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- 02/19/2013
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
The Curative - 1. Chapter 1
The house I pulled up to looked nice. Like the pictures, at least, which was a good start. Half the other places I’d looked at barely habitable garbage dumps with no resemblance to the pictures I'd seen.
Bailey jumped into my lap, smushing the paper I was holding and slobbering all over my face.
“Bailey stop it!” I grabbed her nose and held it away, frowning as hard as I could into her big brown eyes. She didn't get it.
She wriggled and yipped until she was free and flopped over, begging for a tummy rub. I acquiesced and absently stroked her soft fur as I read through the ad again. I’d talked to the guy renting out the room a few times, but he seemed pretty stiff. Still, even if he was a grouchy old codger, the rent was cheap, and I was running out of time to find a place.
I hefted Bailey back over onto her seat and told her to stay, which she course obeyed by bounding into my warm spot as soon as I got out. I shook my head and turned towards the house.
I walked up the ramp and knocked on the wide door. A loud bark sounded and the door swung open, but nobody was there. I peeked inside, shrugging at the big German Shepherd who was smiling up at me. He padded a few feet towards the kitchen then stopped and looked back at me.
“Just follow him! I’m in the kitchen!” The deep baritone startled me, but I obeyed and followed the dog around the corner.
In front of me, washing his hands at the sink, was possibly the hottest man I’d ever laid eyes on. He was utterly masculine. Sharp, shadowed jaw line, aquiline nose, a rakish slash of a mouth, and piercing dark blue eyes that were currently staring with great annoyance into mine.
“If you keep staring, this isn't going to work.”
I could feel my cheeks heating up a thousand degrees. “Sor-sorry.” I blushed again and jerked my head down to stare at my feet instead.
I heard squeaking, then, “Whatever, kid. It happens all the time, but if you’re gonna live here, you’re gonna have to get used to it.”
What an arrogant prick! I jerked back up to tell him just what I thought about him, but my mind went blank.
Wheelchair. That’s what he was talking about. He was in a wheelchair. Oh.
“Shut your mouth, kid. Jeez. Come on.” He wheeled around me and into the living room. The dog followed him, lying obediently at his feet when he stopped.
“So-so-sorry!”
“Just come on! Sit down already.”
I nervously shuffled over to the couch and sat down. Silence permeated the air. I stared down at my shaking fingers.
Finally, he sighed. “Okay, guess we should get started. This place has a downstairs, that I've obviously never seen, but if you want to check it out, the stairs are just on the other side of the kitchen. The whole space would be yours, though you’d also have to do all the furnishing and such by yourself. You said you have a dog?”
I glanced up and nodded hesitantly.
“What's his name?”
“Ah, her name is B-Bailey. She’s a C-Cocker Spaniel.”
He grinned and leaned over to pet the German Shepherd. “This here’s Mason, he’s my official service dog, and running around here somewhere is Oscar, my Border Collie. He’s trained too, but he’s a lazy fuck. I’ve got two cats as well, Butch and Baxter. You wanna run down and check the space out? If you like it, we’ll talk about introducing them.”
I nodded and shot up, nearly running to the kitchen. I found the stairs easily and journeyed downwards. It was completely dark since it was never used, but right then, I didn't care.
I sunk to the floor at the bottom of the steps. I glared at my hands, willing them to stop shaking. I hadn't had an episode in almost a year; this was the last thing I needed. My medication was still at home, sitting useless on my bathroom counter. He probably already thought I was a freak.
I took a few deep breaths and eventually managed to stand without wobbling.
I flipped up the light switch and looked around. The space was pretty nice, a decently sized bedroom and a den area that I could use for my TV. There were no windows, but as long as I had light, I could deal.
I slowly made my way back upstairs and into the kitchen, where he was opening up the oven and pulling out a sheet of oatmeal cookies.
I couldn't help giggling a little, the contrast between his personality and the bright purple oven mitts he was sporting was hilarious.
He looked up at the noise and smirked, “So, did you like it?”
“Uhm, y-yeah. Plenty of space. So uh, B-Bailey’s in my car. Should I go get her?”
He finished scraping the cookies onto a plate and held it out towards me.
“Want one?” When I shook my head, he shrugged and grabbed one for himself. “Yeah, in a second. First we should talk over some of the more technical stuff. Make yourself comfortable.”
I settled down in one of the dining chairs and waited patiently for him to stop chomping down on his cookie.
“So, rent would be three-fifty a month, that still okay?” I nodded and he continued. “No friends over unless you discuss it with me, including girlfriends or whatever. Clean up after yourself, I don’t wanna hafta be moving stuff out of the way when I’m rolling through here. If you get groceries and don’t mind sharing, remember to put as much as possible in the lower drawers. It’ll also be your job to keep the yard clean. I usually pay the kid who drops off my groceries to do it, but since you’ll be here and a third of it’ll be your responsibility anyways, you might as well. Okay?” He looked at me as if he dared me to challenge anything he’d said. When I just nodded again, his shoulders seemed to relax the tiniest bit.
“Ah, Mr. Rollins?” He raised an eyebrow at me and pierced me again with those eyes.
“Ah-ah I should probably tell you something first.”
My breath froze in my throat.
He huffed impatiently and scowled at me. “Well, spit it out, would you?”
“I-I-I… I’m… I’m-”
“Jeez kid, how old are you?”
Startled out of my scared haze, I told him, “Twenty-six.”
Now he looked surprised, “No kiddin'? You don’t look hardly old enough to drink. Go on, what were you gonna tell me before? And don’t call me Mr. Rollins again. I’m hardly any older than you. It’s Logan.”
I pulled in a shuddering breath and blew it all out in one fast rush.
“I’m gay.”
I stared down at my fingers again, which were clenched together tightly to try and quell their shaking. My mind ran through all the scenarios I was sure were going to happen. He’d throw me out, set his dogs me, run me over with his wheelchair in retribution for defiling his house. Instead I got a soft snicker.
“Why would I judge you, kid? I get discriminated against enough, I wouldn't put that pain on anyone else. Besides,” His eyes twinkled and his smirk pumped up to full wattage. “I’m gay too.” He guffawed and rolled away towards the living room.
I sat, rolling his words over in my head.
“Wait, what?”
“Go get your dog!”
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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