2. Sterling Black
Chapter 2
Sterling Black
I pause, towel still draped over my head.
It’s faint, but after years of living out here, my hearing is attuned to catch the sound of tires on gravel through the open windows.
I yank the towel off and toss it over the edge of the tub.
My new employee isn’t technically late, but they’re pushing it by showing up at sundown since the roads out here can be treacherous with wildlife, sharp turns, and no streetlamps to speak of.
After pulling on a clean pair of boxers, I reach for the jeans I left on the floor and decide to be grateful the guy showed up now and not ten minutes ago. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have heard him over the shower.
Buttoning my pants, I step into my bedroom and look out the window.
Sure enough, I spot the shine of headlights bumping their way through the trees.
I try not to think about Marty as I grab my flannel off the foot of the bed. Retiring so he can go live near his grandchildren isn’t something I can actually be mad about. But having to train a new maintenance guy is going to be annoying as fuck.
My bare feet slap on the steps as I jog down to the main floor.
Black Mountain Lodge is a cluster of cabins spread through the woods rather than a single building, as the name might suggest.
My house is the only two-story building on the property. But it’s still just a modest-sized three-bedroom A-frame structure with the main suite upstairs and everything else on the lower level, with an attached garage off to the side.
I shove my feet into my unlaced boots and step through the front door onto my covered patio.
It won’t take long to settle Court into the Bunk House, and once he’s moved in, I’m kicking my boots back off and spending the rest of the night on the couch in front of the TV.
Pulling on my flannel, I look around at what could be considered my front yard while I wait for my newest employee.
The gravel driveway ends in front of my house in a wide circle large enough for vehicles to turn around. And lining the driveway, then farther off into the trees, are the cabins. Several of them.
The paths between buildings, and leading to and from the driveway, are crude. Mostly just packed dirt from years of boots walking the same route.
At this elevation, over eight thousand feet, we don’t have lawns, just sporadic ground vegetation, so I don’t really bother with landscaping.
The approaching headlights crest the final hill in the driveway, and the outline of a Jeep Wrangler appears.
He’s driving slowly, which is smart, probably taking in the buildings as he goes.
Back there, he’s passing the communal bathrooms. One for men and one for women.
Now he’s passing a pair of guest cabins.
Off to my right is another cluster of cabins. And a little past that is the second largest structure, the Bunk House, where my five—soon to be six—employees sleep.
Not far from the Bunk House is the Food Hall—a single-room cabin with an industrial kitchen. There are picnic tables inside and more under an overhang outside.
A path runs from here to there, but it’s thin since I’m pretty much the only one who travels it.
To my left are a few more structures. A Laundry Cabin, which will be used by the new maintenance guy, and the Storage Shed.
The setup is simple but effective.
And all mine.
I fill my lungs with the clean fall air as the Jeep finally comes to a stop several yards from the bottom of my porch stairs.
The sun reflects off the windshield, making it hard to see the form inside.
For a long moment, nothing happens. Then the engine shuts off, and the driver’s door opens.
I take one step forward.
Then I stop.
Because the person who climbs out of the vehicle before me isn’t my new employee.
It’s a woman.
She’s standing so I can see her head between the open door and the side of her Jeep. And the dwindling sunlight glows off her light brown hair.
Hair that’s been twisted into two braids.
Braids that instantly give me inappropriate ideas.
I clear my throat.
I was expecting Court, so I hadn’t bothered to button up my flannel, but now my fingers twitch at my sides as I debate the merits of leaving my shirt open or trying to button it before she can round her door.
But then she does just that. Stepping fully into view. And I don’t care about my buttons anymore. Because all I can focus on is her.
Her tits straining against her white T-shirt.
Her thick, clutch-able waist.
Her full hips covered in tight denim, and, pretty please, let there be a rounded ass to match.
This time when my fingers twitch, it’s for a whole different reason.
I don’t even care that my new employee is late. Don’t care if he shows up at all. I can certainly pass the time with this lost lady.
Maybe offer up a cup of coffee.
A blanket.
A bed to sleep in.
I take another step forward, descending the stairs to meet her.