The Pilot (ON HOLD)

Part 8

I unlock the caretaker's cottage and step inside the dim interior. Making my way to the fuse box, I throw the power switches and try the closest light switch. The cozy kitchen glows with golden light. Pulling my lighter out of my pocket, I light one of the three sticks of pitch I carry and slide it into the neat tepee of sticks in the kitchen fireplace. As the flame catches on kindling and starts to smoke, I open the damper, watching the fire grow. Satisfied it has a good start I move on to the fireplace in the bedroom. By the time I have both going, it's warm enough to shed my coat. Going back to the kitchen door, I unload the supplies from the sled, piling the packages on the counter by the stove.

"Damn it, water heater." I traipse back to the laundry room and get the water heater going, pleased when it lights with a hiss on the first try.

Back in the kitchen, I turn the oven to pre heat and set the deep cast iron frying pan to warm on the stovetop. I pause for a moment and listen to the silence, guiltily savor it. No one asking me questions, no one looking for direction, no one needing just to share space with me, just me, breathing. With a deep sigh, I find the jar of cold bacon grease and scoop a dollop into the pan, sliding it around as it melts. I add some dried garlic and onion, then crumble the ground beef into the pan. I scrub my hands before washing the potatoes and putting them to boil, the rest of the vegetables are canned so I curled up in the overstuffed chair by the fire and open my book, stare at the flames for a full minute, close my book and relax.

Two hours later, I've finished the shepherd's pie and it sits atop the stove to keep warm while I crank the handle on the ice cream maker. I'm making vanilla ice cream to go with the apple crisp that is just starting to bubble in the oven. The bottled apples from last fall have turned out very nice, despite all the eye rolling the boys did when were canning them.

I keep a steady cranking, trying not to feel guilty about how much the kids would love ice cream tonight. Even at the end of the civilization as I know it, it's okay to be selfish for a minute, for an evening, for a night.

It's full dark when I hear him on the porch. The creak of the swing tells me he's tired, the thunk of a boot, a long silence, and then the sound of the other dropping to the porch. I haven't moved from my spot by the kitchen fireplace but I can see him, in my minds eye. Elbows on his knees, tousled brown locks, staring at his blood soaked boots.

His father was a butcher in Conway.

Warren wanted more for himself than a small time butcher's shop and life in the same square footage he was raised in. 

I first met him, when I was twenty-three and he was eighteen. He sat down next to me on the curb at the Fourth of July parade, I remember it was the first time in my life I'd ever felt petite. He was wearing a faded red tank top emblazoned with a barely discernible American flag, camo cargo shorts and aviator shades. He was all shoulders and rippling muscle, shaggy haired and when I looked at him with a quick smile, sliding over a bit to accommodate his size, he blinded me with his giga-watt smile, lively brown eyes and two dimples promising nothing but trouble.

The creak and squeak of the porch swing tells me he's up. I hear the open and close of the front door.

"Valora?" His voice is tired, quiet.

"I'm here." I say. I don't look up but feel him pause in the archway to the kitchen, before hearing the gripe of the hallway floor under his step. He leaves the bathroom door open and I hear the shower flip on, hear him peeing in the toilet. When the sound changes from a steady pattering to splashing on tiles, I push my blanket aside, stretch and tiptoe down the hall in my wool socks. At the open door I peek around the frame. He stands under the streaming water, head bowed, hands braced on either side of the showerhead. I let my eyes wander his powerful build, distorted by watered glass.

"Come wash me," he says.

I jump a bit at the sudden sound of his voice. I don't know how he does that.

Pulling off my socks, I tug the loose knit sweater over my head and pull down my jeans and panties. Stepping into the warm water behind him, I wrap and arm around his shoulder, going up on tiptoes to change the direction of the sprayer. I sluice blood and other things from his short hair, off his shoulders and back. I turn him around, rubbing my hands through the fine hair that covers his chest and arms, thighs, bending down for his calves and feet. From my squatted position, I look up into the raining water, at his face as my hands run up his legs and through the hair at his groin. He closes his eyes, as I stroke past his balls. When he breaks eye contact, I pick up the bar of soap and washcloth. The water is running clear now, past my feet, as I rub soap into the washcloth, the refreshing scent of Irish Spring washing away the coppery residue of pig's blood. I stand again, up on my tiptoes to wash his face and neck, the corded muscle sloping down to broad shoulders. I work my cloth across his chest, slowing at the scars that scatter across his ribs and stomach, and turn him around to scrub his back.

"Sam say's he hasn't seen you since the fall, said you didn't come to town for Christmas, just Brendan and the kids."

I say nothing as I wash his legs and one foot, then the other. Setting my washcloth aside, I soap up my hands, meeting his hooded eyes as he lifts his arms, clasping his hands behind his neck as I slide my slick hands up and down his nearly erect cock, around his balls and back to his ass. I like cleaning parts of him with my bare hands.

"Fuck, Valora."

I squeeze his balls, making him straighten. "Yes, your part of the job is coming up pretty soon."

The dimples flash at me, "Do your worst, girl, I'm about to put you on your back and make you forget all about the end of the world."

His words catch in my throat and I rest my forehead in the middle of his chest. "Promise?" Slipping my hands up his sides and around his back, I feel his kiss on the crown of my head, his arms wrapping around my shoulders.

"I promise. Do you want to tell me about the man in your cellar now or after?"