Page 8 of M.M. Scrooge
By the time I get home to the little rental house I share with my roommate, Jess, I’ve convinced myself nothing happened.
She’s not here, gone home to spend Christmas with her family, but her beast of a hound dog, Timmy, awaits my arrival from the leather couch he’s fully aware he’s not supposed to be on.
“God damn it, Timmy, off!” I shoo him from the furniture and out the back door to the fenced yard for his nightly business. He’s left a slobbery puddle for me to clean up. Gross. Dogs are disgusting. Especially this dog with all his loose skin, sloppy jowls, and the blanket of hair he leaves absolutely everywhere. I can’t wait until I can afford to live alone.
I would never have agreed to watch Timmy for Jess if she’d bothered to ask, but she was smart enough not to. Instead, she’d left a note with instructions on top of two crisp hundred-dollar bills, and I figured, how hard could it be? Let him out, let him in, put some kibble in his dish, and otherwise ignore him. So far, the system seems to be working. He’s not dead yet.
I rifle through the fridge for dinner, but there’s nothing easy, just ingredients, and cooking is such a waste of time. I grab the almond milk, pour it into a shaker cup, and dump in two scoops of vanilla protein powder. As I shake, the little silver whisking ball bounces around inside.
The house is quiet. Which is normal, not spooky, but I turn on extra lights anyway. Thoughts of an increased power bill cloud my mind, but I can’t stand the darkness. Too much can hide in the dark.
The place is small. An old mill house from the little town’s more industrial days. Now the whole neighborhood’s been swept into a cheap suburbia, and I’m itching to get out. But the rent’s affordable, my roommate is tolerable, even if her dog isn’t, and the little house does have a certain cozy charm. If you like uneven original hardwoods and wide-framed doors and windows. And I do. It’s like if you shrank a farmhouse into four rooms and added a glorified garage that’s more like a miniature barn. That’s our house.
Timmy scratches and whines at the door to be let in. Bad habit of his, but hey, I don’t own this place, so what do I care?
I open it, and he waddles through, smelling like dog and staring at me dolefully with his big brown droopy eyes.
“What?” I shut the door behind him. “Don’t look at me like that. Jess is the one who left you here.”
He huffs and makes his way back to the couch.
“Hey. No. You’re not”—he jumps onto the cushion and sprawls out with a long sigh—“allowed up there. Damn it.”
Rather than shove him off, I ignore his mournful expression and head for my bedroom. Jess can buy me a new couch when we split. Timmy has ruined that one.
My room is sparse. I don’t spend much time here anyway. Would rather be working. More hours at the gym means more clients and more money. And when I’m not coaching sessions, I can work out. Improve myself. With that in mind, I gulp down the protein shake and leave the empty cup on the bedside table with the others.
I’m tired, in that brain-dead sort of way where not even scrolling on my phone sounds appealing, yet I don’t feel like sleeping.
If I close my eyes, I might see that face. A shudder racks my spine. Don’t think about it. Think about something else. Anything else.
My mind wanders back to the showers and what’s his name. Danny? Close enough. I think of the long line of his spine, the curve of his ass, and the sounds he made as I fucked his pretty thighs.
He might not be a regular to exercise, but his legs were strong enough for my purposes. How would they feel wrapped around my waist?
My cock chubs, enjoying this line of thought. I slip out of my clothes and into my bed, silk sheets cool against my skin.
So what if I was rude? Danny was eager enough. He seems like the type who might be cajoled into forgetting about my abrupt dismissal if I make it clear round two is on the table. And if not? I’ll pawn him off on another trainer now that the commission is mine.
I grab my dick and stroke idly, making a mental note to stash condoms in my locker in case another opportunity presents itself.
I’m not going to get off again tonight, but my hand on my balls keeps me from more disturbing thoughts as I force myself to close my eyes.
5
Daniel
On my back,on a bench beneath a rusty barbell and a not-so-impressive amount of weight, I question my life choices.
“Three more. You got this, Daniel. Come on,” says Andrea, my coach, in a tone that brooks confidence.
I’m glad one of us thinks I can do three more. I press. The weight moves. My arms shake. That can’t be good.
“Two more.” Andrea’s hands hover between mine, ready to save me in case I don’t actually have this after all. Her red hair is tied back into a tight ponytail. She watches my set with an intensity I reserve for more important things like ice cream or pie.
I huff out a breath. My spittle rains down, landing in my eye. I press up.
“Good, Daniel. That’s it. One more.”
