Carried Away
“Maybe a day or two,” he grunts while he pours the grinds into the filter and turns on the pot.
“A day or two?!”
He makes a face, implying I’m taxing his nervous system. Or his hangover. Whatever.
“Maybe more.”
“More!”
No way. No freaking way am I staying holed up in the Amytiville Horror house with this guy. A stranger. When nobody I know knows where I am. I’ve seen too many true crime documentaries to know this never ends well for the female.
He motions to the coffee pot with his chin. “Only one bathroom working so you’ll have to wait till I’m done. Help yourself to anything in the refrigerator. Cups above the sink.”
Chapter 5
“Subject seems ornery,” I mutter sotto voce. “Not much for verbal communication…” The way he looks at me comes to mind: apathy with a mix of annoyance. “Plenty of non-verbal, however. He glares like a champ.”
I’ve been on the couch attempting to read for the past three hours with little to show for it. I’m still on chapter five and not because the book isn’t good. It’s because I’m having a hard time concentrating with Turner, the mystery gay mountain man, behind closed doors down the hall.
He disappeared into one of the other rooms three hours ago and hasn’t surfaced since. In the meantime, I’ve located the bathroom and done my best to clean up and that’s not saying much. I need my stuff and my stuff is out there somewhere. In the mother-of-all-storms.
One thing’s for sure, I don’t need to worry about being violated; it looks like I have the tip of an unimpressive penis growing out the side of my forehead. A mildly purplish-red protrusion. No exaggeration, it looks like a bell end. No amount of makeup is disguising it.
The door to the mysterious room opens and Turner emerges covered in fresh paint, gaze cast on the floor, his expression indicating he’s in deep thought. He lumbers past the couch scratching––swear to God––something in the vicinity of his groin. Thankfully, over his sweatpants. Ignoring me, he walks into the kitchen.
“Hungry?” I hear him shout.
Am I hungry? As my Nan would say, “Does a bear shit in the woods?”
When I cross the threshold, he’s washing his hands at the sink.
“Starving. I’ll eat anything.” Then I rethink my answer. “Except beef jerky. I don’t eat beef jerky of any variety.” Sliding onto one of three folding chairs at a 70s looking green vinyl kitchen table, I watch him pull out paper plates and napkins out of the cabinet above the sink. A couple of red Solo cups.
“Beef jerky?” He makes a face.
“Yeah, do you have any?”
The confused expression persists. “No.”
“Good.”
I checked out the refrigerator earlier. It’s packed with fresh produce. Nice to know my host is well-prepared to weather out the storm. Hopefully, he’s willing to share because judging by his size he must eat an unseemly amount, and I didn’t want to take anything without his express permission. Something about him tells me he’s one Facebook post away from building a pipe bomb and driving to D.C. and I’m not about to do anything to anger him.
“Did you have anything for breakfast?” he asks as he peers into the open fridge, the massive width of his shoulders obscuring everything inside.
“No. I didn’t want to disturb whatever you were doing––“
“Painting. And I told you to help yourself to anything you wanted.”
Painting? This guy seems about as sensitive as an anvil. “Like…the walls?”
Looking over his shoulder, the glare he levels at me is a full-bodied one. This is not his usual glare-lite. This one means to intimidate. I’m guessing he found my question offensive. “No.”
“Sorry…” I mutter. “I might have a concussion. Everything’s that coming out of my mouth today sounds wrong.”
He pulls a loaf of sliced wholegrain bread out of the refrigerator and places it on the counter, follows it up with three bags of cold cuts, tomatoes and lettuce.
“Turkey or roast beef?”
“Turkey please.”
“Mayo or mustard?”
“Mustard.”
Turner moves around the kitchen with the ease of someone who’s comfortable preparing a meal. A few minutes later he places a plate in front of me. On it sits a perfectly made turkey sandwich sliced in two, bread lightly toasted, a bag of potato chips next to it. It looks and smells so good I can barely wait to sink my teeth into it.
“This is delicious. Thank you,” I say around a mouthful. “And thanks again for saving me.” He grunts in answer as he bites into his sandwich. “How did you find me, by the way?”
He puts his sandwich down and wipes his hands on the napkin. “Dumb luck. I was asleep on the couch and your headlights came through the window and hit me in the face.”
Dumb luck is right. Talk of the car reminds me that I need my toothbrush and a fresh pair of underwear ASAP. “Turner…I need my things. From the rental.”