kiss, then called out toward the door, “Good morning yourself! Unlock the door, please. It’s stuck! It wouldn’t open last night.”

  “Zelda,” I whispered back.

  “Zorba.”

  “Za… Za… Zo…” I made a harrumph sound. “Dang. I can’t think of any more.”

  He yawned. “Zoe. I win.”

  The door opened and a curly-haired blonde woman stuck her head in. “Still in bed? My goodness, you two! I’m Zora, by the way.”

  Josh sat up, baring his naked chest. “How did you open it?”

  “This old thing?” Zora rattled the doorknob. “Don’t worry about it. Doors around here can be temperamental. Especially when it rains.”

  “Oh,” Josh said, but he didn’t look convinced.

  I sat up too, clutching a handful of blankets to my chest. “We don’t like being locked in,” I explained.

  “Well, it’s open now.” She closed it and opened it again. “See? No problem. So are you getting up?”

  “We’re getting up,” I said, nodding. Then, under my breath, “Do we have a choice?”

  “Wonderful! Don’t forget to turn off your cell phones and leave them in the room.” The door closed.

  I stretched.

  Josh yawned.

  We were still half asleep. We’d slept—what—three hours? Two and a half? It didn’t matter, though. We weren’t going back to sleep. We weren’t going to be allowed to go back to sleep. I might have been perturbed by that, but I was too darn tired. My entire body ached gently, sweetly, a reminder of my first night as a married woman. I turned toward Josh, smiling, flushing, enjoying the sight of his naked chest and shoulders. I especially liked the line of hair that meandered down his belly toward “Twinkie and the bon-bons”, as we’d dubbed his cock and balls the night before. During the fourth time we’d made love. Or had it been the fifth?

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi yourself.” Josh looked at me that way. He grinned. Leaned in to me and nuzzled my neck. “How about a quickie?”

  The door rattled sharply. “Hey!”

  Startled, Josh and I flew away from each other and stared wide-eyed at the door.

  “No time for that!” yelled Zora from the other side. “You’re already late!”

  Had the woman been listening? We burst out laughing. “Okay, Zora,” I said, “we’re coming. Really we are.”

  Josh drew me into a tight hug, kissed me, then let me go. “Just as well. I’m starving!”

  Ten minutes later, we descended the stairs. How could the inn be so much bigger than I remembered? The stairs were wider, more gracious than I’d realized, like those in an elegant old southern mansion. The banisters and handrails were carved from luscious dark wood. At each landing, halls headed off into other parts of the inn. I longed to explore, but as Zora had mentioned, people were waiting for us. A series of narrow tapestries hung on the wall beside the stairs, beautiful things, artworks almost, made of tiny silk tufts. I peered closely, admiring the exquisite work and wondering how many hundreds of hours it took to make such precious things—until Josh tugged impatiently at my arm. “Come on,” he said.

  Sighing, I followed him down the stairs. “So beautiful, so beautiful. It makes me want to paint. Those colors! I’m so glad you brought my case.”

  “Good. I smell bacon.”

  “And coffee,” I said, sniffing.

  We went down to the landing—the second one—and started down another flight of stairs. We passed a round window with a stained-glass image of a lighthouse built into it. “Look at this,” I said, pausing. “It’s clever. The sun streaming through the window makes it look like the lighthouse is really working.”

  Josh stopped walking. But he wasn’t looking at the window. “Angie,” he said quietly.

  I turned around.

  “Do you…feel that?”

  “Feel what?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Something in the air. Like the hairs on the back of my head are standing on end. Like something is breathing down my neck.”

  I stared at him, worried, my hand clutching the smooth railing. Josh slowly turned in a circle, rubbing frantically at the back of his neck and raking his fingers through his hair. He peered into the ceiling high above us and leaned to look over the railing and craned his neck to search the corners. I did too. What had my husband so spooked? I believed him—this place was weird enough that I’d believe almost anything—but there was nothing out of the ordinary.
Nothing that I could see, anyway.

  He shuddered. “I don’t like it. It’s…cold. Clammy.”

  “Ugh. Sorry. I don’t feel anything.”

  He took the stairs two at a time to the next landing. He waited for me to catch up. “It’s gone. There’s nothing here. Whatever it was, we’ve passed through it.”

  We looked up the stairs toward the stained-glass lighthouse. I’d been right. The sun did shine through the window, through the prism built into the top of the lighthouse, reflecting a bright dot of shimmering light onto the wall next to where we’d been standing. It was pretty. I thought I might like to drag my painting supplies to the landing—later, after we ate—and make a study of this section of the staircase. “Sure you’re okay?” I asked, tilting my head to the side, squinting, already making compositional decisions about how I would portray the scene on canvas.

  “I’m hungry again. Does that tell you anything?”

  We started down the stairs again. I followed Josh through the parlor with its fireplace and beautiful paintings, following tantalizing aromas toward a room beyond. Something caught my eye. I pulled on Josh’s arm. “Look! A new painting, over the fireplace!”

  Josh sighed, clearly irritated—he was famished—but the painting caught his interest too. “A guitarist!” he said, surprised. “Playing her instrument. You don’t see that often, do you? Hey. This picture wasn’t here last night, was it?”

  “I don’t think so. No. It wasn’t.”

  He squinted. “Is that a Ramirez guitar she’s playing?”

  “Let’s get closer.” I was more interested in the artist’s use of negative space than in what type of guitar she was playing. Could there be a painting better designed to captivate us both? I didn’t think so. We walked toward the fireplace, peering up at the artwork, but I stopped short a few steps away, a sick feeling in my gut. The patch of floor by the fireplace was…wrong.

  All wrong.

  “Hold it,” I said to Josh, tugging on his arm. “Something isn’t right here.”

  “It’s like the stairs,” he whispered, “only more so.”

  We froze in place, our senses on alert.

  The air crackled. Ozone sizzled in my nostrils. The hair on my arm stood on end. Josh reached for my shoulder. We both jumped at the popping, stinging shock when his hand made contact with me. We hesitated, alarmed, the intriguing painting forgotten.