Strung

by Costa, Bella

  His hands wrap around the back of my calves and he pulls both of my legs up onto his raised thigh, forcing me to flop back on the sofa. With unexpected gentleness, he pushes the blanket half way up my shins, exposing both ankles. I hear his gasp and glance down.

  Oh! The outside of my left ankle is huge and dark, with bruising. His fingers gently probe the area. It doesn't hurt too much to touch.

  "I don't think it's broken, but as far as sprains go, it's a bad one. You shouldn't be walking on it, at all."

  I hear that edge to his voice again. Yes, this is what I'm good at...making men disapprove. I don't have time to think too much about it, because...Oh, oh no. Oh my! He lifts me easily, blanket and all, carrying me through to the bathroom, depositing me on a small wooden bench. My personal space feels like an 80's punk band has just breezed through.

  Two small oil lamps mounted on either side of a small mirror light the bathroom. Below the mirror, an old-fashioned table with water jug and bowl sit alongside a tray with soap, shaving equipment and a cup with toothbrush and toothpaste. Behind the door, a plain white toilet, with a high cistern and a long chain sits alone. In the far corner, a small wood burning stove gives off more light and plenty of warmth. Above the wood burning stove hangs a copper tank, warmed by the stove to provide hot water.

  I haven't seen a set up like this for a very long time. I realise the cabin has no gas or electricity. The hot water is gravity fed to an unusually large, old fashioned, copper bath in the middle of the room. Along the back wall, a large mirror, almost the width of the room and again just as high, reflects all the light back into the room. The effect is breathtaking. The floor is covered by a patchwork of warm, richly coloured rugs; slate occasionally peeping out around the edges of the room.

  The only thing spoiling the room is a modern, white, collapsible clotheshorse set up next to the wood burning stove. Over the rails hang the horrible shiny blue satin and sequins of my short, halter-neck, bridesmaids dress, my nylon and the useless short coat. I really don't want to have to put that dress back on, but there is a shortage of alternatives, I realise grimly.

  I watch quietly, hugging the blanket to my chest, as Chayton fills the bath and empties a small bottle of something warm smelling, into the water. I am not sure if I'm feeling cold again or if it's just nerves, but I'm trembling uncontrollably. He leans down and mixes the water with his hand, the cotton of his shirt stretching tightly over his back, displaying his broad, muscular shoulders and narrow waist. His hips are also narrow, his buttocks filling the denim of his worn jeans just right.

  "You should be able to manage from here. Call me when you're finished and I'll help you back to the sofa." Holy cow! His tone is so bland; he could be giving an old woman, directions to the train station! I sit stiffly, holding the blanket tight around me, my mind numbly trying to understand the mood swings of this strange creature.

  Leaving the door open, he disappears into the living room. I mentally slap myself back into sanity. The last thing I need now; is the complications of dealing with a man – or my reactions to one. My hormones are behaving like public transport. In three years, not a single man has raised my temperature or warranted a second glance, now I'm swooning over a man for the second time in less than a week!

  I am also terrified of this man, and cannot justify the fear. He has not really done anything offensive; he probably saved my life, not to mention his awesome hotness. Then the realisation hits me, making me shudder. I am not scared of him! I am scared of my reaction to him! I am scared of me.

  Pushing all the complicated thoughts from my mind, I lose the blanket and my underwear. Keeping all my weight on my arms and good leg, I slide down into soothing liquid. The stresses and strains must be wearing me down. I lean my head back, close my eyes, taking a deep breath and intone my hastily revised mantra.

  I am Acacia. I am head strong, grounded and focused. I have total control over my choices and decisions and I have no time right now for the complications of a man so I will not let my focus fail because of this one! There, I feel better already. I repeat it once more for prosperity.

  I search the small tray of products and I'm soon lathering myself with some very manly, but gorgeous smelling, body wash. The open door is bothering me so I don't linger. I towel dry myself briskly, turning myself pink in the process and reluctantly manage to slip the annoying dress back on, shoving the dry nylons into a pocket of the coat. The pale reflection that gazes back at me from the mirror has definitely seen better days. My salon up-do has miraculously stayed up in its pins. The intentional wisps of soft curls that had framed my face, and softened my long neck, have fallen flat from the snow. They now hang limp, dried in twisted rat's tails.

  Thanks to the bath, the thick layers of makeup, compliments of the bridal makeup artist, have gone and apart from dark circles under my eyes, my skin looks clean and creamy. My mother was beautiful, but I'm glad I didn't inherit her mass of freckles. My hazel eyes reflect the yellow glow of the oil lamps, glimmering with flecks of gold. I feel through my thick hair, searching out all the pins and remove them to release the long tresses. Finally, all my hair is loose and I finger comb it as best I can. I note with pride that my auburn hair still shines softly, as it falls past my shoulders to curl gently on the tops of my breasts.

  I stand up straight, pull my shoulders back and take a cleansing breath. I can to this!

  Draping my coat and the blanket over one arm and using the other to support myself against the wall, I hobble painfully into the main room. Chayton is sitting on a small armchair in front of the fire, with his legs stretched out in front of him. He is staring into the flames, deep in thought, his fingers steepled under his chin.

  He glances up and sees me hugging the wall, annoyance flashing across his face. Within seconds, he is next to me. I sag with relief when instead of picking me up, he wordlessly holds out an arm for me to steady myself against. The corded muscles of his forearm twitch and flex under my hand, his skin warm under my fingers. I am led to the sofa where he pauses for me to sit and then lifts my leg, propping my foot on a low table with a cushion.

  "I'll get your food. Do you want a drink?"

  "Um, what do you have?"

  "Whiskey, beer, coffee, milk or water."

  I should not be surprised by the small choice – my host is the ultimate mountain man. "I'll have a beer please." He moves off and I hear a door open for just a second before closing again. A brief gust of cold fans the flames in fire place and Dog lifts his head to sniff the air, before drifting back to sleep. I hear a few other small sounds from the kitchenette and Chayton returns with a large tray. He gently places the tray on the coffee table, removing two bowls and a beer, and then passes the tray with its remaining bowl and beer over to me.

  Dog gets a bowl and he tucks lazily, without rising. Chayton settles into a chair opposite me, with his own food and beer, picking at it, chewing slowly.

  It's a peppered beef stew with mushrooms. I savour the flavours as the soft meat falls apart in my mouth. I take a long swig of the beer. It's cold. Very cold. Of course - the snow. He doesn't need a fridge. Well not in the cold months anyway. We eat in comfortable silence until Chayton spoils it.

  "That is no way to dress in this weather." The words are almost growled. "And what were you doing wandering about the mountainside anyway?"

  "I um...” I frown. "I had a meeting."

  "Business meeting?" He is making me feel like a child. I need to change the subject.

  "Yes. Thank you for the stew, it's lovely." I try to sound as calm.

  "And that's how you city girls dress for meetings?" He is smirking now. "I hate to think what kind of business you thought you could accomplish, dressed like that. I mean don't get me wrong, it's sexy - all legs and bare skin...but for a meeting?"

  I really do not want to get into how ridiculous I feel in the outfit, nor how embarrassed I am by the whole situation. Given his tone of voice, I don't think he deserves an answer. Hang on...did he
say sexy? And he doesn’t even have the nerve to look at me, while he sits there calmly insulting me - sexy bit aside. Even Robert managed to insult me direct to my face.

  I take another spoon full of the stew. It is not fair that it's so delicious and he called me sexy. I decide I'm not going to respond. He may be all kinds of drop-dead-sexy himself and a fantastic cook but he's arrogant - and it's none of his business anyway.

  I am grateful for Chayton and Dog rescuing me, but I do not need to put up with this. As soon as the storm is over and daylight breaks, I'll ask him to call a breakdown truck to come out with some fuel and we can both go our own way. Yes, that is what I will do!

  The silence between us is now far from comfortable and I allow him to clear my tray along with Dog’s bowl and his own. When he returns from the kitchenette, he stands in front of me and me his hand his hand. I glance at his face wondering what he I’m supposed to do with this extension of his arm, but his expression is unreadable. In that moment I feel a tug of familiarity, have I met this man somewhere.

  "What?” I mutter, confused.

  "Come, I'm taking you to bed," he states, very matter-of-factly.

  Chapter 3

  I stare at him astounded. Just like that! Taking me to bed! Where, the hell, does this man get off?

  "Don't flatter yourself," he smirks, knowing where my thoughts are taking me. "You won't be able to get there by yourself!" I flush a little, feeling foolish and reluctantly take his hand. Like the rest of the cabin, the bedroom furniture is a real mismatch of pieces. A large log-framed bed with patchwork quilt has centre stage, while on either side, a small table each with its own oil lamp shares space with a small chair. Against a wall is a large chest of drawers. Chayton guides me to the edge of the bed and pulls the cover back.

  "Sit!" He quickly skirts the bed and opens a drawer in the large chest, pulling out a T-shirt. "This may be more comfortable to sleep in than your over-sized handkerchief!" He tosses the t-shirt, so it lands on the bed next to me and leaves the room.

  There is the disapproval in his voice again! What, the hell, is his problem? I quickly change and tuck myself under the covers. The bed may be handmade and old, but the mattress is definitely high quality and comfortable. I am just about to drift into a welcome sleep when Chayton saunters casually through, in bare feet and snug Kelvin Klein's, as if I am not even here.

  Fuck me until Christmas! What, the hell, is he doing! I swallow, as my body responds, in a time honoured fashion, to the sight of his toned, muscular chest and rippled stomach, with its delicious dark line of hair trailing south beneath the low elastic of his pants.

  "What do you think you're doing?" I barely recognise my voice.

  "I'm coming to bed,” he replies frankly.

  "I would rather you didn't."

  "You don't want me to sleep?" he asks, his expression incredulous.

  "I don't want you to sleep here!” I protest weakly.

  "It's my bed!" he replies, plumping his pillows and sliding under the cover.

  "Yes but...” He turns the oil lamp on his bedside table off and settles onto his back, his hands tucked under his head.

  "If you want to sleep on the couch let me know and I'll take you back there. Please turn out your lamp otherwise - I am going to sleep."

  Reluctantly, I lower the lamp's wick, starving it of oxygen and snuffing out the small flame. I turn my back to him, lying very still. I can hear his breathing, calm and measured. My body is tense, every cell trying to stretch out in his direction, trying to close the gap between us, while mind is trying to force my body to put as much distance between us as possible. I am practically choking on my own breath, trying to control it. I swear, if I leave my lungs to their own devices I will be panting loudly. In this highly-strung and conflicted state, I drift off to a night of uncomfortable and erotic dreams of out of reach pleasures and dangerous woodsmen.

  ~.~

  24th March

  An unnatural silence, tugs at my awareness, pulling me from the depths of sleep. I have grown used to the constant, clamour of a city breathing. Traffic, pets, doors, alarms, voices, children, life. By comparison, this silence is complete and unsettling.

  I open my eyes to bright sunshine streaming through a small window, across the bed. However, it is the man standing just next to the window, who holds my unmitigated attention. Holy shit! What a view to wake up to!

  My host is leaning sideways against the window frame, bathed in revealing daylight. His is staring outside and he appears relaxed but lost in thought.

  Thick dark hair sweeps the base of his neck and flops long and sexily over his forehead to frame his face. His upper body is bronzed, bare and yummy. His hands are shoved into the back pockets of his jeans affording me a good view of all the dips and curves of his chest.

  My eyes continue their languid investigation, desperate to drink in the vision, before it disappears. I pause to admire his six-pack, which nestles within an impressively formed abdominal V. The V runs from the peak of his hips, disappearing seductively under the low-slung waistband of his jeans. With ankles crossed and all his weight on one foot, his narrow hips tilt sensually and his jeans hang indecently low.

  He frees a hand, running it through his hair, sweeping it off his forehead just for it to flop back down again. Then with a small shake of his head, he turns his attention away from the window and his gaze catches mine.

  I have seen that expression, those eyes, somewhere but my brain will not allow me to remember where. The rest of his face is hidden behind several days of dark stubble.

  "Good morning." His voice is low and he moves to stand at the end of the bed, bending slightly to brace both hands on the wooden bed frame. Fuck, he is hot!

  "Good morning." My own voice sounds annoyingly husky and I sit up, bringing the blanket with me. I know I am covered in a borrowed t-shirt, but under his gaze I feel stripped naked.

  "I found your V.W."

  I nod. It's about all I can manage as my eyes follow the thin trail of hair splitting his abdominal V down the middle. Mmm, did he say something?

  "You let yourself run out of fuel!" The disapproval in his voice rouses me like a cold shower.

  "It's a long story." I mumble down at my fingertips, blood flooding to my face. I want to yell out that I am not just another dumb, useless wench - that I am normally quite capable and organised - but instead sit mute and embarrassed.

  "You'll have to tell me about it sometime," he voice sardonic. "You can keep the t-Shirt and there is a pair of sweat bottoms and a sweater on the chair in the corner. Help yourself. I can't help you with shoes though." He quietly pads barefoot out the room.

  Does this man have a problem with closing doors? In addition, why is he half-naked if he has already been out and found the Beast? My whole week is starting to feel a little 'Alice in Wonderland'. I shudder. Even as a child, I always found that story more than a little disturbing.

  I stand slowly, testing my ankle. It is stiff and tender and I cannot bear to put any weight on it. I stretch out grabbing the two items of clothing and collapse back onto the bed.

  I cannot wear my panties for another day so I will just have to go without. No one will know. I slip on the sweat pants. My round ass fills the fabric a little too snugly for my liking and the legs are so long, I have to roll them up. Still, better that bloody dress. I pull the sweater over my head and nearly drown in it. I decide not to roll the sleeves up, preferring to hold the cuffs in my hands like a schoolgirl. It is comforting and the bottom of the sweater covers my ass nicely.

  There is no mirror in the bedroom so I comb my fingers through my hair, hoping I look half way presentable. I fold my dress, panties tucked safely inside. Fortified, I start hopping to the bedroom door. I have almost made it when Chayton saunters through.

  "Don't you knock?" I grumble, glad that I've finished changing.

  "Why? It's my room and the door is open." His eyes are glinting and a small smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

>   "Arrrrh. It is open because you left it open. So rude!"

  "Well if I'm so 'rude' as you put it, then perhaps I shouldn't help you." With a smile that could light a small country, he turns and saunters out the room.

  "Wait." My mouth calls before my brain has had a chance to connect.

  He peeps his head around the doorframe, still grinning for ear-to-ear and looking quite pleased with himself. God I could look at that smile all day.

  "I could use a small hand, please." My voice is small and I am annoyed with myself. With flourish, he swaggers back into the room and lifts me over his shoulder, like a sack of potatoes. He deposits me breathless and distressed onto the sofa, before abandoning me to the safety of the kitchenette.

  "Talk about inappropriate!" I grumble a little too loudly. Seconds later, he reappears with a plate of steaming scrambled eggs on toast and a coffee in a tin mug.

  "I was just in a hurry. Your eggs were about to burn!" His earlier beaming smile has gone and his voice has dropped flat. The hot and cold signals he's radiating are so confusing. I consider myself adept at reading, even the most subtle of male signals. I have made it my pet project since leaving Robert. Nothing I have learnt in my psychology, self-defence or body language classes is helping me figure out this confounding man.

  It is also becoming infuriating that every time I get incensed about his caddish behaviour, he exposes his actions as so innocent, that I end up feeling like a fool. I do not like feeling like a fool. I apologise moodily and tuck into my eggs. Mmm, they are good.

  The cabin looks different in daylight. Impressive. I can see now that the mismatched furniture and furnishings are all indeed hand-made. Each piece is a handcrafted work of art, lovingly carved; woven; stitched or assembled. Each piece complimenting the one next to it, so your eyes are drawn on a journey around the room. The sheer array of rich colour invokes warmth and calmness, softening the masculine woods and stone. Yet everything is functional, even the seemingly ornamental. I take mental snapshots of the room. I will have to try to emulate the effect sometime.