Trapped with My Best Friend’s Dad by Flora Ferrari

Chapter Two

Roman

I let out short puffs of air as I slam my fists into the punching bag, rocking it on its frame as I duck from side to side. It squeaks as it moves back and forth, beads of sweat flying from my bare chest and hitting the gym’s floor.

It’s like I can block out the thoughts with every punch – the thoughts that I can’t write a single goddamn word, can’t drag anything out of me.

I sit at the keyboard and stare at the screen and nothing happens.

All my life – I reflect as I pick up speed, hammering my fist like I’m pummeling my worst enemy – I’ve been able to sit at a computer and simply type.

That was all I had to do, sit and type, and as if by magic the words would flood the page, filling it up, up, up, until sometimes it felt like somebody else had written the book. It was like hypnosis or mindfulness or whatever the fuck people want to brand it.

I didn’t care what people called it, as long as it worked. As long as I could get rid of this clawing need inside of me, the need that’s always been there, this hole I’ve only ever been able to fill with writing.

But now the words won’t come, and I’m left with nothing but the landscape of my mind. And I hate it, that’s the goddamn truth, hate it because I’ve always felt like there’s this emptiness inside of me.

I’ve filled the emptiness with fictional people, with plot twists and prose.

But now…

I snarl as I hammer the bag even harder, turning my whole body into the movements. The timer goes off, cutting through the gym.

I turn to find Tanker grinning up at me, his tongue hanging out as he lets out long breaths. He’s a cute-as-hell Jack Russell terrier with a black spot over his eye, called Tanker because of his naturally squat body.

Kneeling down, I reach out and run my hands over his head. He whines and tilts this way and that. I feel something as I pet my best friend. Of course, I do. I’d be a monster if I didn’t.

But just because I feel it doesn’t mean the emptiness evaporates. It doesn’t mean I’m able to ignore this clawing hole inside of me, a hole which sometimes feels as though it’s cannibalizing pieces of me, chewing them up and spitting them out over and over until there’s nothing left.

Millie brings me some happiness. Of course, she does.

And raising her helped to keep the darkness at bay for a time. But she’s an adult now and she doesn’t need me. I’m glad she’s so independent.

People have to be able to stand on their own in this world, or it will consume them.

I smirk, chuckling darkly. “Am I the grimmest bastard in the world, boy?”

Tanker grins and tilts his head as if to say, Do you really want to know the answer?

Standing, I scoop him up and cradle him to my chest as I walk around the gym, strolling over to the window and looking out at the glittering lake.

The lake was the main reason for purchasing this home. Millie loved to swim in it as a girl, and Tanker still loves to swim in it now.

I’d often sit by the water after long writing sessions, closing my eyes and letting the calmness soothe me.

I turn away with a dark sigh. “Hungry, boy?”

Tanker squirms and licks my chin.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

I put him on the ground and walk down the hallway, past the landscape paintings of nature scenes. This place is so different from my high rise apartment back in New York. Every inch of this little corner of Maine is rustic, with exposed wood and rafters and every painting designed to make the mind peaceful.

Peaceful and – so the idea goes – ready for writing.

But as I walk into the kitchen and head over to the treats cupboard, with little Tanker at my feet every step of the way, I can’t help but think about how much this cabin has failed me. Or I’ve failed the cabin, by not fulfilling its purpose, by not quietening my mind down enough to let myself work.

“What is it, boy?” I say as I take out one of his sausage treats, his favorite. “Eh? What is this emptiness inside of me? It’s like I’m missing something. But I’ve got everything a man should need. I have money and I get to do what I want – and all that without the burden of being famous. My daughter is happy. I’ve got you, eh?”

I tickle him behind the ear as I feed him the treat. He grins and wolfs it down, making loud munching noises. I find myself watching him with something like a smile on my face, but it’s the ghost of a true smile, tinged with sadness.

“I envy you, boy,” I say. “You don’t think yourself out of being happy. You know what you want and you take it. And as long as you’ve got me and Millie, you’re content. A walk, some food, a treat here and there… Oh, and playtime, obviously.”

I chuckle as he launches himself at my leg, going for my laces with happy gnashing teeth.

“You’re supposed to be getting mature now, aren’t you?” I tease, leaning down to ruffle him behind the ears. “You’re almost nine. I thought that meant we’d be treated to a nice calm Tanker soon, eh?”

He rumbles, almost like he’s laughing as he continues to gnaw at my shoelaces. But then he suddenly stops, tilting his head, the way he does when there’s a car at the end of the road.

I glance at the calendar which hangs on the kitchen wall, checking if I’m having any groceries delivered.

But there’s no sign of any visitors today. Millie would’ve told me if she was coming up…

But hell, the way I’ve been trying to force words out of myself lately, maybe I wouldn’t have even remembered if she had told me. All my mental energy has been spent attempting to drag the words out of my head.

But if it was Millie, Tanker would be going crazy, sniffing the air and running in frantic circles like he always does when he hears her coming. He always knows when it’s her.

Instead, he’s frozen, the way he does when there’s a car coming but he’s not familiar with the owner, like a delivery driver. I tickle him under the chin… as he’s gotten older, he’s started to grow a little white beard, prompting Millie to sometimes call him The Wizard.

“Huh, boy?” I say. “Who is it, huh?”

I stroll over to the front-facing window, looking over the miles and miles of pine forest that stretches up the hill which leads to the cabin. We’re completely secluded down these parts, which is one of the reasons I love it so much for writing.

Or, at least, one of the reasons I loved it so much – past tense.

On the other side of the hill is the small town of Summerdrop, where the people are friendly and the smell of fresh-baked bread often fills Main Street on the rare occasions I have to visit it. But mostly I stay secluded here, hammering out the words. Or, more recently, trying to hammer out the words.

I watch as a car bumps up the mud path, appearing from the shadows of the pine forest. It’s a rental car, and not at all suited for this terrain, bumping and jostling its way down the road before coming to a stop next to my off-roader, looking like a toy as it sits next to it.

“What the hell?” I murmur as I stare at the woman…

Something explodes in my chest, hammers, and roars, and suddenly that hole I’ve been trying to fill – with exercise, with writing, with living – floods and it’s like I don’t have to try anymore. I don’t have to ache anymore.

She’s there, right there. My meaning. My woman.

I stare as she runs a hand through her long brown hair, letting out a gorgeous yawn. She’s wearing a summer dress that hugs onto her curvy made-to-be-fucked body, her breasts large and heaving, her hips wide and perfect for grabbing. As she turns to the car, I have to bite down to stop myself from letting out a feral roar.

Her ass is goddamn perfection, round and plump and made to be palmed and spanked and claimed.

This is it. She’s it, the thing I’ve been waiting for.

This woman, with her gorgeous wavy hair and her perfect body…

She’s going to be my everything, whoever she is, my life partner, and the mother to my children. I’m going to claim her in the most carnal way a man can, painting every inch of her body with my touch, with my tongue.

I’m going to own her.

Forever.

But first I should probably learn her name.