CowSex

by Lesley Jones

  I nod, my lips too numb to form words.

  THE TAXI DRIVER HATES ME.

  I ask if I can sit in the front, as I thought it’d be warmer and I needed to thaw out a little. My boots, ski jacket, hat, scarf, and gloves were no match against the bitter cold. I don’t think anything would have protected me against the minus four-degree night I’d spent almost a half hour standing motionless in.

  He shakes his head and motions to the back, so I slide in and listen to him launching my cases into the boot of his car before slamming it closed.

  “Do you think you could turn the heating up a bit? It’s proper freezing back here,” I request.

  His dark eyes capture mine in the rear-view mirror, and he gives his head a slight nod right before the interior lights go out.

  “Address?” he asks, without adjusting the heating.

  I show him my phone, displaying the address of the cabin.

  He makes a tutting sound, shakes his head, and taps the address into the sat nav before pulling away.

  Meanwhile, using the torch app on my phone, I search for the heating controls in the back of the car. I find two small vents but no way to turn up the heat or the flow, so I have to settle for making sure they’re as wide open as possible.

  “Is it usually this cold so early in winter? I thought the snow didn’t arrive until January.”

  He shrugs. “Usual.”

  I nod, not really knowing how else to reply to his one-word answer.

  An hour into our journey the car slides on what I assume is ice, and we spin almost one hundred and eighty degrees before the driver manages to right the car and turn us back to face the direction we should be travelling.

  His only reaction is a few mumbles to himself in a language I don’t understand, and he doesn’t bother to ask if I’m okay. I hold on tight to the ‘oh shit’ handle above the door—as well as my stomach contents—for the rest of the journey. Despite the cold, I can feel myself sweat, and I’m seriously worried that I might wet myself, or worse, out of fear.

  Around forty minutes later, we turn onto a dirt track, which I’m relieved to see has been lit up on either side all the way up to the picture perfect cabin, which is also illuminated.

  The snow, which has been falling heavier, has settled. The ground, the driveway, tree line, and the roof of the cabin are all covered in white. With the orange glow of the lanterns lining the drive and the two stagecoach style lights either side of the front door, the scene looks like something from a Christmas card, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, wishing that Reggie were here to share the moment with me. Or maybe it’s just that I wish someone were here to share the moment. Anyone. I just wish I wasn’t alone.

  I pay the taxi driver, and the only tip I give him is never to eat yellow snow! Despite the sound advice, the arsehole dumps my bags at the bottom of the steps that lead up to the wrap-around porch, which they called a veranda on the website. I bounce them up to the front door one at a time, and once again, I use the torch app on my phone to search for the key coded security box where the front door key should be located.

  Despite the light from the porch lamps, my phone, and a couple of lights blazing along the drive, I can’t find it and begin to panic.

  It’s beyond cold, I’m almost delirious with lack of sleep, and I’m running on pure adrenalin. I quickly scroll through my emails until I find the one from Alma-May that lists the location of the box, as well as the code. I’d meant to screenshot the details before I left but forgot.

  The last thing I want to do is trudge through the snow, but it doesn’t look as though I have a lot of choice. Heaving a sigh, I head back down the steps, and as my foot hits the second one, my boot slides out from underneath me. I land on my arse, hard, my spine scraping down the step immediately behind me. Even though I haven’t hit my head, I see stars and a blinding headache kicks in instantly.

  I sit completely still for a few seconds, trying to focus on the snow-covered landscape laid out before me and not the tingling in my nose.

  I fail.

  The tingling turns to tears, and once again, I begin to cry.

  I don’t have the alcohol to blame this time, just lack of sleep and petulance. I’m angry at myself for being a wishy-washy whiny female. That’s not me. It’s not who I am. I was raised by a strong woman to be a strong woman. I’ve gotten too used to always having either Reggie or an assistant with me when I travel. Everything is always planned and arranged by someone else ahead of time. All I do is turn up.

  I give myself a few more minutes to cry before the cold starts to seep through my skinny combat-style jeans and into my bum cheeks. Reaching for the handrail, I haul myself back up, careful this time not to go arse over tit down the rest of the steps. I find the box hidden in the corner under the stairs. It takes me two tries before my shaking fingers hit the right buttons and I get the keys, which are thankfully all labelled.

  Not giving a shit about germs, or whose hands they may have passed through, I kiss them.

  “Please, please let there be enough hot water for a shower.” I stare at the sky and beg to the hot water gods.

  Carefully, and very slowly, I make my way back up the stairs to the front door, letting out what sounds like a groan of ecstasy when the key slides into the lock, and the door opens.

  All I want is a hot shower and a warm bed. Everything else can wait till morning.

  With what is probably my first almost-smile of the day, I step inside the cabin.

  T HE FIRST THING THAT HITS me is the number of lights that are on. I stand in the large hallway, noting the timber floors and the large, wide staircase directly in front of me. There is an enormous light fitting that looks as if it’s made of antlers overhead and another one hanging from the vaulted ceiling of the stairwell. Both are glowing brightly. There’s a hall table to my left before a wide opening leads through to a kitchen—that’s when the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck start to stand on end.

  It’s as if the wind has been knocked out of me, and I become rooted to the spot. My brain is telling me to move, to get out, but I continue to take in the scene before me in the well-lit kitchen. There’s an empty bottle of bourbon lying on its side. It’s surrounded by beer bottles, some empty, some still full. There are three takeaway pizza boxes on the worktop, one open, two closed.

  All of my spidey senses are screaming at me to run. Instinctually, I know that I’m not alone in this house and I need to get out. The house doesn’t even smell like it’s empty. There’s an underlining aroma of a house that’s being lived in; a hint of food, alcohol, smoke, and maybe something like aftershave. Whoever else is here is male, I know it.

  I’m in the middle of nowhere on a freezing cold night. I have no method of transport and no clue as to what I should do—other than getting the fuck out of there.

  I back out of the front door and close it behind me as quietly as I can. Thankful for the almost one thousand pounds that I’d spent on my three new lightweight suitcases, I wheel them as quietly as I can along the veranda and around to the side of the house, just in case anyone steps out of the front door and sees them.

  My heart is pounding so hard that I can hear it in my ears, the fast thump, thump, thump resounding in my head. Despite the cold, I feel hot, as if my skin is on fire, but my blood feels like ice in my veins.

  I know that it’s fear that I’m feeling. Maybe even a little bit of shock. I felt it when the doctor told us that my mum had cancer. I felt it the moment she took her last breath, and I felt it when the hearse pulled up outside our house with her body resting inside the casket that we’d chosen together.

  I knew fear, and I knew the early signs of going into shock, and I also knew that I had to keep my shit together. I was here alone. If I am in danger, then I’m the only one who can get myself out of it.

  I find a set of steps at the side of the house, which I walk down, and then I attempt to hide behind the nearest tree. The snow, which is again falling in thick, f
at flakes that catch on my eyelashes and settle on my scorching skin, obscures my view of the house slightly.

  I dial 9-1-1 and take a few deep breaths before I hear a woman’s voice ask, “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

  My leg jerks, I don’t know why, but it jerks, and then both my knees feel as if they’re going to give way. I panic, and my mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

  “Hello, do you need assistance?”

  “My name’s Grace Elliott, I’ve arrived alone at a cabin I’m renting, and I think someone has broken in and is still inside.”

  “Okay, Grace. Are you safely able to leave the building and find somewhere you can talk to me without putting yourself in danger?”

  “I’m outside and hiding behind a tree.”

  “Okay, good. Can you give me the exact address of the cabin please, Grace.”

  Without hesitation, I rattle it off as if it’s my own. No clue where I pull it from, but it’s there.

  “Coneflower Cabin, 423 Mountain Drive, Addison Creek, Colorado—I don’t remember the postcode......the......the, I forget, I forget what you call it.”

  My words come out in a rush as I begin to feel overwhelmed by the situation I’m in. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  “Thanks, Grace, that’s great. I have a local dispatcher listening into your call right now, and he’s sending someone out to you as we speak.”

  Her soothing tone calms me down, and I focus on not being a pussy.

  “Zip code,” I blurt. “That’s the word. We call it a postcode, you call it a zip code, but I can’t remember it. Will they find me? Do they know where to look?”

  Fuck me!

  I start to freak out again.

  My teeth are chattering, and my entire body is shaking with a combination of fear and the effects of the cold.

  “It’s okay, Grace. A car is already on its way. Is there somewhere warm you can wait? Somewhere away from the house?”

  I look around and notice a large shed or whatever. It’s a building with a roof and walls, and I start heading towards it.

  “There’s a big shed,” I tell the woman on the phone.

  “A shed?”

  “Barn, stable. There’s a building.” I keep moving towards it as I explain.

  “Are you able to reach it without being seen from the house?”

  I instantly drop into a squatting position and glance over my shoulder. I hadn’t even thought about the person inside the house seeing me.

  I have images of a man with long, dirty hair, a tangled beard, and filthy fingernails chasing me through the woods surrounding the cabin, and I let out a sob as I run, still in a scrunched down position, to the shed.

  “Grace, can you talk to me, honey? Are you in the barn safely? The sheriff is nearly there.”

  “Yeah,” I puff out. The barn door has a big piece of wood placed across the front to hold it closed, just like every barn door I’d ever seen in old cowboy films. I can’t lift it, so I push it from one end till it slides free, landing on the ground with a muffled thud. I quickly pull at the door, which groans with a creak that could wake the dead. Light floods the entire area and another is flipped on inside the house at the exact same moment a pair of headlights turn onto the drive.

  I’m so relieved that I don’t even answer the woman on the phone as she calls my name. I don’t worry about being seen by Burglar Bill, the scary man from the woods who’s broken into my cabin. I run towards the headlights.

  I don’t get more than ten feet before someone slams me from behind and knocks me face down into the snow.

  Instinct takes over. I pull my knees underneath me and roll from side to side, but the fucker won’t let go, so I use both feet to give a donkey kick out behind me. I make contact and hear a grunt, and Burglar Bill’s grip loosens.

  I roll to the side again, getting as far as my back before a bare chest smacks down on me. With everything I have in me, I fight.

  I punch, I claw, I bite.

  I kick out, but I don’t make much contact, so I reach up to his face, which is slightly above and higher than mine, and grab a handful of his long, dirty hair in one hand and attempt to claw at his face with my other hand. Instead of skin, my fingernails rip into the filthy whiskers of his scraggly beard, so I yank as hard as I can.

  The area is flooded with light, and I hear shouting. The words “Police! Hands in the air and step away,” seem to echo against the snow, but I’m too far gone. I keep fighting. I see nothing as I thrash my head from side to side, hoping that if I keep moving, he won’t be able to land a blow.

  Suddenly, his weight is lifted from me, and I’m pulled into a warm chest.

  “It’s okay, Grace. You’re safe. I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

  I’m beyond crying at this stage and am sobbing so hard that the force makes my whole upper body shudder.

  I can hear shouting going on from beside me, but the blood is whooshing so loudly through my ears that I can’t make out what’s being said.

  I draw in deep breaths and stutter out a, “Thank you,” to whoever has ahold of me. Their jacket is dark, soft, warm, and smells fantastic—like the cold and fresh air. Of coffee and something earthy. But most of all, it smells like safety.

  “It’s okay, honey. You’re okay. I’m Deputy Martinez. You’re safe now. Are you hurt anywhere? The EMTs are on their way.”

  “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? She damn near ripped half my face off, and that was after she kicked in me the fuckin’ balls, and you’re asking her if she needs an EMT? I’m the one that needs a fuckin’ EMT.”

  I wipe my face and my undoubtedly snotty nose on the back of my gloved hand and turn my head towards my attacker, but another set of headlights, which are moving swiftly towards us, temporarily blind me. I’m mesmerised by the snowflakes falling hard as they are captured in the glare of the vehicle’s full beams.

  A car door slams and my attacker starts shouting again. “Thank fuck! Someone else with a brain is finally here. Can you call off your dogs, Nelson, and tell them who fuckin’ owns this place.”

  What?

  I turn my head slowly and stare at a pair of bare feet that seem to be hopping from one foot to the other. Good, I hope the fucker gets frostbite, and all his toes fall off...and his dick—yeah, definitely his dick, too.

  “Let him go, Harris,” the guy I assume is Nelson, orders.

  “But, sir, when I arrived on scene, he was attacking the girl.”

  “Like fuck was I attacking her. She was breaking into my barn. The door opening triggered the sensor light, I came out the front and caught her trying to run up the driveway.”

  More pissed than scared now, I climb out of the arms of the nice-smelling police officer.

  I stand on shaky legs, ready to confront the scary, homeless burglar from the woods.

  My eyes travel up a pair of jean-clad legs and then hit the naked chest that was lying all over me earlier. It’s not what I would expect from a wild, homeless man who lives in the woods when he’s not squatting in other people’s empty cabins.

  His pecs are perfect, solid, a beautiful shade of brown-gold that is covered in a fine layer of dark hair. His abs, which my eyes flick down to and then away from—because fuck me if they're incredible—look like they’ve been carved. He has a six-pack, or maybe even an eight-pack.

  There’s a conversation going on around me, but I’ve no clue what anyone is saying. Instead, I’m totally mesmerised by the man I was rolling around in the snow with. The jeans he’s wearing are undone at the waist and hang low, barely covering his hips, and oh my fucking God, he has no boxers on underneath, and I follow the line of dark hair that travels down the length of his body until it disappears inside his lowered zip.

  My eyes then follow that same fine line of hair up over those perfectly tanned and toned abs, through the centre of his chest, to his throat, which is hidden behind his dark, but slightly greying, beard. My eyes dart over his plump lips, which are moving at a rapid rate, and
then to his eyes, which are a brownish colour.

  I think I might actually be nodding as I take in the fact that his beard is not long, straggly, or filthy. It’s trimmed, groomed, and fucking perfect, much like the rest of him.

  His head turns suddenly, and he looks at me. I’m instantly hyperaware of how I probably resemble Scary Mary by this stage. I lost my beanie somewhere in the struggle, and my hair, which was in plaits, is possibly sticking up all over the show.

  “Are you checking me out?”

  My skin heats further. My cheeks take on a Ready Brek glow, and my mouth goes dry.

  “What?” I splutter out.

  “Stop checking me out, you thieving little bitch.”

  What the fuck?

  I take a step towards him, but Martinez grabs my elbow.

  “Listen, you fucking prick. I’d have to be desperate to be interested in you. I was noting how much bigger you are than I am and how that’s gonna look in front of a judge and jury when I sue your cowboy arse for attacking me.”

  “I didn’t attack you.”

  “You scared me half to death, then when I ran for my life towards the safety of the Old Bill, you physically assaulted me.”

  He looks to me, then to the policemen surrounding us with an incredulous look on his face. One of the officers hands him a pair of boots and a jacket, and I watch, feeling a little sad as he pulls on first the boots and then the jacket, hiding that fine body of his from view.

  “You tried to break into my barn. I’m not a cowboy, and neither is my ass and who’s Bill?”

  “I was trying to hide from you in the barn.”

  He frowns and shakes his head.

  “What? You don’t even know me, why would you hide?”

  “Because you’re in my cabin.”

  His brown eyes widen as he says, “Your cabin?” Then he throws his head back and laughs.

  “Yes, my cabin. I’ve rented it for the next six months.”