A Week in the Snow (5 page)

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck, no. This isn’t happening.”

There was another tap on the door, this one a bit more hesitant.

He sat up on the edge of the bed, his dick protesting every movement. The erection that had been so enjoyable a moment before was now a source of pain as he grabbed his robe from the foot of the bed. He slipped his arms into it, hoping she wouldn’t open the door.  “Yes?” he asked, and blushed in the darkness at the sound of his voice, so rough and raw.

“I hate to bother you,” the woman said from the hallway, “but I need to use your phone. I need to call my boyfriend. Is that all right?”

Richard almost laughed out loud. She’d interrupted him for that?

“Sure. The phone is in the kitchen.”

He listened as she hovered at the door. Richard was breathing too fast, too hard, and he tried to control it so she wouldn’t hear. He wondered how much she had heard when she came up the stairs. Had she been smiling as she listened to him panting with approaching orgasm? Or had she been oblivious to what was happening on the other side of the door?

“Thank you,” she finally said, and he listened as she walked down the hallway. She stopped at the top of the stairs, as if she were looking back and thinking of something else to say. For a long moment Richard held his breath, wondering what she would do.

When he heard her feet on the staircase, he breathed a sigh of relief and fell back on to his bed.

He had never been interrupted while masturbating before. He slid his hand back down and found that his dick was still rock hard, a surprise, since he had been sure the shock would have made him soft. He started to stroke again, but this time when he conjured up the image of the clerk at the sex toy store he got an image of Rebecca instead.

Richard moved his hand away. His dick strained in the night air, throbbing. He felt guilty for thinking of Rebecca that way, especially after her ordeal of being trapped in the snow. She deserved a certain level of respect for that, and picturing her bent over in a sex toy store, taking his dick from behind, just didn’t seem to qualify.

Even so, he couldn’t shake the image. His hand crept back to his cock, matters of the body taking precedence over matters of right and wrong. He started to stroke and this time he let the clerk become Rebecca. He fucked into her from behind, hard and fast, and watched as the other man in his fantasy moved forward again, offering his dick for her hungry mouth.

Richard was closer than he thought—his balls tightened and his heart started to race as he imagined bracing himself behind her, thrusting upward to get the best friction, making her cry out his name even as she tried to suck that stranger’s cock. He imagined fucking her so hard that she had to push the other guy away, had to give herself more room to move. He would come inside her, and she would moan with the pleasure of it, and then she would come, too.

Richard gritted his teeth as the cum shot out of him, covering his hand. He stroked until there was nothing left in him, until the sensation faded and the fantasy clicked away, like a light turned off with a flip of the switch.

He was suddenly very, very tired.

He reached over to the bedside table and pulled a few tissues from the box. Cleaning up, he thought about Rebecca, the woman now downstairs on his phone, talking to her boyfriend. He wondered how long she had been with that boyfriend, and what he was like, and if he made her happy.

Banishing such thoughts from his head, Richard crawled under the covers and let sleep overtake him.

On the phone downstairs, Rebecca was definitely not happy, and that boyfriend was the reason why.

“I told you to fly!” he shouted at her through the phone line. “You should have listened to me!”

Rebecca sat on the strange couch and wrapped her flannel shirt around her. It was a good thing she had layered up in the car, because now the only clothes she had were the clothes on her back. She wondered if perhaps Richard would be willing to take out the snowmobile again tomorrow, to pick up some of her things. She hadn’t thought about clothing—she had just thought about saving her camera from the elements. It was sitting on the dresser in the guest room, just as safe as she was.

She had turned on the television, and even with the sound on mute, so as not to disturb the man upstairs, she understood the situation was dire. Schools were already cancelled for the rest of the week. She watched as the statistics flashed on the screen. This was easily the most snowfall in a twenty-four-hour period that Iowa had seen in over eighty years, and in October, no less. How did no one see it coming? The meteorologists all looked a little sheepish.

It was still snowing out there, and Gene was still yelling at her.

“I told you,” he said again.

“You’re right,” she said to Gene, and she meant it. If she had flown, she would be safely snowed in with Gene, not snowed in with a complete stranger who just happened to come by in time to save her life. Gene’s tone rankled, but she had to admit that, this time, he really was absolutely right.

“Of course I’m right,” Gene said with enough arrogance to make her roll her eyes. “You’ve been too headstrong, Becca. You never listen to me. Maybe now you will settle down a bit and listen to me when I’m talking to you.”

She didn’t like his tone, but she bit her lip and refused to answer to it. She wasn’t happy about the situation either, but that didn’t make him the absolute authority. Gene liked to be listened to, and anyone who doubted his opinion was just flat-out wrong. As she listened, she flipped through the channels, watching each for a few seconds before moving on.

She stopped at FOX News. The man on the screen was berating someone for their opinion, and that’s when it hit her: Gene reminded her of Bill O’Reilly.

The thought made her giggle. Gene heard it, and the response from him was the last thing she expected to hear.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Rebecca.”

Her whole world slowed to a standstill. She caught her breath, hearing the words over and over in her head, and thought surely she had heard him wrong.

Surely
.

“What did you just say?”

“You heard me,” he growled. “I said you’re a fucking idiot.”

The world started spinning again—this time, so fast she could hardly think straight. The fury was immense. Had he really just talked to her that way? Had he really found the nerve?

“You son of a bitch.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, but Rebecca could imagine the anger building. She could almost feel it.

“What did you say?” Gene thundered.

She could not believe the man she might be in love with, the man she had been so eager to see, was saying such things to her. She would never tolerate anyone talking to her that way, and especially not someone who professed to adore her. She was not the kind to take it lying down, so she gave it right back to him: “You high-and-mighty, self-centred, chauvinistic son of a bitch.”

The silence came again, but this time she was sure it was sparked by shock. She imagined his face turning red, his hands clenching into fists. She imagined him trying to think of what to say to bring this young lady once again to heel, like a dog that had done something wrong, and she was having none of that.

“I got stranded on the side of the road in a snowstorm,” she said, biting out each word. “And you sit there and tell me I should have listened to you? What you should have said was how glad you were that I’m all right, and how much you want me there with you, and how your world would have ended if anything bad had happened to me. That’s what you should have said, but instead you have to act the asshole and treat me like I need a good slap upside the head before you drag me back to the fucking cave where I belong.”

“Now, Rebecca, just calm down.”

His tone was superior, authoritative, leaving no room for argument.

That was just fine. She wasn’t about to argue about anything with him anymore.

“I’m calming right down, Gene,” she agreed. She was surprised to hear her own voice, so light and airy, almost happy. “I’m calming down. I’m also coming back down to earth. You are a sick, sad little man with no hope of ever having a fulfilling relationship with a woman, and, now that I know that, I’m not going to be coming any closer to you. In fact, as soon as this snow clears, my little car is headed as far away from you as possible. Don’t ever think for one second that I’m the kind of woman who will move along blindly behind you, like one of those cows on your farm. You aren’t worth the breath I’m wasting right now to explain all this to you.”

The picture must have been abundantly clear to Gene, because he immediately started to plead. It was almost sad, hearing such a man beg for forgiveness, mostly because she knew it was entirely false. Gene wasn’t sorry. Gene wanted to get her closer to him, so that maybe she couldn’t see the flaws so readily, and bend her to his will.

Gene wanted to talk some sense into her.

“Don’t ever call me again,” she said.

“No, Rebecca, what the hell are you doing? You’re acting like a child!”

“Goodbye, Gene.”

“Damn you, woman, listen to me!”

She hung up on him. The only sound in the living room was that of the fire, crackling merrily away at the logs of wood. She waited, staring at the phone. He had caller ID, and he would probably ring back. She prayed the man upstairs didn’t have a phone in his room, so Gene wouldn’t wake him when he called back and tried to talk some sense into her again. When several minutes passed and the phone didn’t ring, she was both confused and relieved.

She flipped off the television and stared at the blank screen, stunned at what had just transpired. It took only a moment to see the true colours in someone. No matter how well they tried to hide it, at some point their true nature would always come out. She had always known that, deep down, but she had never experienced it until now.

Outside the window, the snow had finally stopped.

Rebecca dragged herself from the couch, grabbed her bag and her purse and wandered into the guest room, where she took off her clothes and slipped between the covers. The light of the moon cascaded through the windows, bathing the room in otherworldly light.

Rebecca stared at the camera on the dresser. There were some beautiful shots on that film, images of farmland and sunsets and old barns and even people, pictures that might one day wind up in a magazine or on a gallery wall. But, as she gazed at the closed eye of the lens, all she could think about was how she would view those photographs later. Would they be forever tainted by the anger and sadness she was feeling right now?

Rebecca turned over, laid her head on the comfortable pillow, and pulled the old, worn quilt over her shoulders. She was warm, safe and secure, and grateful for it. She didn’t shed a single tear over Gene, and that might have bothered her, had she been awake to think about it. Instead, she was asleep in seconds, and didn’t move until the morning sun streamed through her window.

Chapter Four

Richard was up before the sunrise, reading the two-day-old paper from Des Moines and planning his day. He was also frying bacon and sausage, certain his visitor would want something to eat when she got up. She had eaten her fill last night, but Richard hoped she would be more than ready to partake of a full spread for breakfast.

What had she said her last name was? He had tried all morning to remember but that little detail had slipped his mind. He knew her first name was Rebecca and she was from Miami. He also knew she had pretty blue eyes. Between them, she had the cutest smattering of freckles on her nose. They gave her a youthful appearance, and, though she certainly wasn’t a kid, looking at those freckles made him feel old. On cold mornings like this one, his forty-four years made themselves known with a bit too much creaking and aching when he climbed out of his warm bed.

He flipped through the pages of the paper, distracted when he should have been paying attention to what the competition was doing. He doubted there would be a chance to get to the office today, as the roads were still closed by the State Patrol, but maybe the sheriff would make an exception and let him take his snowmobile to the town square. The offices of the
Crispin Tribune
were right across from the courthouse, which would have served well for a John Grisham novel, had they ever had an interesting trial. In Crispin, the most trouble anybody ever got into was a bar fight on a slow Saturday night, which usually made the very small police blotter section of the newspaper.

Richard covered the basic things that any small town loves to hear about—the local fair, the dairy prices, the beauty pageants and the honour roll, all just as important as the minutes of the community meetings. For the rest of his content he got creative, and usually a human interest story topped the front page. He loved to get to know people and to write about their troubles or their victories, whether it was the champion of the third-grade spelling bee or the farmer struggling to hold on to land that had been in his family for half a dozen generations. Stories like that brought the community together.

As he flipped through the paper and looked at the ads for used cars, telemarketers and construction workers, he wondered what kind of story Rebecca would have to tell, and if she would let him tell it.

At that moment the object of his thoughts came down the hallway and peeked into the kitchen. The sharp smell of coffee and the sweet smell of bacon had made her stomach rumble even before her eyes had opened. She stepped into the kitchen and Richard turned to look at her, his smile far too broad for this early hour.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice booming.

“Good morning.”

“Breakfast is almost ready.”

Her stomach rumbled again. “I’m starving.”

“Good. I’ve got everything you can imagine for breakfast. I hope you’re not a vegetarian?”

She laughed. “No.”

“Get some coffee and have a seat. Juice is in the fridge, if you would rather.”