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What if he knew? What if he looked up and saw me when I wasn’t looking?
I don’t recognize this version of myself, but I laugh again when I realize that I wouldn’t be ashamed if that had been the case. Maybe tomorrow in the cleansing night of day. Maybe after the whiskey wore off.
But not tonight. Hell no.
Tonight has been filthy in the best way. I can’t wait to tell Lacey. But even more than that, part of me is hoping that I get a chance to share some of myself with Hugh.
But I’ll think about that tomorrow.
CHAPTER EIGHT: HUGH MADDOX
Ironically, since I had spent the night doing nothing but beating off and punching a bag, I wake up this morning feeling like I’ve been in a fight and then gotten run over by a train. I came so hard that it nearly knocked my fillings loose, something I wouldn’t have been happy about. I take good care of my teeth, but the Wahay dental services are nothing to throw a parade about.
I also wake up hard. Less surprising, I mean, that’s the way it usually goes, but I’m harder than ever. Sam’s presence in the house has gotten me all stirred up in a way that is not at all surprising or unwelcome, but I’m not sure what to do about it. I’m glad she’s here but I have no idea what today is going to be like, or how things will have changed by the time the sun goes down tonight.
It’s still raining like mad, but maybe she left. That would make things simpler and saner. But also far less horny. And no one likes less horny, not even a pseudo-lumberjack brute like yours truly.
I used to love Sherlock Holmes. What am I saying? I still do. Sherlock would have said, “Elementary, my dear idiot Hugh. Get downstairs, give her the story of a lifetime, and try to see if you can make yourself happy by doing something for someone else.”
I can try. That’s all I can do. Just see what happens. I get up, get dressed, note how sore my fists and feet are, and tiptoe past her door in case she’s still sleeping. She’s not. When I get to my kitchen Sam is in there rooting through the cupboards.
“I hope you don’t mind if I make breakfast. I’m starving from last night … I mean from all the hiking. It’s more than a city girl like me can handle,” she says over her shoulder with a grin, “but you don’t really have anything. Hope you like water.” She’s playful but she’s not exactly wrong. My kitchen isn’t packed with goodies. That doesn’t mean I don’t have them, she’s just not looking in the right place.
But she’s looking good, that’s for sure. She must have put on this pink nightgown after I left her last night. It’s modest but it fits her perfectly.
“Do you always wake up looking this good?” I say.
She snorts, and even that sounds becoming when it’s her doing it. “Nice try, Hugh. Seriously, is there no food in here?”
“Come on. I’ve got to show you something.”
She turns around and thinks for a moment. Maybe she thinks this is the moment where I show her the basement where I hold my captives. So close to telling my story - only to lose her life in the process.
“All right,” she says with a smile, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “But hurry. I’m starving. Blood sugar issues.”
She’s glowing. What happened to her last night? Moreover, why hadn’t I spent the night with her? I could have been the reason for her glow, but instead, I was out back jerking off like a doofus.
Enough. Get it together, Hugh. I take her out of the kitchen and show her the stairs leading downwards. To her credit, she goes first. Maybe it’s bluster, but I think she’s brave. Or maybe naive. I wouldn’t let someone who looked as intimidating as me take me down into a strange basement.
Happily, the staircase leads, not to a subterranean chamber of horrors, but to my pantry and what you might call my real living room.
“Wow,” she says. “This is more like it.”
“I honestly don’t spend that much time upstairs,” I say. “So I just keep everything down here for when I need it.”
One wall is completely taken up with provisions. Everything you’d ever want to make for breakfast is either on the shelves or in the deep freeze. There is an oven, a sin
k, and a dishwasher. “Sometimes the upper floors leak,” I say, “No matter how much I reinforce them. “But I had the workers do something special down here so there’s no way water can get in.”
She nods but she’s already looking at the food. “Okay, I’m making sausage, eggs, coffee, and...hmm, do you have anything for biscuits?”
“Yep. Up there. Top shelf to the left.” This is a great excuse to watch her raise up on her toes as she stretches to reach, which gives me a great view of her flexing legs and cheeks. She looks back at me and smiles. “What are you looking at?” She blushes at the same time and I feel myself getting hard again. This was an unsustainable situation.
“I think you know,” I say. “What are you looking at?”
She opens her mouth to say something playful, I’m guessing, but then she notices something over my shoulder and stops. “What’s behind that door?”
“Chamber of horrors,” I say. “That’s where your real story lies. But most of the time when I lock someone in there, they never get out.” We both know that I’m posturing; that I don’t want to talk about what’s behind that door. Or maybe I do.
