When James first heard the knocking at his front door, he tried to tell himself it was only the wind. It was a blustery night, after all—a good night to be indoors. Five inches of snow had fallen that afternoon, and after sunset, the mercury had risen. Not a good thing. The snow had turned to freezing rain, and the roads were a sheet of ice. He had nearly slipped on the driveway when he'd gone out to the car after supper to retrieve the stack of papers he'd forgotten to bring inside when he arrived home from work.
Knock-knock-knock! Louder this time, more insistent.
"It's just the wind," he said to no one in particular. Jeanine was upstairs, probably asleep in bed. They'd had a shouting match about an hour ago—he complained that he'd had a stressful day at the office and needed a release. Couldn't she at least give him a blowjob? She told him to go to hell, she wasn't his personal whore, she was his wife. And she wasn't in the mood. He responded by saying she was always in the mood to give Conan some loving when he wanted it. To which she replied that he was a pathetic excuse for a man if he was jealous of a cat! Things had escalated from there, and before he knew it, he was yelling, and she was yelling, the words they exchanged tinged with poison. Only the fact that Jeffrey and Amanda down the hall might hear them shouting was motive enough to make them stop. But he didn't want to stay there, staring up at the dark ceiling, lying beside an angry wife who hadn't shown an interest in sex in a long, long time.
So he had come downstairs to get some work done. That was the thing about being a manager of a department in the IT world. The workload never stopped, not even when you got home. If he couldn't make love to his wife tonight (or any other night, it seemed), at least he could get a head start on the pile of papers he needed to tackle tomorrow.
Knock-knock, thump-thump!! Louder still. What the hell? Was someone really out there? How could they be? Who would be out driving on a night like this? And on this road, too? He and Jeanine had wanted to live in the country, away from things. They lived on a dirt road, no neighbors within a mile. Usually, the traffic on this road was minimal, even in the daytime.
Knock-knock!
"Shit."
He stood up, headed for the door. If this didn't stop, Jeanine might hear it, wake up—maybe become startled or afraid. That was the last thing he needed, on top of everything else. And the kids, too. They had been sound asleep when he checked on them an hour ago—thankfully they hadn't woken up during the shouting match. Well, at least they were all upstairs. Hopefully they'd just sleep right through this.
Still, he needed to find out what the hell was going on.
He arrived at the door, flicked on the switch. Nothing. Damn. He'd forgotten about that. The porch light had burned out a week ago. He'd been meaning to replace it, but his mind was always on other things.
Knock-knock-knock! So loud. So freaking loud.
Without hesitating, without considering that it could be a lunatic with an axe at his doorstep, he unlocked the door and flung it open. The figure on the porch steps was a silhouette, slightly illuminated by the lights from within the house. Apart from discerning that the person was short, he couldn't make out who it was.
"I'm sorry to bother you," a female voice said. "I . . . I lost control of my car up the road a ways, and I saw your lights were on."
He looked out, squinting, squinting . . . still unable to see much. "You okay?" he asked. "Are you hurt?"
"No. I'm fine," the voice said. She sounded young. "It's just, I got stuck in a snowbank, and then when I was trying to pull out, I lost control again and ended up in a ditch. There's a lot of glare ice on the road. I even slipped on your driveway a couple of times, just walking up here."
"I know," he said. "Nasty night."
"Umm, look, would it be okay if I could use your phone?" the woman asked. "I need to call AAA, and my cell's dead. I need to get a new battery." She reached into her pocket, and he tensed. But all she pulled out was the dead phone. She pressed the Power button, but nothing happened. "See? Battery's out."
He decided he'd take a chance. After all, she seemed harmless enough—just an unfortunate traveler out driving on the wrong night. He told her to come inside.
"Thank you," she said.
He stepped aside to let her in, then closed the door behind her. For the first time, he got a good look at her. She looked to be in her early twenties. She was petite, had blue eyes, and blonde hair that was drenched from the freezing rain. For such a miserable night, she wasn't dressed appropriately. She wore only a light-gray sweat jacket and a pair of form-fitting low-rise jeans.
"Feels good to step out of that damn ice rain," she said. "God, it really sucks out there."
"If you don't mind my asking, what were you even doing driving way out here on a night like this?" he asked. She hugged herself, still trying to get warm. "Well, I was at a party. It sucked, so I left early. I thought I'd take a shortcut back home, so I turned onto this road. I mean, the main road was awful, too, y'know? A freakin' ice-skating rink. I didn't think this road would be any worse. But that hill right before your house? I lost control going down that, so . . ."
"You live around here?" he said. A little forward of him, she was a stranger, after all, just needing to make a phone call.
But she didn't seem off-put my his question. "Mmm-hmm. I live in Betheltown."
Interesting. Just ten miles away. He'd never seen her before, but of course there was nothing unusual about that. It's not like he knew everyone within a ten-mile radius.
"Well, please go right ahead and make that call, umm. What's your name, by the way?"
"Kim," she said.
"Well, I'm James," he said, and smiled. He didn't know why he was being so friendly. She would just make her call, then leave. . . .
She smiled back, held it for a few seconds. "Oh, where's your phone?"
He gestured for her to follow him into the kitchen. They passed by Conan, Jeanine's pride and joy—a black American short hair, who always seemed to want her lap. Damn cat. Every since they'd adopted him, his sex life had gone straight down the toilet. Conan looked up at them, indifferent, then rested his head on his paws.
"Cute cat," Kim said.
"Sure," he replied. "Real cute." He wondered if she could hear the disgust in his voice.
She made the call, and while she was talking to the AAA rep, he couldn't help but eye her butt. The jeans were tight, generously showing off her shape. She had a fantastic ass. As she talked into the receiver, he also admired her long blonde hair, which flowed halfway down her back. It was still wet, but beginning to dry now. He wondered if she was a natural blonde. . . .
She sighed when she hung up.
"Bad news?" he asked.
She shrugged. "They said they're having a backlog tonight. It'll probably be two hours before they get here."
"Hmm, that does suck," he said, walking over to the stairs, looking up. No one stirring up there, but still, it was risky talking here in the kitchen. They should go into the living room—much farther away from the stairs. He was probably just being paranoid—who cared if anyone overheard, and got up to investigate? It's not like he was doing anything wrong. He was helping out a motorist in need. That was all. . . .
He led her out of the kitchen, back to the front door. He realized it was probably wisest for all concerned if she waited for AAA in her car. But she said, "Umm . . . Look, I know how this will sound. But . . . would it be okay to wait in here? I mean, I know it's really late, and I can understand if you would want me to leave. But . . . the heater in my car isn't working. And it's so cold without it. I don't want to impose, but . . ."
He swallowed, looked at his watch. Eleven forty-five. AAA probably wouldn't arrive until 1:00 AM, at the earliest. And he needed to get up by six tomorrow morning. And yet . . . and yet, if she had no heat in her car . . .
"That's okay," he said. "I was planning on working for a while longer anyway." Not really true. He was planning on going up to bed at midnight, fifteen minutes away, before she came knocking on his door.
"Oh, well, don't let me bother you any," she said. "And thanks. I really appreciate this."
"Sure thing." He walked into his home office, which was the next room over. He left the door to his office open, so he could keep an eye on her, just in case she was a thief or something. He doubted that, though. He believed her story.
He figured she'd sit on the sofa or putter around the living room. Instead, after a couple of minutes, she came into his office.
She went to his chair, bent down, looking over his shoulder. Her long blonde hair brushed against his cheek.
"What are you working on?" she said.
"Oh . . . uh . . . well, it's kind of dull. Just schematics for a computer program."
She raised her eyebrows. "Wow. You're a real brainiac, huh?" She bent down lower, and he felt her chest brush up against his shoulder. Was she flirting? No. That was absurd. She was a sexy blonde, in her early twenties. She could get any guy she wanted, no doubt. And him. He was thirty-eight, with a receding hairline and a spare tire around his waist that he just didn't have the time or willpower to get rid of. How on earth could she be flirting with him?
But, just in case, he placed his hand flat on the desk, his wedding ring blatantly visible. "I wouldn't understand a word of that stuff," she went on.
"Oh, it's not so hard. You just need to get used to it."
"Mmm-hmm, I'm sure," she said. Behind him now, she placed her hands on his shoulders, and began to give him a massage.
He sighed, he couldn't help it. It felt good.
"You're pretty uptight, Jim," she said, continuing to knead his shoulders. "You mind if I call you Jim? You work too hard, I bet. I can feel the tension."
"What are you? A massage therapist, or something?" Damn she had great hands.
She giggled. "No. I'm a waitress. But I've had a lot of practice, you know, relieving guys of their tension. . . ."
Yeah, I'll bet, he thought.
