Devil's Island

by Jason Halstead

  Chapter 7

  Sam was beginning to fear that his front door had turned into a permanent roadblock. For a little while he’d been able to forget his problems at home. Now his front door stood before him, reminding him of who was on the other side. He knew it was foolish to be afraid of the young woman, but there was something about her that he could barely resist.

  “One. Two. Three. Fuck it,” he mumbled and opened the door. He used the counting mantra when he knew he’d never build up the courage to do something. It was how he’d asked his ex-wife out and how he was able to ask her to marry him seven months later.

  And look how that turned out, the darker side of him taunted. She hadn't even counted to one.

  He wasn't sure what to expect when he walked in. Was she going to be vegging out in front of the TV? Was she waiting naked in his bed? Cooking dinner? He didn’t even know which option he wanted. He had an uneasy feeling in his stomach about how he'd react if she opted for anything clothing optional.

  What he didn’t expect was to see no sign of her.

  “Tamara?” he squeaked, half afraid she might answer. He put some weight into his voice and repeated himself when there was no response.

  His heart beat faster as relief flooded his system. He was alone! He let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and fell onto his couch. It took all of five seconds for the relief to disappear and a hollow pit open in his stomach. Had she only stepped out for a minute? What if his behavior had scared her off? Was she gone for good? He supposed it didn't matter, he didn’t have to face her right now. But did he really want that? Maybe she wasn't his daughter, but she was somebody's daughter. Even if he had taken advantage of her last night—whether she wanted it or not—was she safe?

  He blew out another breath and groaned. She wasn't his responsibility! What they'd done— and wow had they done it— didn't mean he owed her anything. Quite the opposite, he'd put her up and bought her clothes and food, she owed him!

  That didn't make the empty house any less meaningful. If she’d only stepped out for a minute, then he was going to have to face her again soon. But if she’d finally given up on him, just like his ex-wife had, then he was free. No more stressing over having a young woman living with him. No more fearing that the police were going to come knocking on his door.

  No more marathon sex sessions.

  What’s wrong with me? I’m too old for her! He groaned and shook his head. He could never be one of those guys with beautiful young woman hanging on his arms. He wasn't rich or famous. He wasn't even a decent guy, his ex-wife made a point of reminding him of that every chance she got. He wasn’t even a complete human.

  He headed into the kitchen, deciding that making dinner would get his mind off the woman. Pots clanged as he got them out and started prepping until he realized he was making more noise than necessary to cover the quiet. Even after only one day she had changed the atmosphere of his place. He kept expecting to turn around and have her dark eyes right there analyzing and teasing him. Offering intimacy and a life he didn't deserve.

  Setting some water to boil he realized he was fighting a losing battle.

  His movie collection had been rearranged but it only took a few seconds to find his copy of ‘The Expendables’ and pop it in. There was something he enjoyed about watching the bad guys getting their asses handed to them. Real combat didn't work like it did in the movies, he was reminded of that with every step he took, but watching Sylvester Stallone risk everything to save the woman made him forget all of that.

  As the movie came to a close, Sam’s adrenaline was pumping. It didn’t matter how often he watched this movie, he always felt the same at the end. Good triumphed, evil was beat down, and the hero got the girl.

  The girl. . . .

  Like lemon juice poured into milk, Sam’s mood turned sour. Where was Tamara? He feared she was out on the street, alone and cold. Well, not cold on this tropical island, but still. . . .

  Isn’t this what you wanted? To be alone?

  He forced betraying thoughts of Tamara from his mind as he hobbled to his room. The bed felt colder and larger than usual. Despite his best efforts, the last thoughts to go through his head as he spread out on the bed was to picture Tamara alone in some alley.

  A rhythmic thumping startled Sam out of his restless slumber.

  “Incoming!” he screamed, confused and forgetting where he was. He rolled out of bed and hit the floor, covering his head. Fear coursed through his veins as he lie waiting for rockets or mortars to hit his hooch. It was always a crap-shoot, when the insurgents attacked. The indirect fire could land anywhere.

  Something was wrong. His hooch didn’t have carpet on the floor, and the room he was in was bigger than his entire hooch had been.

  I’m home, damn it! Fuck it all, I’m home. I’m safe!

  The pounding came again, and Sam realized he was on his bedroom floor and someone was at the door.

  “Coming!” he yelled, wondering who it could be at the door at—“What the fuck? It’s past two o’clock!”

  Working his way up onto his good leg, he glanced at his prosthetic, but dismissed it. It would take too long to put on. He had a wheelchair to get around with, but it was put away in a closet. He hadn’t needed it in months.

  Was Tamara at the door? Or worse, was it Officer Jenkins out there with some trumped up charges against him?

  The knock came a third time.

  “I’m coming, damn it!” he yelled. He started the laborious process of hopping and supporting himself against the wall on his way to the impatient knocker.

  “Are you Sam?” some punk kid asked as he opened the door. His eyes dropped to where Sam’s stump ended just under his Superman boxers.

  For once he didn’t care about the odd stare he received, as his eyes went to the girl slumped next to the kid.

  “Tamara?” He asked. She was wearing skimpy, tight shorts and a slim shirt with Bill Murray and the letters “BFM” on it.

  “Sham?” she slurred, looking up at him.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Sam demanded. “Did you drug her?”

  “What? No,” the kid argued. Sam noticed that he talked without a slur. “She’s drunk. I take it you’re her dad?”

  Tamara giggled in response to that. “Yeah, he’s my daddy.” Sam really wished she hadn’t made that sound so sexual. Or that he enjoyed the sound of it.

  “I see, you got her drunk and took advantage of her,” Sam accused. He reached out and pulled Tamara inside, then had to grip the doorframe to keep himself upright. His stomach burned at the thought that the man might have touched her. Jealousy was an uncomfortable feeling. He hadn't felt that way since his ex met his replacement. The kid looked like the type that slipped something into an unsuspecting woman’s drink, and then . . . and then. . . .

  “No! I didn’t lay a hand on her, I swear.”

  Sam shut the door in his face, not willing to listen to his lies.

  “Adrian wash a gentleman,” Tamara tried to tell him. “He’sh different, like a kid I went to school with.” She tried to stand fully upright, but had to lean on him, making him support himself better against the wall. “Uh-oh—” That was all the warning he got, before the contents of her stomach evacuated her body, and splashed against him. The smell of alcohol and bile filled the air.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Sam groaned as he looked at the puke.

  “I’m shorry,” the creator of the mess said, but she was still giggling. “We should get you out of those boxersh. Shuperman?”

  "Man of steel, baby," Sam quipped without thinking it through.

  She grinned and reached for his drawers. Sam gripped her wrists, and pushed them away.

  Unfortunately this threw her off balance and he couldn’t recover in time with only his one good leg. They collapsed to the floor. “Fucking shit!” He was now lying in the vomit.

  “I’m shorry,” Tamara repeated next to him. “Pleash don’ be mad at
me.”

  “What were you thinking, going out and getting drunk with strangers?”

  “They’re not shtrangers,” she defended herself. “They’re my friensh.”

  Of course they are. Rancor filled the thought.

  “Come on, we need to get cleaned up,” he grumbled. He was tired and pissed off. Pissed at her and pissed at her new friends. And pissed at his ex, he wouldn't be dealing with any of this if she would have bothered trying to understand him.

  But then he'd never have moved to the Florida Keys and he wouldn't have gone jogging along the beach when a strange girl washed up half drowned. More than half drowned, she was full of water and done for if he hadn't been there. So he saved her life, and this is how she repaid him.

  He shook his head and watched her fight to keep her eyes open. A tiny slip of a thing like her probably took less than a six pack to get this drunk. Even so he didn't envy how she'd feel in the morning. Then again, maybe that was a good thing, if she ended up with one hell of a hangover it might convince her to avoid drinking like that again.

  He snorted at his own hypocrisy. Why should she learn such an obvious lesson if he hadn't? Sure, he drank to forget whereas she couldn't remember anything about herself.

  He jerked his head back around to stare into her glazed over eyes. “Did you mention knowing someone from school?” Sam asked. She'd mentioned something about the kid that had dropped her off reminding her of someone from school.

  “What are you talking about?” she slurred.

  Sam clenched his teeth and let it go. “Forget it,” he muttered. She was useless right now. Maybe in the morning he could ask her, but he doubted even he would remember. There was no way she was going to. He worked himself onto his good leg, and then carefully helped her up.

  “Ha, ha. You stink,” she taunted him as he roused her from her drunken stupor. “You really should take a shower.”

  Groaning at her drunken humor, they worked their way back to the bathroom, where he laboriously cleaned them up. He had to fight off her advances, though his second brain demanded he give into them. It didn’t help that his shower was small, forcing them to constantly bump into each other. His cock kept telling him to give in, but his conscience cried that she was too drunk. It helped when she spewed again in the shower.

  Once cleaned, he managed to get her into bed. She invited him in with her, spreading her legs and displaying herself obscenely. He turned away to grab a shirt for her, fighting against the selfish thoughts and urges she seemed to bring out in him. By the time he turned back to her with one of his t-shirts in hand he saw he was too late. Her mouth hung open and she was breathing heavy. She wasn't just asleep, she was unconscious.

  His eyes raked over her young and pristine body as he reached for the covers. She was probably so far gone that he could even—

  Sam jerked his other hand back from where he'd been reaching for her. "What the fuck is wrong with me?" he muttered. He even had the blanket clutched in his other hand. He yanked it over her and hopped over to his doorway. There was no way he trusted himself in there with her, regardless of what may have happened before. There wasn't too much of the night left but he intended to spend every last minute of it alone on his broken down couch. He might not sleep worth a damn but at least Tamara would be safe.