Page 1 of The Mare Rider of Cornwall Cove
Chapter One
One of the keypoints in the Kee house was that people slept in on holidays.
As my boyfriend’s—even half-asleep using that word made me bubbly inside—alarm began to chime, I groaned into his armpit. It was a clean armpit, thick with long blond hairs that tickled my nose, and smelled of his new spicy deodorant. Bear Claw scent or something like that. No, a bear claw was a donut. Didn’t matter. Whatever the scent was named, it was sexy, but the alarm at the crack of dawn on Christmas Day? Yeah, not so sexy.
“Mprh chflarg,” I complained into his pit before he rolled to his side to quiet his phone.
“Is that something that I should know? It doesn’t sound like Mandarin, but maybe you decided to toss a new word at me to keep me on my toes during winter break.” He reached back togive my hip a squeeze before leaping from the bed. Ugh, how was helike this?!
Moving at the speed of a sloth after taking an antihistamine, I flopped onto my back, eyes squeezed shut, tongue feeling like it had barnacles on it. I was swearing off sipping hot buttered rum. Only pirates should do that, not college students with zero tolerance for anything alcoholic. He snapped on the old hobnail lamp on his side of the bed. The light of a thousand suns filled the room. Oh, the agony. Rum is bad, very bad. Do not recommend.
“Not Mandarin. English. I said Merry Christmas.” I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, so I rolled my tender head to the side to find him reaching to the ceiling, then touching his toes. Nude. He was a bit blurry, so I rushed to find my glasses on the nightstand on my side and slid them behind my ears. Oh yeah, that was yummy. His ass was a work of damn art. Twin mounds of snow white flesh, perfectly rounded like a Song Dynasty vase. There was a small love mark on his left cheek from last night’s tipsy fumble under the covers.
“Oh okay. I wanted to make sure I kept up with my Mandarin so that when we go back to classes, I’ll be able to knock Professor Hayashi off her feet with my progress. Merry Christmas, sweetie!”
“Mm,” I said in reply. Mostly as a mm-mm good sound as I ogled his ass but also as a noise of agreement. I wasn’t sure his tone was any better than it had been when classes had let out ten days ago. But he was trying, bless him. And I loved him, so double bless him. He stooped low to tickle his toes, and my mouth went dry.
“That’s quite the view, Archie old chap. I say toss his arse back into bed and give him a jolly good rogering.”
My sight flew from Phil’s backside to the ghost seated at my desk. Legs primly crossed, his Revolutionary redcoat lookingdull red in the dim light of an antique store shade atop the secondhand shop light. Reggie, the lech, wet his lips and gave me a randy wink as he made grabby hands in the air.
“Stop!” I barked at the dark-haired marquis seated in my office chair as if he belonged there.
Phil grunted. I glanced his way to see that he was half bent. “You talking to me?” he asked as he held that pose with ease. Jocks were so muscly.
“No, I’m talking to someone who is eyeballing your ass,” I snapped and flung my pillow at Reg. It sailed through him to knock a gooseneck lamp onto the floor.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Such a jealous sod you are. I’m only looking. There is no harm in admiring that which the good Lord has made in such divine and exquisite detail.”
Reggie floated across the room, snickering, while Phil jogged over—thick cock bouncing—to place the lamp back beside my laptop. “Tell Reggie I said Happy Christmas. That is how they say it over in England, right?”
“Oh, what a dreamy lad he is!” Reg sighed as he clasped his hands to his chest, right in front of the rather dark ruby stain on his white shirt and red jacket from the bullet wound that had ended his too-short life. “I insist that we give him something extra special on Boxing Day!”
“He’s not an employee,” I corrected and kicked off the covers to rise. I’d see Phil off, then dive back under the covers, which was the norm. I wasn’t an athlete. There was no need for me to run every morning to stay in shape for the playoffs. I was a middling scholar and bookstore employee. I’d work out my brain later with a nice cup of tea and a reading book in the nook under the stairs.
“Are you sure? He does all the heavy lifting here as well as tending to customers and making those little videos for themasses to view on the Tock Tick. Surely you must toss him a few shillings for his strong back at the very least.”
“He’s helping out of his own goodwill.” I found my pajama bottoms and tee lying where I had left them last night on the floor. “He’s my bae. He helps us because he loves us and not for money.”
“Yeah, I’m his bae,” Phil, who could not speak to the dead, chimed in as he came around the bed to grab me from behind and pepper my shoulder with smooches. After a rear cuddle, he moved off to find his running clothes and massive sneakers. My dick liked his hugs a lot. Shit. I really needed to get my clothes on before I popped a boner in front of Reggie. I’d sooner step on Legos than let Reg see me with wood. I would never live it down. Ha. Live it down. Teasing from a ghost. Man, I needed some tea stat. Or more sleep. Maybe both. Definitely both.
“Forgive me for my doltish understanding of modern American vocabulary, but what in the name of King George’s knickers does a bay have to do with two men who diddle each other? Unless you’re referring to a bay horse, which is an entirely different sort of predilection that I, for one, would rathernotimagine either of you partaking in. Speaking of equine penchants…” He now floated above the lamp on my side of the bed, legs still primly crossed, tapping his pointy chin. “There was that one soiree at the Duchess of Billingham’s estate out in Norfolk. A bay horse had been invited into the gaming room and then went on to win several hands of cribbage. Ghastly embarrassing to lose at cards to a horse. The Duchess seemed nonplussed about her monetary losses and engaged in some rather bawdy behavior with said cribbage-winning steed that a genteel man such as I would never mention in refined company, but it was quite a wickedly illuminating after-dinner show.” I gaped at our resident ghost. “Why do you gawk so? I’m only relaying what happened at a dinner party. I didn’t partake ingambling with the stallion or any other sort of beastly behavior. I prefer my lovers to betwo-leggedwith enormous cocks who bend over at the drop of a neckerchief.”
“It’s too early for this,” I moaned while stepping into jeans and one of Phil’s huge Liverswell Lions hoodies.
The green sweatshirt was three sizes too big, which made it just perfect. I righted my glasses after my head slid through the head hole. Reggie was still where he’d been a moment ago. Phil was tying his sneaks. His gray joggers did wonderful things for him. Whoever invented gray fleece pants has my undying gratitude. I loved them so much on him that I bought him two new pairs for Christmas. And a bottle of cologne. That was about all I could afford as sales in the bookstore were dipping, and the tiny bit of revenue received from the show’s sponsors was not enough to even cover the utilities. In order to make more cash, we needed more subscribers and new content. Roxie, our media whiz, reminded me on the daily. And while I knew she was right, I also knew that I’d expended a lot of psychic energy out at Lake Killikee. It had taken me weeks to recover fully, and now I was a little leery of engaging in something that big again, but facts were facts. We needed something big to give to our viewers, but what that something big was remained up in the air as everyone celebrated the holiday.
Mostly everyone. Being Buddhist, my grandfather and I didn’t actually “celebrate” as much as we went along with it all for the people we loved. Phil was Christian as was Yeye’s girlfriend Monique. I wasn’t a huge religious person overall, so a tiny tree in the corner with lights didn’t offend me. As for my grandfather, Grandpa was cool with the Christian holiday of Christmas. Not only because his girlfriend was Catholic, but also because he felt that Jesus was somewhat like a Bodhisattva, a person or being that was working toward enlightenment, as all good Buddhists were. The prophet from Nazareth preached selflessness. He waswise and compassionate. And that made him a part of our world, which sat fine with me. Jesus had had some lovely philosophies.
So we had a tree with some presents under it and after an early dinner, we would go out into the community to deliver meals to the homebound elderly via the Liverswell Senior Center. Giving the volunteers who normally did it the day off to be with family felt right and good.
“So, any word from your parents?” I casually asked. Phil’s humming of “Jingle Bells” fell off, and an awkward silence cloaked the room. I instantly regretted asking. “I know you checked your phone and just assumed they would have reached out with holiday greetings.”
“Nope, nothing. They didn’t send anything,” he said while tugging on a hoodie. A new one. I could swipe that one too. My collection of jock sweats was growing nicely.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I turned around to find him staring at the frosty window, his gold hair staticky, his thoughts seemingly galaxies away. I’d have thought a politician would be all about spending the holiday with his family.
“Nah, it’s fine. They probably have some congressional things to do.”
