He stopped talking, clamping his lips together as Hillary Du Champs walked in the door with the smallest bag over her shoulder, surveying the magnificent guest house in disgust.
“You can go now,” she said to Deacon, who stared at her in horrified surprise.
“Excuse me, Ms. Du Champs, but I live here. I’m not going anywhere. If you don’t like the living arrangements, feel free to find a hotel. There are plenty along the beach.”
She eyed him furiously, spinning around to the poor, defenseless Dino. “I hope you’re kidding! You expect me to live in the same house with this baboon?” She indicated Deacon with a wave of one tiny, furious hand. “This is unacceptable!”
“I tried to get you a room at a hotel, Hillary, but it’s Biketoberfest. They’re booked solid. I won’t be able to get you anything for a week. Until then, you will just have to keep out of one another’s way. Your room is in there,” he nodded toward one of the smaller single bedrooms. Deacon occupied the master suite.
“Excuse me? I’m in the little bedroom? Who’s in the master bedroom?”
Deacon waved the hand with the beer, tipping up the bill of his cap with the tip of the bottle. “That would be me,” he said as sarcastically as he could manage. “The baboon.” He made monkey noises, scratching his armpit.
She said nothing, just stormed into the room and kicked the door shut. Dino piled her bags outside her door and turned to leave.
“Deacon, I’m so sorry. How can I make this up to you?”
Deacon gauged his voice to carry through the solid door. “Get the gorgon a place to stay as soon as possible.”
Dino glanced toward the door in horror as he heard the closet door thump open and drawers bang shut.
“I’ll see what I can do.” He ran out of the house, slamming the door behind him.
Deacon got another beer, sat down on the sectional couch, and leaned back in the recliner. He flipped stations until he found a movie he wanted to see on HBO, and turned up the sound. He loved a good action movie and this was one of the best, Aliens, with Sigourney Weaver. The gun fire got rather loud at one point, and he saw the door to the bedroom open for a moment, then slam shut. Just to be annoying, he turned up the sound and waited to see what would happen.
“Excuse me, Mr. Stewart!” She stood there in a short, red silk robe with some kind of green cream on her face. “I’m trying to get some sleep, do you mind? I’ve had a long day, and a tiring trip, could you turn it down?”
He looked at her, admiring her figure even if he didn’t much like her attitude. “I’m sorry, Ms. Du Champs, I can’t hear you.”
He continued to watch his movie, sipping his beer in careless nonchalance. She stood in front of the screen, arms akimbo, glaring at him. He took out a slightly crushed pack of Marlboros and lit one, blowing smoke in her direction.
“Would you not smoke that nasty thing in the house? How rude!”
She made a grab for the package of cigarettes he had set on the table, intent upon throwing them into a nearby trash can, but Deacon caught her hand, pulling her face close to his own. Leaning in, he exhaled the smoke, speaking very quietly. No one could mistake the tone in which he addressed her. Deacon Stewart was not a man who took this sort of behavior lightly. His sultry, Southern accent came out strong when he was angry.
“I think instead it is you, Ms. Du Champs, who needs a lesson in manners. If I weren’t a gentleman, I’d be teaching you that lesson. Now, before I lose my temper completely, and do something I’ll regret later when the police arrive, I suggest you march your fine, tight, little ass back in that room and put a pillow over your head if you don’t like the volume of the TV.”
He released her with a jerk, tossing her hand away from him as if it were dirty. With a look of disgust, he devoted his full attention to the television where Sigourney was going in to rescue Newt from the felonious alien menace. Ms. Du Champs stood in stunned silence, watching him with an expression of mixed anger and fear.
He rose to get another drink and she ran back to her room, slamming the door shut. He heard her lock the door and drag a piece of furniture across it. Smiling to himself, he popped the lid off another beer and sat back down to watch the end of the movie. He fell asleep in the chair, waking up around six in the morning. His back was stiff and his mouth tasted like something had died in it, so he got up and brushed his teeth.
Since he was already awake, he decided to fix coffee and breakfast for himself. Then he remembered he had a roommate. In an effort to foster congeniality, he tapped lightly on her door to wake her. He heard her moving around in the room, obviously still in bed. He could picture the blankets askew, her compact figure covered lightly with the sheet, the material clinging tastily to the curves of her body. He stopped that line of thought, and took control of himself. It had been a while since he’d been with a woman, but he wasn’t going to start lusting after Hilary Du Champs. She hated him, and he wasn’t fond of her either. He’d much rather bed a viper than the petite redhead.
He pitched his voice to carry through the heavy wooden door, sounding as friendly as possible. “Ms. Du Champs, I’m fixing breakfast. Would you like something to eat or maybe some coffee?”
She didn’t answer right away, when she did there was a distinct tremor in her voice. “Don’t go to any trouble, Mr. Stewart. I can manage myself, thanks.”
©2021 Dellani Oakes