Chapter 30
Thirty
With a mastered stealthiness, I slink off Remy’s upper bunk and slip into the hallway.
It’s pitch-black outside still, and I can’t sleep.
Not after that nightmare. I’ve found if I wake from one and fall back asleep, I re-enter the horror right where I left off.
In the latest round, I’m trapped in a room with no way out, one arm and leg chained in place while water fills the space, rising higher by the second.
I try with all my might to kick, but the chain bites into my skin and yanks me under. I flail, gasp for air, drowning alive.
No thanks.
Silently, I descend the carpeted stairs to the main level.
A light filters from further down the hallway.
I guess someone else is awake too. Approaching cautiously, I peer through the door that’s ajar.
It’s Mr. Remington, lounging on one of his upholstered office chairs in his bathrobe and pajamas reading a magazine.
I bump into the doorjamb and his head swivels.
“Oh, hey Mick, come in,” he says, gesturing me closer with his fingers.
“Sorry to bother you,” I whisper.
“Nonsense. Have a seat.”
I drop into the matching chair next to him.
“What’s your poison?” He flashes me his signature grin and lifts a tumbler half-filled with deep amber liquid.
Is this a trick question? Is he offering me alcohol? “Um…”
He raises an eyebrow. “Whiskey? Scotch? Gin? You don’t strike me as a vodka man.”
“Uh…” Is he serious?
He holds out his drink. “Have a little nip. See if you like it.”
The smooth glass fills my hand, and I tip it to my lips and allow a small sip to float across my tongue and down my throat. It blazes a path like I’ve swallowed fire but is soon replaced by a smoky, almost sweet flavor.
Mr. Remington watches expectantly, those coppery brows hiked. “What do you think, sport?”
I grin. “I like it.”
With zero hesitation, he rises, pulls a fancy bottle from the open liquor cabinet, and pours an inch into a fresh tumbler. There is no cooler parent than Mr. Remington. And Remy’s a chip off the old block—super fly without even trying.
He returns, handing it to me before reclaiming his spot in his chair. “It’s aged bourbon…the good stuff. So, what’s got you wandering the halls tonight?”
I debate lying but decide not to. “I had a nightmare.”
He nods in understanding, like we’re two friends just sitting around shooting the shit. He swirls the liquid and my eyes are mesmerized by it. “Those suck balls, don’t they?”
A laugh sputters out from deep in my throat, and he grins. When I sip my bourbon, the weirdest sensation comes over me. A picture forms of me as an adult, and I wonder if I’m mostly there, if this is what I’ll be doing someday. “What about you? I mean, why are you up?”
He leans a little closer, conspiratorially.
“This is the only time I get some peace and quiet, if you catch my drift. I come down here, have a nightcap, peruse my magazine collection.” He winks.
“Sometimes, I rub one out. Highly recommend it if you can’t sleep.
Nothing like getting your rocks off to help you crash. ”
Something akin to a snort-laugh breaks loose. I can’t believe he just said that. But he’s not wrong. Jerking off makes me sleepy.
“You scoring any tail yet?” he asks casually, leaning back in his chair as he swallows what’s left of his drink.
I shake my head. I want to, of course, but the opportunity hasn’t really presented itself.
“You’re young. It’ll happen soon. Bet you’re getting a little something. Am I right?” He smiles warmly…and I’m struck by how easily I can talk to him even though he’s Remy’s dad.
My lips quirk and I focus all my attention on what’s in my glass, staring like it holds all of life’s answers. “Yeah,” I admit, a little embarrassed.
“Atta boy. You won’t have trouble in that department, kid. The girls are going to fawn all over you.”
I take another fortifying sip, unsure why he thinks that. Maybe he’s trying to pump me up.
“But listen up. Be careful. Those swimmers collecting in your nuts? When you’re a young stud—like you are—those suckers could win gold at the Olympics, so don’t take chances or knock anyone up. Got it?”
I’m not exactly sure what the Olympics have to do with it, but gathering the gist, I nod.
“And in the meantime,” he says, picking up the magazine he held earlier, “help yourself to this.” It’s a Penthouse.
He flips to the April Pet of the Month spread, and my mouth falls open as I scan the photos showcasing this marvel of physiology in all her glory.
He shakes the magazine at me, indicating I should take it, and I happily do, my eyes roving over the woman’s flawless, tanned skin, flowing brown hair, glossy lips, and bulbous tits, her tawny nipples jutting at me.
My dick goes full mast when I land on her dark cocoa bush…
because her fingers are resting lightly on her forest of hair, her index finger pressing against her pussy.
“Fuck,” I murmur, before I can catch myself. Penthouse is where it’s at. They show everything, unlike Playboy, and they seem to push the boundaries with every issue I manage to get my hands on. With the pets, you’re also treated to a whole slew of photos, not just a centerfold.
My tongue longs to lick over the page where her exposed skin invites me to not just look, but touch.
I wonder again what’s really going on under all the hair down there.
I mean, I hope it’s good. I’ll never forget touching Sabrina Dellardo’s breasts.
And kissing is great, but I would give anything to feel inside a girl.
“Keep it,” Mr. Remington says.
Wrenching my gaze from the magazine spread, I meet his pleased expression. “Thank you.” My words come out strangled.
He stands and squeezes me on the shoulder. “I love you like you’re one of my own. You know that, right, Mick?”
I nod, even though I didn’t.
“You can come to me anytime you need to talk. Man to man.” He dips his chin for emphasis.
“I appreciate that.” More than he could ever understand.
“Let’s, ah, keep this little exchange tonight between us, alright?” He winks and saunters off, leaving me a little giddy, shocked, and a lot off-balance.
I wish, again, that Mr. Remington was my father.