This week, I'm doing something different. Not that I've forgotten Marshall and Lee, far from it, but one of the prompts called to me, and it would never have fit in the guys' story. So I wrote a little something, and I'd like to get your opinion - should I continue it or not? For right now, I'm using a working title of Finndeavor, but that is subject to change. I hope you enjoy it! Don't forget to see what the other Briefers are up to. Their links follow my tale. Enjoy!
How many drummers does it take to drive a man insane?
Just one. All he has to do is pound out a steady rhythm that
refuses to quit.
“Please stop that noise,” Finndeavor Washington Burr
whispered aloud to no one in particular, but his heartfelt entreaty did nothing
to ease the thrumming in his brain. Sterner measures were obviously called for,
perhaps even rising, although he was little inclined to follow that course of
action at the moment. He cautiously opened one eye but loudly groaned as a bright
light of supernova proportions threatened to blind him. He quickly rolled over,
away from the offending rays… and up against another body.
Why was there someone
in his bed? And who was it?
The lump rolled and resolved itself into the familiar form
of his manservant, Jefferson. But that
didn’t answer the question. What was Jefferson doing in his bed? Jefferson threw
one bare brown leg across Finn, never waking.
Finn cleared his throat. Startled large mocha eyes gazed
back at him.
“Excuse me, Mr. Finn, sir, but why exactly are you in my
bed?”
“I’m not in your bed, you’re in mine.” Finn corrected him
and winced. “And please don’t shout. I’m right here and I can hear you
perfectly.”
“I’m not shouting,” Jefferson assured him. “My head would
explode if I raised my voice even a modicum.”
“Mine too,” Finn admitted. He tried to sit up, but Jefferson’s
leg was making that difficult. The fact that the man was naked wasn’t helping
any. Plus he was gorgeous. Under other circumstances, Finn would pause to
admire his long limbs and finely sculpted ass. But not today. He gingerly slid
the entangled limb from him, all too aware that he was naked also.
There must be a story here, but damned if he could recall it
at the moment.
“Jefferson, what’s the last thing
you remember?”
Jefferson shook his head to clear
it. The sight of his dark mane, hair flowing like sinuous snakes, never failed
to fascinate Finn. He often marveled that Jefferson’s locks never tangled,
despite their propensity to wave in the slightest breeze. Like the man himself,
he was always in control of them, a trait which Finn found to be most
admirable.
“As I recall, you wished to go out
last night. To, as you put it, celebrate your last night of freedom.”
Finn frowned. “But the wedding
isn’t for months yet…?”
Jefferson shrugged. “My place was
not to argue, sir. You were most adamant in your desire, and I saw no harm in
indulging you in a drink.” He flashed Finn a cautious smile. “Or two. Or maybe a baker’s dozen? I believe I
lost count.”
“As did I.” Finn groaned again,
his stomach joining the fray, along with his throbbing temple. Bits and pieces
of the previous night began to filter into his mind, like watching flashes of a
half-remembered play when you had no idea who the characters were or what was
going on.
“It was that new drink, wasn’t it?
The caramel one.”
“A caramel mocha bourbon flame,”
Jefferson confirmed. “The bartender assured us tis all the rage in Paris, so
you insisted on having a taste. I must admit, it was very good.”
“Very good,” Finn agreed. Maybe a little too good? He’d found it sweet
and addictive, and it went down one’s throat as easily as water, but it was also deceptively strong.
As evidenced by the position in
which they found themselves today.
Naked, and in Finn’s bed.
Belatedly, Finn realized that the
current tableau would hardly meet with the approval of his fiancé. Good thing
she wasn’t here.
Taking his attention off Jefferson
for a moment, Finn glanced around them. The room was a complete shambles.
Clothes were strewn about the floor, along with what appeared to be feathers.
Finn squinted at the walls. Had they always been that colorful conglomeration
of colors, or had a madman snuck in and fingerpainted them while he was asleep?
“Did we do this?” Finn found that
hard to believe. Sure, he liked to have fun as much as the next man, but this
went beyond having fun. This was insane.
“I can’t remember,” Jefferson
confessed. “Did I remember to tell you I need today off? Urgent family business
I must attend do. I should go now.”
He made a futile attempt to roll
from the bed but Finn caught him by the arm and pulled him back. Unfortunately that
resulted in Jefferson lying on top of him. Very much naked.
And very hard.
Damn.
Finn swallowed. “Forget it,
mister. You’re staying right here.”
“Right here, sir?” Jefferson leaned
closer to Finn, until his lips were mere almost on top of Finn’s.
This was not
what Finn had had in mind.
So why did he do nothing to regain
the upper hand, which was all Jefferson’s at the moment? And why were his lips
parting, almost as if in anticipation…
“I didn’t mean… I didn’t… I…” Finn
stammered, unable to form coherent words, just as a piercing cry rent the air.
Jefferson fell back onto the bed,
clutching at his head, an action which Finn mimicked.
A small furry bundle flew into the
room and up on the bed. It wound its arms around Finn’s neck and began to chitter
to him in monkey talk.
“Hamilton, please,” Finn pleaded. “I’ve
got a headache.”
“You’ll have more than a headache
when I’m through with you,” came an icy voice from the doorway.
Finn knew he was in trouble now.
He darted a glance toward the speaker. Abigail Prescott. His fiancé. He’d seen storm clouds
that appeared friendlier than she did as she glanced between him and Jefferson.
This was a catastrophe of major
proportions. He couldn’t imagine the situation could get any worse.
A lump stirred beneath the
blankets on the bed and a sleepy head popped up.
“Morning, gentlemen!” a cheery
voice proclaimed.
Oh God. George. It just got worse.
to be continued
Now to see what the other Briefers are up to!
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