I stare at her, unable to break my alarmed eyes away from hers. They appear to glow and a shiver races through me when her grin seems a little crazy. Do vampires still exist?
“Well, here you are,” she says brightly as we come to a stop outside a dark little house. “Enjoy your stay, Daisy.”
And with that, Sam skips off back down the remote path. I hadn’t realised how dark and secluded it is until now, what with Sam’s constant chatter distracting me. “Shit,” I murmur to myself. It really is solitary, the cottage looking a little like an abandoned chalet in the woods that features in every single horror movie.
If it wasn’t too late to run back and hail the cab driver again, I’d be spinning on my heels and legging it.
“Maybe it’s okay inside.” I nod my head wildly at my own reassurance.
The key is exactly where Mrs Haversham said it would be – under the pot of dead flowers.
My eyes close and my heart rate shifts into dangerous territory when the door creaks loudly as I push it open. A faint smell of something I can’t put my finger on greets me. It’s not a putrid smell. In fact, it’s quite pleasant. Definitely not what I had expected.
Fumbling around for the light switch, I’m surprised when light floods the small room. It’s really quite enchanting. The furniture is old, but it’s clean and cosy. The fire is filled with old burned out logs but there doesn’t appear to be a coating of dust anywhere. A small but adequate kitchenette sits to one side of the room and I’m astonished to see Mrs H left dirty pots in the sink. I thought she’d have been particular about cleanliness, especially when locking the place up for the winter. In fact, now that I look more, it seems as though she just upped and left suddenly. There’s a few things placed around the room. A mug on the side table, a plate sat on one of the sofa cushions. There’s even a pair of boots by the front door, caked in mud and dried leaves.
The late hour and with all the travelling, a yawn makes my eyes water, and deciding to tackle the house tomorrow, I go in search of the bedroom.
I’m shocked to find that Mrs H hasn’t even bothered to change the sheets. The bedding is pulled back from the bed, and the bottom sheet is wrinkled.
Shaking my head, frustrated and tired, I find some clean bedding in a cupboard on the landing hallway and for the next ten minutes’ fight my way through fresh sheets and pillows.
“Yes.” I sigh in appreciation as I sink into the soft depths of the foam mattress, thankful for Mrs Haversham’s choice of luxury furnishings. I had meant to explore the rest of the house, but exhaustion has me passing out within minutes.
Chapter Seven
Frazer
Stubbing my toe on the edge of the table leg, I giggle. Why the hell do I always sound like a girl when I’m pissed? And why do I always find it funny when I hurt myself? Does that make me kinky? I purse my lips, pleased with my newfound sex appeal. Chicks love that shit.
I’m so wrecked. I shouldn’t have drunk so much. I have to be up early tomorrow. I need to wheedle my way into Tilly’s good books and get in before someone else snatches up the role I’m perfect for.
Feeling along the wall for the light switch, I give in and just stumble up the stairs in the darkness, telling the bottom step to shush when it creaks on my way up. Rolling my eyes, I shake my head; it’s not like I’m going to wake anyone. There’s no one here.
The bloody pie from earlier is killing me. I could do with downing some milk to settle the reflux of acid, but I know now I’ve managed to climb up the stairs that going back down them won’t be quite as easy. Although it would definitely be quicker. So shrugging off the burn in my chest, I pray the acid won’t find a way out further down, and wobble down the landing to the bedroom.
Peeling myself out of my clothes, I pause when I swear I hear the softest, nearly inaudible murmur. But when silence settles around me again, I pull off the rest of my clothes and drop onto the bed.
A scream splits the silence and I scuttle sideways away from it. My bare arse smacks the floor and I scoot backwards, smashing the back of my head on the nightstand. The lamp sways and then wallops me in the face before it crashes to the floor.
“What the fuck?”
“What the hell?” An ear-splitting shriek yells out from the darkness. “Help! HELP ME!”
My brain won’t work. The pie was rigged!
“RAPE!” Another scream pierces the air and I splutter, my eyes shooting around the dark bedroom, looking for the assailant.
Snatching up the broken lamp, I get to my feet and swing the small light around in front of me like a blind man trying to hit a piñata and claim first prize.
A light shatters the blackness and I squint against the brightness.
Another scream brings my eyes into focus a lot quicker.
Everything stops as I stare at her in confusion and she gawps at me in puzzlement.
“Who the hell are you?”
She has the wildest blond curls ever, the nest of yellow vipers wriggling away from her pretty pale face. Her huge blue eyes are framed by the longest lashes I’ve ever seen, their length still visible despite our distance across the room. Her cute button nose is small and turns up slightly at the tip, and her lips, her full, plump lips, are the palest pink ever.
The pie and the beer were rigged.
Suddenly realising I’m buck-assed naked, I cover my semi hard-on with the tiny lamp. I’m proud of my big dick, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t want to scare the tiny woman stood glaring at me like it’s gonna dance across the room and smack her across her flushed pink cheeks. Even if that sounds like fun right now. Damn, where has this kinkiness come from?
“Who the hell are you?” I repeat her words, wincing at the high pitch of my voice. Damn bloody beer!
“I asked you first!” she says with an accusing scowl. It’s then that I spot the pillow she’s holding out in front of her.
“I’m up for a pillow fight. If that’s your thing.” What the hell? Where the bloody hell had that come from?
Her eyes widen further, making her stunning blue orbs appear slightly too large for her tiny face. She’s wearing a strappy white top and I have to press the cold clay of the lamp into my groin to stop my dick from waving with excitement at the sight of her tiny nipples pressing against the thin cotton.
Beer! Makes my voice rise - and my dick, apparently. I need to stop bloody drinking!
“Look.” I cough, cursing the squeak, and swallow to wet my throat. Lowering the lamp to hold out my hands in surrender, I quickly pull it back up when her eyes drop and she gasps. “Look,” I try again. “I’m sure there’s some explanation for this.”
Her eyes narrow on me but she waits me out.
“The cottage belongs to my mother…”
“Mrs Haversham?”
“You know my mother?”
She nods. “Yes. She rented me the cottage for a few weeks. So she has another son? The gossip was true.”
“Yes, she does. Though she often forgets,” I snarl. Then I recall it’s not this woman’s fault. I smile. “I’m sorry. She must have forgotten to tell you I’m staying here. But I’m sure the pub in town can fix you up with a room.”
She looks confused for a moment but then her confusion morphs into defiance. “Oh? I’m not leaving.”
Her stubbornness catches me out for a minute. She’s tiny, and I expected her attitude to reflect that. But this little stunner is quite feisty underneath, the tone of her refusal stern and bolshie as she quirks a perfectly manicured eyebrow at me.
We both eye the bed. Then each other, and then the bed again. In sync, we both leap for it. Like if we can claim the bed then we can make claim to the cottage.
Her skull ricochets off mine and she curses quite unladylike as our bodies bang together. But the little minx spreads her arms and legs out, star-fishing across the whole of the bed. How the hell does she take up so much room? Her arms and legs can’t be longer than four inches!
I’m left with an inch of bed, my
bare arse hanging over the edge as I try to hook my legs around hers. But she’s having none of it. Jutting her hip out, she wallops me right in the gut and I topple off the edge of the bed, slamming my head once again into the frigging nightstand.
“Oops. You lost.”
Glaring up at her when she pops her face over the edge of the bed, her wide smug grin mocking my loss, I quickly grab the blanket from where it hangs over the side.
“This isn’t over!” I snarl as I huddle the cotton to my chest before she can steal that too.
As I pull my shoulders back and storm from the room, the acid from the pie leaves my foe with a parting gift.
“Jesus Christ!” I hear her choked gasp when I slam the door shut behind me, trapping her and my gift in together. “You’re dead inside!” she screams. “You hear me? Dead. DEAD!”
Beer isn’t so bad for me after all.
Chapter Eight
Daisy
Of course, I can’t sleep now. Because my mind is full of the gossip back home. The rumours that Mrs H had a secret lover. Not only did she have a lover, she got pregnant to him. Then she let him be raised by someone else, because he certainly never appeared back in Chesterfield. A really cruel thought comes to mind. I hate it when that happens. Like, you know it’s inappropriate, but up it pops. I wonder if she’s sad that she had to keep the ugly one. Because my quick look at mystery man revealed a walking sex god with a huge dick. I got a quick peek. Really, I berate myself. There’s a strange man downstairs in a remote property and instead of fearing attack I’m thinking of going downstairs and asking if I can have a proper look at his cock. It’s not my fault. I’ve only ever seen Marcus’ small one. Now I know that there’s a much improved version just a few feet from me I kind of want to study human biology. I only got the tiniest peek, but it was big and thick. Made Marcus’ seem like a picnic sausage… pickled.
I throw off the duvet to let some air get to my legs. Christ, I’m so fucking boring. There’s Mrs H, hardly a tooth in her mouth, madly besotted with a son that’s scarier than Chucky, and yet she’s lived. The proof is downstairs. What have I achieved so far? Temporary jobs and a relationship with a tool. In fact, that’s unfair to tools as they can be useful.
I sit up and try to think of a decent word I can call Marcus from now on. I sound them out with venom so I can know how they’ll sound when I next see him.
“Twatwaffle.” No. I like waffles. Especially with vanilla ice-cream and maple syrup.
“Dickhead.” That’s no good either, because it’s a picnic sausage.
“Christ, I’m hungry now.” I harrumph because I have no food upstairs, haven’t been shopping, and don’t know what DrunkBigDick has downstairs for me to steal.
“Cunt.” Bingo. That’s my new name for Marcus. He’s a pussy. No knob and wet.
“Well, hello, cunt. Fancy seeing you again,” I act out.
The door slides open slowly, making me jump a foot.
DrunkBigDick stands in the doorway, rubbing his eye. I watch as his gaze travels up my bare legs.
“Am I still drunk or did you just speak to your vagina?” he asks. “That is after shouting out random swear words for the last ten minutes.”
I quickly pull the duvet back up over my legs. I face the window as I speak to him. “Erm, sorry. I can’t sleep.”
“So you repeat swear words rather than count sheep?”
“I was thinking of a new name for my ex-boyfriend.”
“Ah. Well, cunt’s a good one. I’ve been called that many times.”
I forget myself and look at him. “Really? Are you a horrible ex-boyfriend?”
“Nah, I never let it get that far. More fuck ‘em and leave ‘em.”
“Lovely.” I realise my eyes have dropped lower as I speak.
It’s then DrunkBigDick realises he’s come back upstairs completely naked,
“Aargh, shit. Why didn’t you tell me I’ve nothing on?” He attempts to cover his prize asset with his hand.
“You mean you’re unaware you have no clothes on? That must be really interesting when you go out anywhere.” I impersonate his gruff voice. “Fuck. I’ve forgot to put my clothes on again today. Wondered why my balls had shrunk.”
DrunkBigDick gets under the covers at the side of me.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Covering myself up while we have a conversation.”
“Do you not have underpants?”
“You’d still stare at my package.”
“I’m used to large parcels. I worked at the Post Office. Gets quite boring after a while.”
“Oh, you think I’m large, do you?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Well, let’s put it this way. I don’t know your real name yet so I’ve nicknamed you DrunkBigDick.”
At that he guffaws. The bed wobbles as he laughs. “You don’t mince your words, do you, sweetheart?”
“Not anymore. I’m a new woman now. Calling it like I see it, and I saw a drunk big dick.”
“Hey.” He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You were referring to the size of my package, weren’t you?”
I shrug my shoulders. “You’re a bloke and you admit to being a fuck ‘em and leave ‘em guy. The name works either way.”
He holds out his hand. It’s like a giant bear paw. I stare for a few seconds then shake it with my own.
“My name’s Frazer, though I’m happy for you to call me BigDick. However, I’m no longer drunk. In fact, I’m now very sober.”
“Frazer. Hmmm, suits you.”
“This is the part where you tell me your name.” He folds his own arms across his sizeable chest and waits.
“Guess.”
“What?”
“Guess my name.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I can’t get to sleep because you first crash drunkenly into my room and then you come up and get in my bed and start yabbering on. If you’re going to annoy me then I might as well have some fun. So. Guess. My. Name.”
“That’s not fun. It’s fucking boring.”
“Look. I nicknamed you DrunkBigDick. You must have thought of something when you burst in.”
“Yeah. I thought who the fuck is in my bed?”
“After that. Once we realised we were sharing the house tonight.”
“I’m not telling you.”
What’s that I see? A hint of a blush on his cheeks? Macho man gets embarrassed?
“What did you call me?”
He huffs out a large breath and mumbles, “Goldilocks.”
“What?” I snigger. Am I hearing things?
“You heard me. Goldilocks,” he shouts. “’Cos you were sleeping in my bed and you have all this curly blonde hair shit going on.” He touches my hair.
“Get off me. Stay over there,” I tell him. “Your dick fell onto the bedding at my side then when you leaned over. Keep it away from me.”
“That’s not what women usually say to me.”
“Well, I’m saying it now.” My stomach rumbles again. “Is there any food in the house?”
“Well, I have food. You, however, don’t have any, so if you want to eat some of mine you’d better tell me your name.”
“Fine. It’s Daisy.”
“Daisy. Like the flower?”
“What else could Daisy be for? It’s not short for days of the week. Jesus.”
“Christ, you’re short-tempered.”
“I’m tired and hungry.”
“I’ve eggs, bacon, bread and a few other bits in the fridge. You’re welcome to use anything I have in. On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You let me kip in this bed tonight. I’ll put some pants on.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. He raises an eyebrow.
“God, whatever you’re thinking, unthink it right now. What I meant is I’m going to get something to eat and then I’ll try and crash on the sofa. For tonight only. Tomorrow that bed is mine.�
��
“We’ll see about that.”
“I don’t have the strength to argue with you anymore right now. I’m going to make some food.” I swing my legs out of bed.
“You have really good legs. Nice thighs,” says Frazer.
“Oh my God. You’re unbelievable. Do you know that?”
“I have been told similar.” With that Frazer puts his arms behind his head and closes his eyes.
I walk out of the room, about to head downstairs, but not before I give the door a good slam.
I hear a loud, “Ow, fucking hell! My head!” Followed by, “Oh my God, I’m bleeding.”
I return to the bedroom and switch on the light. There must be a hundred watt bulb in it because the light burns my retinas. Frazer flinches and puts his hand over his eyes. “Fuck, the light. Turn off the light. God, I’m blind now.”
“What a drama queen. What’s wrong with you?” It’s then I notice the small picture frame on the bed. I look up and see an empty hook.
“I might fucking sue you. You slammed the door and the picture fell off and whacked me straight on the top of the head. You’ve cut me.”
“What a cry baby. Let me have a look.”
He leans his head forward and I part his hair. “Where does it hurt?”
He points with his finger.
“It’s the smallest cut ever, Frazer, but I am sorry.”
“I’m not your ex, you know? No need to take your pent up frustration out on me.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Not that kind of pent up frustration, anyway.”
“Now might be a good time to quit while you’re ahead.”
“It hurts here too.” He points to another part of his head.
“I can’t see anything.”
“And here.”
I check all of his head.
“Frazer, there’s nothing there and the frame is only small. It can’t have hit you all over your head.”
It’s then I realise that his leant over head is directly in line to stare at my breasts. Frazer can see right down my top.
The Bunk Up (The Village People Book 1) Page 4