The Bunk Up (The Village People Book 1) (5 page)

Chuckling, she turns back to me. “You’ll have to excuse Frank. He, uhh… has a unique way with words. You’ll get used to him.”

I nod slowly.

“Sam,” she introduces as she holds out her hand.

“Daisy,” I offer with a smile.

“Are you staying at the Horse and Hound?” Noticing my confusion, she tips her head towards the pub. “The pub. Are you staying there? I presume you’re one of the film crew.”

“Film crew?” I shake my head. “No. I’m staying at Haversham Cottage.”

Her eyes widen in surprise but she appears pleased with my answer. “Oh, right. Sorry. We’ve been overrun with actors, film cameras, directors, producers. You name it, they’re all here.”

“A movie is being filmed here?”

She nods, linking her arm through mine as though we’re suddenly best friends, but she grabs the handle of my case and starts to direct me towards the path leading away from the square.

“To be honest, they’re already driving everyone nuts. They’re all so far up their own arses they could perform their own endoscopy.”

What a lovely thought.

“I’m surprised you’re staying in the Haversham cottage. I must say, Mrs Haversham can be quite particular who she rents out to. In fact, it’s almost always empty.”

“Doesn’t she ever visit?”

Sam shakes her head. “Not really. No one goes up that way now because no one lives there. Even the stray dogs don’t go up there to urinate it’s so deserted.”

I’m seriously starting to regret this. Now all I can envision is a cold, damp cottage with a six-inch layer of dust on everything and mouldy dog faeces littering the front lawn.

“So,” Sam continues. I’m beginning to wonder if she ever comes up for air. “You here by yourself?”

“Yeah,” I answer carefully. Although Sam seems nice and very friendly, I’m quite wary of people who jump head in and talk so rapidly.

“Oh. You here for long?”

She must work for the government, or maybe a lawyer. She’s unremitting with the rapid fire questions and my head is starting to spin a little.

“Just a few weeks.”

“Ah, lovely. So, what are your plans while you’re here?”

“Just… uhh, relax, really. Read.”

“Read,” she repeats slowly. “Right.”

Are they so isolated out here that they’ve never heard of books?

“Well, I hope you’ll come down to the village once in a while. Wouldn’t want you decaying up here all by yourself. No one would find your dead body for months.”

I stare at her, unable to break my alarmed eyes away from hers. They appear to glow and a shiver races through me when her grin seems a little crazy. Do vampires still exist?

“Well, here you are,” she says brightly as we come to a stop outside a dark little house. “Enjoy your stay, Daisy.”

And with that, Sam skips off back down the remote path. I hadn’t realised how dark and secluded it is until now, what with Sam’s constant chatter distracting me. “Shit,” I murmur to myself. It really is solitary, the cottage looking a little like an abandoned chalet in the woods that features in every single horror movie.

If it wasn’t too late to run back and hail the cab driver again, I’d be spinning on my heels and legging it.

“Maybe it’s okay inside.” I nod my head wildly at my own reassurance.

The key is exactly where Mrs Haversham said it would be – under the pot of dead flowers.

My eyes close and my heart rate shifts into dangerous territory when the door creaks loudly as I push it open. A faint smell of something I can’t put my finger on greets me. It’s not a putrid smell. In fact, it’s quite pleasant. Definitely not what I had expected.

Fumbling around for the light switch, I’m surprised when light floods the small room. It’s really quite enchanting. The furniture is old, but it’s clean and cosy. The fire is filled with old burned out logs but there doesn’t appear to be a coating of dust anywhere. A small but adequate kitchenette sits to one side of the room and I’m astonished to see Mrs H left dirty pots in the sink. I thought she’d have been particular about cleanliness, especially when locking the place up for the winter. In fact, now that I look more, it seems as though she just upped and left suddenly. There’s a few things placed around the room. A mug on the side table, a plate sat on one of the sofa cushions. There’s even a pair of boots by the front door, caked in mud and dried leaves.

The late hour and with all the travelling, a yawn makes my eyes water, and deciding to tackle the house tomorrow, I go in search of the bedroom.

I’m shocked to find that Mrs H hasn’t even bothered to change the sheets. The bedding is pulled back from the bed, and the bottom sheet is wrinkled.

Shaking my head, frustrated and tired, I find some clean bedding in a cupboard on the landing hallway and for the next ten minutes’ fight my way through fresh sheets and pillows.

“Yes.” I sigh in appreciation as I sink into the soft depths of the foam mattress, thankful for Mrs Haversham’s choice of luxury furnishings. I had meant to explore the rest of the house, but exhaustion has me passing out within minutes.

Chapter Seven

Frazer

Stubbing my toe on the edge of the table leg, I giggle. Why the hell do I always sound like a girl when I’m pissed? And why do I always find it funny when I hurt myself? Does that make me kinky? I purse my lips, pleased with my newfound sex appeal. Chicks love that shit.

I’m so wrecked. I shouldn’t have drunk so much. I have to be up early tomorrow. I need to wheedle my way into Tilly’s good books and get in before someone else snatches up the role I’m perfect for.

Feeling along the wall for the light switch, I give in and just stumble up the stairs in the darkness, telling the bottom step to shush when it creaks on my way up. Rolling my eyes, I shake my head; it’s not like I’m going to wake anyone. There’s no one here.

The bloody pie from earlier is killing me. I could do with downing some milk to settle the reflux of acid, but I know now I’ve managed to climb up the stairs that going back down them won’t be quite as easy. Although it would definitely be quicker. So shrugging off the burn in my chest, I pray the acid won’t find a way out further down, and wobble down the landing to the bedroom.

Peeling myself out of my clothes, I pause when I swear I hear the softest, nearly inaudible murmur. But when silence settles around me again, I pull off the rest of my clothes and drop onto the bed.

A scream splits the silence and I scuttle sideways away from it. My bare arse smacks the floor and I scoot backwards, smashing the back of my head on the nightstand. The lamp sways and then wallops me in the face before it crashes to the floor.

“What the fuck?”

“What the hell?” An ear-splitting shriek yells out from the darkness. “Help! HELP ME!”

My brain won’t work. The pie was rigged!

“RAPE!” Another scream pierces the air and I splutter, my eyes shooting around the dark bedroom, looking for the assailant.

Snatching up the broken lamp, I get to my feet and swing the small light around in front of me like a blind man trying to hit a piñata and claim first prize.

A light shatters the blackness and I squint against the brightness.

Another scream brings my eyes into focus a lot quicker.

Everything stops as I stare at her in confusion and she gawps at me in puzzlement.

“Who the hell are you?”

She has the wildest blond curls ever, the nest of yellow vipers wriggling away from her pretty pale face. Her huge blue eyes are framed by the longest lashes I’ve ever seen, their length still visible despite our distance across the room. Her cute button nose is small and turns up slightly at the tip, and her lips, her full, plump lips, are the palest pink ever.

The pie and the beer were rigged.

Suddenly realising I’m buck-assed naked, I cover my semi hard-on with the tiny lamp. I’m proud of my big dick, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t want to scare the tiny woman stood glaring at me like it’s gonna dance across the room and smack her across her flushed pink cheeks. Even if that sounds like fun right now. Damn, where has this kinkiness come from?

“Who the hell are you?” I repeat her words, wincing at the high pitch of my voice. Damn bloody beer!

“I asked you first!” she says with an accusing scowl. It’s then that I spot the pillow she’s holding out in front of her.

“I’m up for a pillow fight. If that’s your thing.”
What the hell?
Where the bloody hell had that come from?

Her eyes widen further, making her stunning blue orbs appear slightly too large for her tiny face. She’s wearing a strappy white top and I have to press the cold clay of the lamp into my groin to stop my dick from waving with excitement at the sight of her tiny nipples pressing against the thin cotton.

Beer! Makes my voice rise - and my dick, apparently. I need to stop bloody drinking!

“Look.” I cough, cursing the squeak, and swallow to wet my throat. Lowering the lamp to hold out my hands in surrender, I quickly pull it back up when her eyes drop and she gasps. “Look,” I try again. “I’m sure there’s some explanation for this.”

Her eyes narrow on me but she waits me out.

“The cottage belongs to my mother…”

“Mrs Haversham?”

“You know my mother?”

She nods. “Yes. She rented me the cottage for a few weeks. So she has another son? The gossip was true.”

“Yes, she does. Though she often forgets,” I snarl. Then I recall it’s not this woman’s fault. I smile. “I’m sorry. She must have forgotten to tell you I’m staying here. But I’m sure the pub in town can fix you up with a room.”

She looks confused for a moment but then her confusion morphs into defiance. “Oh? I’m not leaving.”

Her stubbornness catches me out for a minute. She’s tiny, and I expected her attitude to reflect that. But this little stunner is quite feisty underneath, the tone of her refusal stern and bolshie as she quirks a perfectly manicured eyebrow at me.

We both eye the bed. Then each other, and then the bed again. In sync, we both leap for it. Like if we can claim the bed then we can make claim to the cottage.

Her skull ricochets off mine and she curses quite unladylike as our bodies bang together. But the little minx spreads her arms and legs out, star-fishing across the whole of the bed. How the hell does she take up so much room? Her arms and legs can’t be longer than four inches!

I’m left with an inch of bed, my bare arse hanging over the edge as I try to hook my legs around hers. But she’s having none of it. Jutting her hip out, she wallops me right in the gut and I topple off the edge of the bed, slamming my head once again into the frigging nightstand.

“Oops. You lost.”

Glaring up at her when she pops her face over the edge of the bed, her wide smug grin mocking my loss, I quickly grab the blanket from where it hangs over the side.

“This isn’t over!” I snarl as I huddle the cotton to my chest before she can steal that too.

As I pull my shoulders back and storm from the room, the acid from the pie leaves my foe with a parting gift.

“Jesus Christ!” I hear her choked gasp when I slam the door shut behind me, trapping her and my gift in together. “You’re dead inside!” she screams. “You hear me? Dead. DEAD!”

Beer isn’t so bad for me after all.

Chapter Eight

Daisy

Of course, I can’t sleep now. Because my mind is full of the gossip back home. The rumours that Mrs H had a secret lover. Not only did she have a lover, she got pregnant to him. Then she let him be raised by someone else, because he certainly never appeared back in Chesterfield. A really cruel thought comes to mind. I hate it when that happens. Like, you know it’s inappropriate, but up it pops. I wonder if she’s sad that she had to keep the ugly one. Because my quick look at mystery man revealed a walking sex god with a huge dick. I got a quick peek.
Really
, I berate myself. There’s a strange man downstairs in a remote property and instead of fearing attack I’m thinking of going downstairs and asking if I can have a proper look at his cock. It’s not my fault. I’ve only ever seen Marcus’ small one. Now I know that there’s a much improved version just a few feet from me I kind of want to study human biology. I only got the tiniest peek, but it was big and thick. Made Marcus’ seem like a picnic sausage… pickled.

I throw off the duvet to let some air get to my legs. Christ, I’m so fucking boring. There’s Mrs H, hardly a tooth in her mouth, madly besotted with a son that’s scarier than Chucky, and yet she’s lived. The proof is downstairs. What have I achieved so far? Temporary jobs and a relationship with a tool. In fact, that’s unfair to tools as they can be useful.

I sit up and try to think of a decent word I can call Marcus from now on. I sound them out with venom so I can know how they’ll sound when I next see him.

“Twatwaffle.” No. I like waffles. Especially with vanilla ice-cream and maple syrup.

“Dickhead.” That’s no good either, because it’s a picnic sausage.