Page 3 of Morning Wood

Still… Something tugs at my mind, almost like I’m being drawn toward the dilapidated house. My feet take over, moving my body down the side road while my brain struggles to catch up. Before long, I’m planted in front of the Leavenworth estate, staring at the overgrown yard, broken windows, and cracked siding.

I remember seeing this house as a kid and thinking one day I was going to own it. At the time, the property was well-maintained with light blue siding, navy accents, white lattice work around the porch, and a magnificent turret with bright stained glass windows. Looking at the house now, it’s hard to imagine it was in such glorious shape a dozen or so years ago. Then again, it was neglected for years and no one wanted to put the time and effort into restoring it.

I’ve always wanted to work on the place, or at the very least, do a walk-through to see what the extent of the damage is. I feel like I could spruce it up and either sell the home or settle down in it myself.

Once again, my feet shuffle forward, carrying the rest of me along for the ride. I step over all three porch steps, not trusting them to hold my weight. Hell, the porch doesn’t look like it’s in much better condition. That’s the first thing that needs fixing, I think to myself.

Scratch that. One look at the front door, and I know that has to be the first thing that needs attention. Shit, this whole house needs a crew of people working ten-hour days to do all the repairs necessary.

I lift my hand, hovering it over the doorknob. The damn thing is so loose I could probably blow on it and knock it clean off.

What am I doing? This isn’t my property. I shouldn’t be thinking about going inside. Then again, no one has been here in years. Rumor has it the Leavenworth estate was passed down to a family member, who I assume will be just as neglectful as the last owner.

Maybe I'll just go in and take a quick look around. Then I can see what needs to be done and I can offer my services to the new owner. It's a weak excuse at best, but apparently, it's enough justification to satisfy my mind. Before I realize what I'm doing, I open the front door, frowning when the hinge at the bottom snaps off, leaving just the top hinge since the middle one is already broken.

I take my time wandering around the first floor, noting the disaster zone that is the kitchen. A once-lovely fireplace is filled with debris and what is possibly a rat’s nest. Those little fuckers better stay put. Mean, nasty rodents filled with disease.

Moving on from the main floor, I decide to head upstairs. That is, if I can even get up there. The stairs are questionable at best, but curiosity gets the best of me.

I’m so focused on avoiding the broken stairs that I don’t even register the sound of running water until I reach the top. What the hell? I didn’t realize this place still had the utilities paid for and running. Strange.

It must be an unhoused person squatting here. No judgment, I've watched too many of my fellow veterans struggle with all kinds of mental and physical disabilities that marginalized them and forced them out on the streets. I didn't expect to have a squatter in this town, however. Winifred isn't known for its homeless population. I don't think I've seen more than two or three unhoused people in my entire time here.

I don't know if I should leave and pretend this never happened or stick around and see if the person needs food or water. I can’t fix the broken system that caused them to be out on the streets, but I can offer a warm meal and supplies until they reach their next destination.

Something catches the corner of my eye and I turn my head toward a bedroom across the hall from the bathroom. The door is open, revealing a nicely made bed with what looks like brand-new sheets. A few clothes are laid out on the comforter while the rest are folded up next to the dresser ready to be put away. The shirt and jeans on the bed are decidedly feminine, which is surprising.

Scanning the rest of the room from my position at the top of the stairs, I see a case of bottled water next to the bed along with bags of chips, beef jerky, a loaf of bread, and a tub of peanut butter. It doesn't seem like this person is lacking clean clothes, water, or food. In fact, I see a shiny new phone sitting next to a wallet that appears to be bursting with cash.

Okay… so if this person has money, food, clothes, and water, what are they doing here?

The water shuts off, which should startle me out of my daze and send me running downstairs and out the front door. I’m trespassing. I’m pretty sure this person is trespassing too, but I don’t want to start anything with anyone. I’m not here to stir up shit, I just wanted to scope out the house for future projects.

I try moving my body, lifting my feet, and turning around in any way whatsoever, but I can’t. I’m stuck, held in place as if by some magical force. That’s when I hear the most enchanting sound; the woman in the bathroom is humming softly to herself. I don’t recognize the tune, but it’s lovely. Sad, in a way, but also hopeful.

How the fuck do I know that? I don’t know anything. I shouldn’t be having crazy thoughts like this. What I should do is turn on my heel and high tail it out of here before she opens the–

Holy shit.

She’s mouthwatering. Everything about her, from her light blonde hair slung over one shoulder to her cute little toes, sporting lime green nail polish. Something about that makes me smile.

We’re both silent, both apparently in shock as we stare at each other. Jesus, she’s curvy as hell with wide hips, thick thighs, and large, supple breasts that are barely contained under the towel she has wrapped around herself.

I grow dizzy and lightheaded as all the blood in my body rushes to my dick, making the fucker twitch and harden in my jeans. So inappropriate, I chastise myself. Clearing my throat, I break the trance we were both in so I can adjust my, uh, morning wood.

The goddess with creamy skin, bright green eyes, and soft, pouty lips snaps out of her own shock, finally realizing a stranger has broken in. Her expression turns from surprised to defensive and angry in the blink of an eye.

“Who the hell are you?” she asks, her fiery tone sending lightning bolts of sharp pleasure straight to my aching balls.

The woman tightens her grip on the towel wrapped around herself, then darts her eyes from left to right in search of a weapon. When the short, curvy woman grabs a hair straightener, I hold out my hands in surrender and take a few steps back.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I’m quick to clarify.

“Can’t say the same,” she replies, making me grin ever so much.

She’s a fighter. Those green eyes flash with intensity, but I see beyond that, to the very core of her fear. I don’t even know her name, but I realize this must be a terrifying situation for a young woman out on her own.

“Like I said, I don’t mean any harm,” I say again, trying to make my voice softer and less intimidating. “I thought this place was abandoned.”

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