by Freya Barker
Without a word, he moves me aside and takes charge. Doesn’t take long before my buffet is set up. Three servers with fresh biscuits, soup, and stuffed peppers respectively.
“Can I eat now?” Roar says, his mouth full of biscuit.
I grin, just shaking my head as I carry the standing blackboard with tonight’s menu outside. I’ve barely set it up when Tucker steps out of unit two.
By ten minutes past five, I’ve got a small line, up at the buffet, and I’m starting to get worried I might not have enough. Tucker alone has downed two large bowls of soup and is on his third stuffed pepper.
Almost every table is occupied, and I’m busy enough to consider I might need to hire someone to help me out the three nights I plan to be open.
“Aren’t you glad I suggested not putting everything out all at once,” Roar leans over and whispers in my ear.
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes at him. We’d bickered earlier when I wanted him to put everything out and he told me that wasn’t a good idea. “Smug is not a pretty look on you,” I throw over my shoulder, on my way to the kitchen, listening to him chuckle behind me.
-
“So what are we eating tomorrow?” Bill asks me, wiping a trace of tomato sauce from his lips.
“Bill!” his wife, Nancy, whom I was introduced to earlier, admonishes him.
“What?” he reacts, a look of fake innocence on his face, before turning to me with a wink as I clear away their plates. “I’m just looking out for you, honey. Gives you a nice break from cooking.”
The two bicker their way out the door after being the last ones to say goodbye.
I’m still shaking my head a little later, carrying the last stack of dirty dishes to the kitchen, where Roar is leaning his hip against the counter.
“What about you?” he asks, as I dump the plates in the large sink.
“What about me?”
“You haven’t eaten,” he points out.
“I’ve been inhaling the smell of food all day. I’m not hungry right now, I’ll probably grab something later,” I assure him.
“You’ll be busy later.” There’s no mistaking his meaning, when I turn around and catch his look. “Don’t want you wasting away,” he adds.
I snort. Loudly.
“I doubt you haven’t noticed that me wasting away isn’t something you’d have to worry about.”
Instead of answering right away, he looks me over—thoroughly—before wrapping me up against his chest, his beard tickling my face.
“But I do,” he finally says. “I haven’t had a chance to properly explore some of those curves—yet.”
Roar
I force my eyes open so I can see her.
As promised, I explored every curve, every crevice, every inch of her body, with my hands, lips, and eyes. Without words, just with touch, she slowly relaxed and gave herself over.
Her face is turned to the side, lips open and swollen from my kisses, strands of blue are plastered to her face, and her arms are stretched out wide on the mattress, their colour a sharp contrast to the white sheets.
She’s a picture of surrender, trusting me to bring her to that edge, and over.
The only sounds are our heavy breathing and the sharp slap of skin, each time I drive my cock into her, until I can’t hold back the groans.
I know she’s close too, when her fingers curl in the sheets and her body strains for release. I cover her back with my front, slipping my hand between her hip and the mattress. Her clit is slick and distended, easily found, as I roll it firmly under the pad of my middle finger. It doesn’t take long for her body to spasm underneath and around me, and I follow her over, my legs trembling from the effort as my hips buck with little control.
“My God...” she manages, as she tries to catch her breath
I take a little of my weight off her with my arms, but am not ready to lose my connection with her.
“Hardly.” I smile when her eyes pop open and she twists a little to look at me.
“Really?” The incredulous look on her face is priceless, and I chuckle as I roll off her, onto my back. “You know,” she says, lifting her arm across my stomach and her chin on my chest. “It strikes me that as someone whose verbal acuity can be lacking at times, your body certainly has the better communication skills.”
“Just better?”
“Fine,” she grins. “Do you like outstanding better?”
“Much better,” I growl, rolling her over and proving my point with my mouth on hers, before planting a final kiss on her stomach and getting up.
I clean up in the bathroom, and grab a wet washcloth for her.
The clock on her nightstand shows only nine forty-five, but tomorrow is Saturday; when most of the cabins need to be cleared and cleaned before the next load of guests arrive. Besides, since Friday night is the last night for most guests, it can get a bit rowdy at times. I don’t want any repeats of the other night.
“Are you off?” she asks, pulling a nightie from under the pillow and slipping it over her head.
“Busy day tomorrow and I’d best keep an eye on things tonight,” I explain, as I pull on my jeans before walking over to where she is fiddling with the hem of her nightshirt. I take her face in my hands and tilt it up. “I’d much rather stay here, or drag you off to my bed, but we both have a full house.” I press a hard kiss to her lips before I step back to pull on my shirt. “We’ll figure it out,” I add with a wink.
“Yeah.” Her voice is soft and her smile is wistful. “I know.”
I really fucking like her.
-
“Hey, buddy.”
Ace comes barrelling from the lodge the moment I open the door. I didn’t want to bring him tonight, people tend to frown on dogs in restaurants, so the poor animal’s been cooped up for hours.
He trots in front of me, marking every grass blade he comes across, as I do my nightly round of the property. It’s quiet. Seems much more subdued than I would expect a normal Friday night during the summer to be. I’m guessing everyone is treading lightly after Thursday morning’s incident.
I check to make sure the doors are secure on the single empty cabin—the one those yuppie idiots were staying at—before I head over to the small campfire next door.
“Hey there,” I call out to the woman, who’s roasting marshmallows with her kids.
“Oh, hi,” Elaine says, smiling when she recognizes me. Ace immediately saunters to the kids who give him some loving.
“How’s Steve?” I flip a log on its end and sit down beside her.
“Good. He’ll be released tomorrow. No bleeds, no swelling, just a severe concussion.”
“That’s great to hear. Have you decided yet whether you’re staying for your second week, or are you heading home?”
“Steve wants to stay,” she answers, smiling. “The kids love it here, and he says he still wants to get some fishing in.”
“And what about you?” I ask, noting she doesn’t say anything about her own preference.
“Oh, I’m happy as long as Steve and the kids are having a good time,” she says, and suddenly Leelo comes to mind.
I could see her not giving a second thought to her own needs, her focus on making sure her kids were happy and her husband was taken care of. As commendable as that may be, I much rather see the woman I’ve come to know, who seems to be slowly discovering what it is she would like out of life.
“Well, let me know should you need anything” I smile at Elaine, nod at the kids, and slap my leg to get Ace’s attention.
There’s one more small group gathered around a fire behind one of the other cottages, but the rest of the point is quiet.
My last stop is the main dock, where my Bayliner is tied off. There I sit down, pull the cigar from my shirt pocket where I tucked it earlier, and give in to my weekly indulgence.
There’d been a time when I smoked cigarettes, close to a pack a day. It was a habit I’d gotten into overseas. There was little else to do in t
he mountains of Afghanistan once nightfall came, and we hunkered down for the night. In the first year after I got back home, I used smoking as an excuse to step outside, away from the constant strain that was palpable in our house. It wasn’t until well after my marriage had completely imploded, that I decided to quit, only allowing myself this one cigar on Friday nights to get my head focused on the week to come.
Almost as good as a weekly session with a shrink, I use the time to process and read through the thoughts I scribble down on pieces of paper during the previous week.
I pull my billfold from my pocket and fish out the seven random scraps: a corner of a newspaper, a piece of a napkin, a page torn from a small notebook. Scraps in all shapes and sizes that hold one prevailing thought for every day of the week.
Another habit I picked up while deployed, while others would scribble entire entries in journals or letters to loved ones, I would try to summarize my day into one single thought. There had been times when my life in those conditions became so overwhelming—my brain was so overloaded—it would not stop churning at night.
I learned to compress the crap I saw and did, on any given day, into one single line. By jotting it down, I could clear my head enough to get a decent night’s sleep. My own version of a journal, with the lone entries for each day painting a timeline through the ups and downs of my life.
Odd as it may sound, reading through my scraps at the end of a week gives me a sense of where I am. A touchstone.
As I flip through the pieces of paper, I notice again, as I’ve done more frequently in recent weeks, that my focus has become almost singular.
Just about every entry is a reference to the woman whose bed I reluctantly left earlier tonight.
Leelo
I have no idea what time it is when the insistent ringing wakes me up.
My hand knocks my book off the nightstand before it finally finds my phone.
“Hello?” I mumble sleepily, as I reach for the switch of my nightlight with my other hand and note the time on my alarm clock.
Eleven fifteen.
“Hello?” I repeat a little more firmly, when I don’t immediately get an answer.
“You know, I always knew you were a miserable bitch, but this is low, even for you.”
It takes me a moment to register who is on the other line, but when I do, I scoot straight up in my bed.
“What? Why are you calling—how did you get this number?”
Although, even as I’m asking, I know who would’ve passed it on. And I don’t really expect an answer anyway.
“You’re asking me why I’m calling? Are you out of your fucking mind? This is about my son, goddammit!”
“Our son,” I interject as if by rote.
David always liked to refer to the children as his, as if it wasn’t me who carried them for nine months, and birthed them, and raised them practically by myself because he was so busy building his business and fucking his goddamn bookkeeper. But David is on a rant; he doesn’t even hear me, which is not news either.
“It’s one thing for you to move your worthless ass out to the boonies, but for Matt, it’s throwing away an entire future. He’s making the biggest mistake of his life by listening to your irresponsible, idealistic bullshit ideas.”
I stopped listening at the mention of Matt’s name.
“Wait. What? Mattie is coming here?”
EIGHTEEN
She stills my mind and wakes my instincts—I’m falling.
Leelo
“He’s an asshole, Mom.”
I look at my son, agreement on my lips, but I keep the words from rolling off. For him. Because I won’t sabotage their relationship—not again. The last time I did that, it didn’t work out so well for me, and I seriously hurt my kids in the process.
I’d been angry with Matt when I finally saw his headlights pull into the parking lot at close to six o’clock this morning. Furious, actually, and terrified. I’d been trying to call him from the time I got off with his father. I didn’t get much useful information from David as to what happened, he was too busy raging at me. I ended up hanging up on him, in hopes Matt could explain, but he didn’t answer his phone the entire night.
Not like I could go to sleep after that phone call and without knowing how, or where the hell my son was.
So yeah, when he first walked in, I was ready to tear a strip off him, but then I saw his face. All I did was open my arms and let him cry on my shoulder.
We’re sitting on the dock, watching the sun come up with a cup of coffee. I’m going to have to get breakfast started soon, but my kid comes first.
“What happened, Bud?” I probe when Matt just stares out over the water.
“Last night was Dad’s surprise fiftieth birthday party,” he starts, dropping his eyes to the mug in his hands. “I overheard Dad say to someone that he was hoping to hand over the business to me in five years. I choked it back until everyone had left but, Mom, I had to say something. I don’t want that.” He looks up at me with tears in his eyes. “I don’t want to take over his business, his life. That’s not me.”
“I know, baby.” I put a comforting hand on his knee.
“We got into a big fight when I told him that. It was ugly, and by the end, Jess walked out and Gwen was crying, trying to smooth things over. But, Mom, he said and did some pretty fucking shitty things.”
“Oh, honey...” I reach for his face, but he twists away.
“Anyway,” he says, getting up. “I grabbed what I could off the lawn and got out of there. Been driving all night and I’m tired. I’m gonna crash.”
“Wait...” I call out when he starts walking down the dock. Something he said just registers. “Why was your stuff on the lawn?” I demand, getting to my feet.
Matt doesn’t stop, or answer, and I rush after him. Grabbing him by the arm, I repeat my question.
“Matt, why was your stuff on the lawn?”
He slowly turns to face me, and I can see the answer on his face even before he gives me the mumbled words.
“That’s where he threw them.”
With a sharp jerk of his arm, he slips out of my grip and continues inside. This time, although my heart hurts for him, I let him go.
-
Apparently rage can be very productive.
My first instinct had been to call the prick. Seemed like fair payback, calling him out of bed on a Saturday morning, when I know he likes to sleep in. Just like he knows I go to bed early most nights, but that didn’t stop him either when he woke me up last night.
Rather than to follow my usual pattern, to react first and think later, I’ve been in the kitchen mostly, feeding the guests who started drifting in for breakfast.
It’s after eleven now, and other than the Walters family, as well as the couple in unit three, everyone has already checked out. Matt is still sleeping upstairs, and to keep my head from exploding or making an already bad situation worse, I’ve baked.
Muffins, sausage rolls, apple turnovers—my entire stainless steel island is covered with baked goods, and I’ve run out of eggs. Maybe I can borrow some off Roar; it’s closer than going into town.
At least that’s what I tell myself as I dial Jackson’s Point.
“Good morning, Jackson’s Point.”
Crap.
I didn’t even consider Patti being there, but of course she would be. It’s a busy day in the hospitality industry. At least it is for most.
“Hi,” I start hesitantly. “Is Roar there?”
“Who can I say is calling?”
I cringe. I was hoping she’d just hand over the phone, now I wish I hadn’t called. Eggs, such a lame excuse to hear a friendly voice.
“It’s Lilith Talbot. Whitefish Motel?” I add
“Yes, I remember,” she says, curtly. “Let me see if he’s available.”
“Thank y—” I start, but the sharp impact of the phone hitting a hard surface cuts me off. All right then.
I’m still waiting ten minut
es later, wondering if I should just give it up, when a click on the line indicates a call waiting. Checking my call display, I make a snap decision.
“Hey, sweetie,” I greet Gwen, switching calls. “Matt is here. He’s safe. If that’s why you’re calling. He mentioned turning off his phone last night.”
“And he couldn’t call when he got there? Jesus, Mom—you could’ve picked up the phone too. I’ve been worried sick.”
I swallow down the accusatory tone; reminding myself she was scared, much like I was all night.
“I’m sorry, honey. I’m still trying to get a grip on what happened. Your father wasn’t very helpful when he called last night, and Matt just gave me some basics this morning, before crashing. He’s still sleeping.”
The sniffles on the other end of the line cut me to the core. Matt has always been the sensitive one of the two, but Gwen tends to keep her emotions tightly locked away. This is the second time in as many months I hear her crying.
“It was so ugly, Mom,” she finally says, using much the same words her brother did earlier this morning.
“So I gather,” I offer gently, ignoring the call-waiting click in my ear.
“Dad...he completely lost it. I’ve never heard him be so deliberately hurtful.” She pauses briefly before continuing. “Except perhaps with you,” she finishes softly.
“Right.” It’s all I can think of to say. It brings a lump to my throat because in all these years, this is the first time my daughter acknowledges her father may not have been perfect in his treatment of me. I don’t know why it matters so much, especially in this moment, but it does.
“Is Mattie okay?”
“Sad, I think. Exhausted for sure. He seemed a little shell-shocked, but I’m sure fatigue had something to do with that as well.”
“What are we going to do?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I immediately reply. “Nothing but listen and not get in the way of them working this out.”
“But, Mom—maybe if we could—”
“Trust me when I say this, sweetie, let them work it out. If you try and meddle in some way, it will just come back to bite you in the butt. If not from one, it’ll be from the other.”