Page 17 of Our Little Cliche
Ouch!
I fall flat on my backside into the cold, hard snow. To my surprise, the bottle remains clutched in my fist. “Nice. Great. No problem,” I mutter with grit teeth, getting back up to rub the tender area around my tailbone. “Reallygreat! But hey, at least I have an unlimited supply of ice for the bruising!” I flip off the snow before opening the door to the cabin.
“Wow,” is the only word that can formulate as I witness the inner carcass of my new home: cliché cottage style vibe with wooden wall panels, pale hardwood floors and green cabinetry. The cozy visual puts a smile on my face, but the emptiness flattens it again.
Downstairs holds the kitchen, dining, and living area where the fire is. In the—what was the esky thing called, again? Oh, right, a cooler box—there is a large plate of assorted fruits, a carton of yogurts, one bottle of water, and there is a loaf of fresh bread on the counter.
Upstairs, I find my empty bedroom and a bathroom with a raggedy old towel hung over the curtain rail above the shower bath. Trying to fool myself into thinking this was going to be some beautiful Airbnb, long-term holiday type situation wasn’t going to work.
The place is empty, and so am I.
I go back downstairs where it’s warm, and I notice that there’s no curtains over the windows.Hmm. That’s… creepy.Ignoring the fact that there’s possibly a herd of grizzly bears peaking through my window, I make an attempt to plug my charger into the wall for my phone but quickly realize it doesn’t fit.
“Oh, bloody hell. What else?What bloody else?!” I cry out, the echo carrying through the emptiness of the cabin. The little red battery at the top right corner shows 3% battery remaining, so I switch it off to reserve it. When I get paid I’m going to have to run some errands at the nearest shop, as a cheap Canadian phone is going to be the first thing on my list.
Alone in the silence with my thoughts, mindlessly counting every shadow cast on the wall, my throat thickens. Reality hits me in the face like a freight train and the familiar tears warn their release again. I feel more alone now than I did when Adam left. I sink to the floor, and sitting on my tender rear end I cradlemy head between my knees, unable to hold back and fall right into a heavy sob.
What have I done?
This isn’t my home.
Fatigue eventually takes charge, so I bury myself under the blankets and let the lonely night punish me by my tears stinging my eyes, like being pierced by the pins of a million bees.
Chapter Eight
CYRUS
Tonight had beeneventful to say the least. One minute a six figure opportunity is dangling in front of me, and the next I’m striking a conversation with sex on legs—that woman from the pub.
I had stayed well out of her sight, catching only some of the conversation with the district’s best real estate agent. My old friend Izzy’s mother, Susan. I overheard something aboutstarting over,a new life.And was then later given a key. Meaning she was moving somewhere nearby.
I wasn’t expecting to get so caught up on her. But the girl is simply perfection. Clumsy, yes, but nonetheless perfect. There’s no coincidence that she looks like my main female character. No coincidence that she had my heart throbbing… and other places. She’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of. And I don’t even know her name.
All I know is, Ihaveto see her again.
Nope! I shouldnotbe doing this, I think to myself standing outside of the window to the cabin that I asked my taxi to follow hers to. It births a foreign feeling, discomfort doesn’t even cover the surface.This is so fucked up.
Wait, does this make me a stalker?
Fuck, it does. What’s worse, is that I still have her underwear in my pocket… and an erection that hasn’t budged since I met her. My moral compass finally enters my body and I fear what I’m feeling is far greater than a lusting desire to see her again. It’s a need.
I frown hearing the sound of her pained sobs coming from inside, cutting a part of me that shouldn’t so I brush my fingertips over the window to free some of the frost to get a better look. There she is, facing the wall on a blow up mattress, tucked under a few layers of duvets.
Why is she bathing in a flood of tears?
And why is she in a house with no furniture?
As far as I can see all that she is in possession of is the bag of books and clothes from earlier. It makes no sense as to why it hurts me to see her like this. I want to just go inside and cradle her from whatever hurt and pain she’s enduring.
“I really should not be doing this,” I growl as if saying it out loud will make any difference to when I had said it in my head thrice before that. Something terrible must have happened for her to be crying like this. I’ve seen my sisters go through some shit in our lives, but this was nothing alike.
Time passes waiting for her to settle, toying with her little, red laced panties in my pocket to distract me from knocking down her door and kissing her perfect rosy lips until whatever was going through her head simply vanished. But that’s not going to happen because I’m not the man in my books.
I’m not the man in my books.
I shiver, because part of me wants to be a gentleman, to go home and leave her in peace, but the other part of me wants to take away her strife by curling my tongue around her pussy like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do. Suck, nibble, tease and please hersensitive little bud until her legs can no longer withstand her orgasms. And that air mattress becomes a waterbed.
That woulddefinitelystop her from crying.
