1
"Dude," one of the guys in my dormitory stairwell said as I returned from breakfast the Friday morning before spring break, "there's a cop in your room! You're busted!" A chorus of laughter and voices echoed down the hallway of the old stone building. "Whatever you did, you're fucked!"
Little did they know how correct they might be. I just might be spending spring break being interrogated by Homeland Security instead of going to Florida with them. As I continued toward my room, I was afraid this was about the beautiful brunette I met last fall. I only knew her for a month. Even still, she changed my life.
That meeting occurred during what would have been the beginning of my second year in college, which had not started as planned. Instead of classes, parties, and chasing girls alongside my fellow male students, I spent that fall sequestered in a seaside house, losing my small town innocence and receiving an education that isn't taught in any classroom.
The detour away from school began about three in the morning one late summer night. Distracted by a cute girl in the back of an open top Jeep and a few beers, I hit the back of a restored '66 Corvette. After the initial threats of an ass kicking, the other driver calmed down. He was drunker than I was, so we kept the cops and the insurance jerks out of the matter. The damage didn't look that bad, but still ran into the thousands. My old F-150 pickup sustained only a few scrapes. The guy had a friend that owned a body shop and would do the Corvette repairs, and I could work off the debt by being a caretaker of sorts for a few months at his grandmother's bed and breakfast down on the outer banks of North Carolina. This meant no dipping into my meager savings. On the surface, a job at the shore sounded great. This, however, was not during the prime season, and far away from the active north end were the bars and parties were. I was to start right after Labor Day.
So, early that morning I packed up, threw some fishing gear in the back and left my Pennsylvania home to head to the beaches of Carolina. I arrived late that afternoon. Down a dead end road and practically hidden by dunes and scrub brush, the building was a typical weather beaten beach house, not frilly like a Victorian B&B in Cape May or a town's historic district. It was a faded, cedar-shingled box on stilts, with creaky porches and balconies on all sides beneath a large pyramidal roof. A small roof top deck had been added on the ocean side, with a rickety stairway leading to it. A dilapidated garage sat adjacent. I met the elderly owner, in a hurry to depart for her three-month cruise. She handed me a set of keys and advised me about house's quirks and the duties, which were essentially to cook breakfast, clean and do some odd jobs. There was but a single guest, a shy, 'foreign' journalist who was working on some important hush-hush investigative story and kept strange hours, sometimes she was gone for days at a time but requested quiet when she was there. Her breakfasts had to be vegetarian, which I could handle since I had worked for a few years at a cousin's diner back home.
The journalist, wherever she came from, couldn't have picked a better place to hide from the world. There were no other houses visible for nearly a quarter mile in either direction up or down the beach , and they were likely empty this time of year. Back down the sand covered street and across the highway was nothing but marsh grass and the Pamlico Sound, which stretched to the western horizon. Of course the eastern horizon was nothing but the sparkling Atlantic Ocean. Luckily, having researched this desolate location, I brought my laptop, stocked up on books to read, and planned a daily run on the shore to keep in shape.
The Bed and Breakfast's guest was not currently there, so after a morning swim I set about my routine chores, vacuuming, buying groceries, prepping and grilling an assortment of vegetables. I ventured into her room to clean the bathroom and check on the sheets and towels. It hardly looked like anyone was staying there. Two aluminum suitcases, the kind used to carry electronics, accompanied some regular luggage. Everything was closed up tightly. The only personal items visible were a few magazines and newspapers, some printed in what I would guess was Arabic. I opened a night table drawer to replace a road map that was sticking partially out. The next sight kind of scared me. A black metal ammo clip, loaded with what looked like nine millimeter shells lurked inside along with some cash, consisting of a few U.S. bills and other currency I didn't recognize. I tried my best to set the map exactly where it had been, and left the room. I had been around guns since I was a kid, but only in the context of hunting, where nothing could shoot back at me. Gradually, I stopped worrying about the discovery in the drawer. It was logical that a woman traveling, apparently alone, would want some protection.
2
The third day in paradise dawned warm but breezy. I woke up in my lower floor bedroom on my back and realized my dick had also risen along with the sun, and had worked its way out the fly of my boxers and out from under the sheet. I had been resisting the urge to masturbate for the last few weeks, hoping to find some local girl to begin the awkward dating process with, but prospects were nonexistent in this tiny village. Before even opening my eyes, I fondled my loose nuts for a few moments and began shifting my average looking, six-inch-plus-a-little cock in different directions, treating it like a video game joystick before starting in earnest. Suddenly I heard a floorboard creak, and opened my eyes.
A woman was standing four feet from my bed, apparently not amused by my activities. She was dressed in a black suit jacket and long black skirt. A light blue, broad shirt collar overlapped that of her jacket. Her exotic face and scarlet headscarf identified her as the B&B's mystery guest.
Flushed with embarrassment, I immediately grabbed the sheet and covered my groin. I would have protested her entry into my room, but the image of the ammo clip squelched my reaction. The slightly angular, Middle Eastern features of the woman's face, surrounded by the headscarf, were beautiful, even with the displeased scowl she currently displayed. She was statuesque, had large, dark eyes, high cheekbones and luscious lips, reminiscent of a 1940's movie star. I always found exotic women intriguingly attractive, but would never admit it around my friends, who mostly pursued blonde white girls with big tits because that was the accepted practice. Before I could say anything, she spoke.
"When you are done playing with your penis, I require breakfast," she quipped indignantly, and turned to walk out. "Please remember to wash." The intruder spoke with an alto voice, and within those two sentences, her accent sounded both French and Russian.
I threw on shorts and a t-shirt and bolted upstairs to the kitchen. Luckily I had most of the ingredients prepped already and a hot omelet and buttered croissants were waiting for her at the table by the time she emerged from her room, apparently fresh out of the shower.
I did a double take as she walked across the kitchen. The headscarf was gone, and her wavy, chin-length raven hair was damp and held off her face by a white elastic headband. I would have guessed she was about thirty years old. She was stunning even without makeup. Over her athletic build she wore a loose tank top that revealed the straps of a sports bra beneath and running shorts, but was barefoot. She said nothing as she sat down and placed her napkin in her lap, then sipped a glass of orange juice.
"Good morning," I said, trying to ease the tension. "Coffee or tea?"
"Tea, please," she replied stoically and stared straight ahead.
I poured hot water into a mug and set it beside her plate. Suddenly she pounded the table once with the side her fist and spoke rapidly.
"Where did they find you? You know nothing of proper serving! How did you get hired for this job? You call this proper attire?" The irate woman gestured toward my camo t-shirt. She was not shy, as I had been told.
"I'm sorry, they didn't... tell me anything about ...I..." I said, shocked and stuttering. Did she really expect uniformed wait staff and five star-service at this veritable shack? She was sitting in an eat-in kitchen with cartoon shark drawings hanging on the wall. This was not the Plaza, and this bitch was starting to tick me off.
"The server is supposed to stand behind me on my left side and refill my beverages. I shouldn't have to ask," she said, staring intently at the wall in front of her. "See, my fucking juice is empty already."
I refilled her juice and stood in the spot she had pointed to, monitoring her fluid intake. This was going to be the longest three months of my life, I thought. At least it was only for breakfasts. I was hoping this foreign psycho would be leaving again very soon, or better yet, departing permanently.
"How long are you going to stand there?" she asked after a minute, and turned partially around, finally making eye contact.
"Until you need something, ma'am."
"I was fucking kidding!" She spun around and smiled a beautiful, sexy smile, laughed, and gestured toward the table. Her teeth were white and perfect, contrasting with her sepia complexion. "Please sit down, bring your coffee. We're going to be living in the same house, we should get to know each other. This omelet is just delicious!" She said pleasantly and extended a long, graceful hand with perfectly polished red nails. "I am Za'ana! Very nice to meet you!"
"Um, I'm Rob, nice to meet you." I said, still recovering from the whole episode.
We made small talk, and she mentioned a male coworker. I asked why the coworker didn't stay here also, as a sideways attempt to begin to learn if she was attached or not. I guess it wouldn't have mattered; this exquisite beauty was way out of my league. The answer came all too quickly.
"It wouldn't be proper, in the culture I come from, that a betrothed woman should stay under the same roof with a single man. My fiancé is in Montreal. He won't come down here. He hates the wind and the water and those biting bugs.. 'squitos you call them. I didn't tell him the old lady was being replaced by nice guy Rob from Pennsylvania."
We both laughed, and the tension was lifting. I was slightly relieved she was engaged, although I hated to admit it. Being forced into the 'friend' role took some of the pressure off. We continued to talk about various things. When I asked about her homeland, she said it was a little mountain province no one ever heard of, then changed the subject. To my surprise, Za'ana eventually mentioned walking into my room.
