Read Utah 5 here (see “Similar Posts” at the bottom of this post for any earlier entries)
Round 6 Challenge: Incorporate a White Russian and the words “over the line” into your next passage, which should be no more than 500 words.
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The expanse of Lake Champlain opened before them as the black station wagon pulled in to the cabin. Junked cars and trucks lay abandoned about the yard. A black Presa Canario that was chained by its spiked collar to the shed rose to its feet and began growling as they stepped out of the vehicle.
“Don’t worry about Herb,” Jacob told Corey, who was glancing over at the dog nervously. “He’s all bark and no bite.”
The cabin was shrouded in the shade of weeping willows, whose tendrils overhung the lake. Jacob motioned out over the state line of Lake Champlain towards the far shoreline. “Have you ever been to New York, Corey?” She shook her head. “I’ve got a rowboat. Want to row across sometime?”
Corey looked out blankly at the lake and nodded mechanically. He unlocked the door. “Home sweet home,” he said, with a sweep of his arm. “After you.” Her fingers knotted by her waist, Corey looked back at the dirt road and then walked in.
Jacob first showed Corey to the spare bedroom, her bedroom as he emphasized. He needed to calm her frayed nerves. Her body had begun tensing up when they first turned onto the dirt road. From then on she kept glancing about, unnerved by the absence of residences. Her fear mounted as they descended towards the cabin, so by the time they arrived she had gone silent and shrunk into her seat. Jacob found her girlish fear appealing but he knew he had to check his lust. He’d rather avoid violent incidents. “Why take something,” he thought to himself, “that might give itself to you freely?”
After touring her around the rest of the cabin, he opened the door to his office, a cramped unlit space dominated by a 23-inch computer screen.
“Look familiar?” he asked, pulling the chair out. “Try my throne out.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon on the computer. Corey began speaking again and even laughed a few times. That night he microwaved baked beans and hot dogs, which they ate in front of the computer screen.
“I have a treat for you,” Jacob told Corey. He returned from the kitchen with a White Russian.
“What is it, Ronaldo?” Corey asked, holding the cloudy liquid up to her eyes.
“Try it,” he insisted. “It’s a dessert.” She took a sip. Then another. Several drinks later, Corey was sprawled out on the beanbag in the corner of the room, snoring. Jacob checked her pockets until he found her cell phone. The last call she’d made was days ago. He tossed the phone into the river and then scooped her up in his arms. Her eyes still shut, she clutched blindly at his sweatshirt, burying her face into his chest.
“I want to go home,” she mumbled as he carried her to the spare bedroom. “Please … take me home.”