Carried Away - P. Dangelico Page 0,14
him, out of the room. “Turner, right? That’s your name?”
“Don’t wear it out,” he replies, his back retreating down the hall. He enters what one would hypothetically call a kitchen, but in reality looks more like a dungeon for butchering things. Fingers crossed it isn’t people.
Slowly, I follow and stop at the threshold of the room. Physical distancing is my friend right now. I don’t know who this guy is or what he’s really capable of and I will not be the dumb girl in this story.
“Turner…do you have a last name?”
His brow furrows as he fills the glass coffee pot with water from the sink. “Just Turner.” Turning on his socked feet, he heads to the refrigerator on the opposite wall. “How’s your head?”
Subject is obviously not a fan of eye contact. He’s doing everything to avoid it.
I brush my fingertips over the knot on my head and wince. “Okay, I guess…a little sore.”
Pulling out a bag of coffee grinds, he lays it on the counter. “Advil in that drawer”––he points to the drawer of the cabinets closest to me––“Ice in the freezer.”
“No, thank you. Ice and I are no longer on friendly terms. So, umm, I take it you don’t have a landline…”
“Nope.”
“When do you think this storm will let up? You know––since my phone has no signal”––once again, I glance down at the phone in my hand. Yup, zippo––“and your television doesn’t seem to be working.” I motion to the room with the TV with the hockey puck stuck in the middle of it.
“Maybe a day or two,” he grunts while he pours the grinds into the filter and turns on the pot.
“A day or two?!”
He makes a face, implying I’m taxing his nervous system. Or his hangover. Whatever.
“Maybe more.”
“More!”
No way. No freaking way am I staying holed up in the Amytiville Horror house with this guy. A stranger. When nobody I know knows where I am. I’ve seen too many true crime documentaries to know this never ends well for the female.
He motions to the coffee pot with his chin. “Only one bathroom working so you’ll have to wait till I’m done. Help yourself to anything in the refrigerator. Cups above the sink.”
Chapter 5
“Subject seems ornery,” I mutter sotto voce. “Not much for verbal communication…” The way he looks at me comes to mind: apathy with a mix of annoyance. “Plenty of non-verbal, however. He glares like a champ.”
I’ve been on the couch attempting to read for the past three hours with little to show for it. I’m still on chapter five and not because the book isn’t good. It’s because I’m having a hard time concentrating with Turner, the mystery gay mountain man, behind closed doors down the hall.
He disappeared into one of the other rooms three hours ago and hasn’t surfaced since. In the meantime, I’ve located the bathroom and done my best to clean up and that’s not saying much. I need my stuff and my stuff is out there somewhere. In the mother-of-all-storms.
One thing’s for sure, I don’t need to worry about being violated; it looks like I have the tip of an unimpressive penis growing out the side of my forehead. A mildly purplish-red protrusion. No exaggeration, it looks like a bell end. No amount of makeup is disguising it.
The door to the mysterious room opens and Turner emerges covered in fresh paint, gaze cast on the floor, his expression indicating he’s in deep thought. He lumbers past the couch scratching––swear to God––something in the vicinity of his groin. Thankfully, over his sweatpants. Ignoring me, he walks into the kitchen.
“Hungry?” I hear him shout.
Am I hungry? As my Nan would say, “Does a bear shit in the woods?”
When I cross the threshold, he’s washing his hands at the sink.
“Starving. I’ll eat anything.” Then I rethink my answer. “Except beef jerky. I don’t eat beef jerky of any variety.” Sliding onto one of three folding chairs at a 70s looking green vinyl kitchen table, I watch him pull out paper plates and napkins out of the cabinet above the sink. A couple of red Solo cups.
“Beef jerky?” He makes a face.
“Yeah, do you have any?”
The confused expression persists. “No.”
“Good.”
I checked out the refrigerator earlier. It’s packed with fresh produce. Nice to know my host is well-prepared to weather out the storm. Hopefully, he’s willing to share because judging by his size he must eat an unseemly amount, and I didn’t want to take anything without his express permission. Something about him tells