Disclaimer: Not mine.
Helpless 2
Enter: The Temp
Marron Chestnut peered through the rain-washed windshield and wished she'd put new wipers on the car. Actually, she'd promised herself she wouldn't spend another penny on the old clunker. Instead, she was saving frantically to buy a reliable used model with good mileage.
She'd never been down to this part of the river, and the road was difficult to follow. It was more like a mountain trail than a road. She could hear the crunch of the tires on the gravel and winced. That would probably take care of what little tread she had left on them.
The branches of a willow brushed along her window, making her jump. Although it was late March, the heavy clouds made the day as dark as the middle of December. Ahead of her rain slanted across the road, obscuring whatever lay in her path. She had to be close to the water, she thought worriedly. She only hoped she wouldn't drive smack into the river.
A splash of blue up front alerted her. She'd been told to watch for a bright blue mailbox, and there it was, adding a dash of color to the drooping shrubs and the wet grass. She parked gingerly beside the mailbox, then peered through the windows in the direction of the river.
A dark shape loomed up out of the gloom. She couldn't help a little spasm of excitement. She'd never been on a houseboat before. Actually, she thought, it all sounded rather romantic. She could just imagine herself lying in bed at night, gently rocking, and listening to the river lap against the hull. Not hat she was likely to spend a night on this one, she hastily reminded herself.
Climbing out of the car, she winced as rain dripped down the inside of her windbreaker. Mrs. Morris, the dour, no-nonsense supervisor at the Guardian Angels Agency, had given her terse instructions about her assignment.
A month's contract, involving the general office work, most of it on computer, and running errands for someone called Trunks Briefs. That was all. Do not work overtime; do not volunteer to do extra work. Keep careful check of her hours, and send in her reports every Wednesday.
Marron was told nothing about Mr. Briefs, other than he had broken his ankle and needed assistance with his office work. She was not a nurse, Mrs. Morris had unnecessarily reminded her, and neither was she a housekeeper. She was to accept only those assignments that fell into the category of general office work or essential errands.
Marron found the woman a little intimidating. She hoped Trunks Briefs turned out to be a little more agreeable. Hooking her purse over her shoulder, she turned her jacket collar up over her ears and tramped down the path toward the murky river.
She found the houseboat somewhat of a disappointment. Not at all what she'd fondly had in mind. Badly in need of a coat of paint, it looked little more than a rundown shack on a raft. A rickety veranda ran around the corner in each direction, and a faded checkered curtain covered the one window she could see.
The whole place creaked and groaned like an exhausted old man on his deathbed. Shivering at the macabre thought, Marron stepped along the wide ramp that led to the doorway. Look on the bright side, she told herself. The job promised to be interesting, and a welcome change from the last assignment in a crowded, sturdy office in the heart of downtown Pisces.
Behind her, the wind rustled the pine needles and slapped little rivulets of water among the swirling grasses at the river's edge. The mist was so thick she could barely make out the sullen hills beyond the opposite shore. Strange how different the river could look in the rain, she thought. It had seemed so tranquil and pretty in the sunlight.
The door of the houseboat appeared to have no bell. She pounded on the worn woodwork, listening to the wind whistling around the dilapidated walls. There was another, more modern-looking houseboat moored farther down. The bend in the river and the overhanging shrubbery hid anything else from view.
In the opposite direction lay the city, but it was too dark and hazy to see more than vague shapes in the mist. For a second or two, Marron felt a little apprehensive. She banished her qualms by pounding on the door again.
In the eerie silence that followed, She heard ducks quacking somewhere in the distance. The damp wind found its way down her neck and she shivered. Once more she hammered on the door, wondering if she had the right house. This time she heard a faint bellow from within.
"It's open, dammit. Come on in."
With a guilty start, Marron turned the handle. She'd forgotten about the broken ankle. The poor man was probably bedridden.
The door opened onto a small kitchen, with a door leading off to the right. It wasn't much warmer inside the houseboat. A damp, musty odor, blending with the smell of burnt food, wrinkled her nose.
Dishes and glasses filled the sink, and packages of all shapes and sizes covered every available space on the narrow counter. A saucepan half filled with muddy-looking soup sat on the stove, and a slice of burned toast rested on a chipped plate against the remains of scorched scrambled eggs.
Shuddering, Marron felt her spirits sag. Wondering what she was walking into, she stepped over a pile of old newspapers and carefully pushed open the door.
A man, propped up by sagging pillows, sat bolt upright on an ancient, beaten-up couch. One foot, heavily encased in plaster, was propped up on a torn leather ottoman. He wore a shabby tartan robe with a blanket tucked over his lap, and he stared expectantly at her as she ventured into the cluttered room.
"Who're you?" He demanded, slurring his words in a deep grating voice. "The temp, I hope? About damn time, that's all I can say."
Marron cast an uneasy glance at the half-empty brandy bottle waving about in his hand. She hoped he hadn't consumed the other half at that hour in the morning. Mrs. Morris would be shocked if she knew her latest client was a drunk.
"It's only a little after nine," she said briskly. "I had a little trouble finding the place. You are Mr. Briefs, I presume?"
"Damn right I am." He narrowed blue eyes at her. "Can you type?"
A hundred words a minute with ninety-nine percent accuracy."
"Know your way around a computer?"
"Both Windows and DOS."
"Hummph."
He studied her a moment longer, making her feel extremely self-conscious. Judging from the amount of bare chest she could see behind the gaping folds of his robe, it appeared that Mr. Briefs had not yet dressed for the day.
His lilac hair tumbled in an unruly mess over his forehead. She wondered if he could shower with a cast on his foot. Probably not. He would have to use the tub.
"How are you at rubbing backs?" he demanded, startling her out of her thoughts. Before she could answer however, his expression suddenly changed, becoming mournful. "I can't find my damn painkillers." He waved the bottle at her, sloshing the contents violently around it. "Have been drinking brandy to kill the pain."
"So I can see." Deciding to take the initiative, Marron stepped forward and took the bottle out of his unresisting hand. It wouldn't hurt to lay down some ground rules, she thought. "It's very bad for you to be drinking on an empty stomach," she announced, remembering the scorched eggs.
Trunks nodded his agreement. "Very bad to be in pain too. Damn bad, as a matter of fact. I just wish I could find my pills."
"I'll find them for you. Where's the bathroom?"
"Over there." Her client waved an arm vaguely in the direction of a door on the other side of the room. "Through the bedroom."
Deciding to get rid of the brandy first, Marron took the bottle out into the kitchen and found a spot on the counter for it.
"You're going the wrong way!" Trunks bellowed.
Marron winced. Returning to the living room, she fixed the invalid with baleful glare. "I'm not deaf, Mr. Briefs. I was simply putting the brandy away. When you address me in the future, I'd appreciate it if you'd do so in a more reasonable tone of voice."
He blinked, and then leaned unsteadily forward, squinting his eyes at her. "You know, you're a damn good-looking woman."
That settled it, Marron thought. The man was definitely drunk. She had no illusions whatsoever about her looks. Her nose was too small, her eyes were too pale blue, did nothing for her complexion.
As for her pale blond hair, no matter what miracle products she was tempted to use she could manage nothing than a limp, lifeless chin-length bob. The one time she'd attempted a perm she'd spent six miserable months waiting for the frizz to grow out.
Even if she'd been able to ignore her brothers' teasing about being the ugly duckling in a family of beauties, her mirror revealed the inescapable truth. Marron Chestnut was plain, a little over-weight and would always walk in her glamorous sisters' shadows.
Nevertheless, she blushed at Trunks' compliment. She didn't get that many. "Thank you," she murmured, doing her best to avoid looking at the gaping opening in his robe.
"Too bad you have such a prissy voice. What are you, a school teacher?"
Marron's cheeks burned. "My name is Marron Chestnut, and I am the temp you requested, here to assist you with your office work."
"Well-" He tipped forward, but he managed to check his downward momentum and struggled to an upright position again.
With an obvious effort at maintaining some dignity, he said carefully, "Well, Marron Chestnut, I suggest you lose that schoolmarm dis- dis- disposition." He stopped, frowning in a bewildered way. "What was I going to say?"
Marron tightened her mouth. "I'll look for your painkillers. Please don't move until I get back. I don't think I could lift you back onto that couch if you fell off it."
Trunks stared at her, and then burst into a fit of uproarious laughter. "That's rich," he spluttered as she picked her way through the debris of books, papers and files that littered the floor. "'Don't move' she says. I wish to hell I could move."
Ignoring him, Marron opened the door and peered inside. A double bed, covered partway by a colorful, rumpled patchwork quilt, took up most of the room. The window, draped in matching fabric, looked out the mist-enshrouded river to the opposite shore. Clothes lay scattered all over the tumbled sheets.
Apparently Mr. Briefs managed to get himself in and out of the bed, Marron reflected as she edged past the foot to what she assumed was the door to the bathroom. Upon opening it, however, she was in doubt as to whether anyone could call the space inside an actual room. It was more like a broom cupboard with a tub, sink and toilet together inside.
A pile of clothes topped with a pair of boots covered most of the floor space. Marron shook her head. How anyone managed to live in such messy, confined surroundings she had no idea. She was fast losing her fantasies about owning a houseboat.
A loud bellow from the living room made her jump. Hastily she looked around the miniscule bathroom. The medicine cabinet had a cracked mirror, and two narrow glass shelves, both of which were empty. There were no pill bottles lying on the sink, or on the toilet tank, and there was nowhere else to hide them.
Marron bent over and started picking up her clothes. They felt damp to the touch, and she dropped them into the grimy tub with a shudder. Underneath a pair of jeans, she discovered the bottle of prescribed painkillers.
At least she'd found them, she thought as she closed the door on the bedroom. The problem was, she probably shouldn't give the medication to the patient- not with all that booze in him. He'd just have to wait a few hours. She wasn't looking forward to explaining that to him.
A loud snore greeted her as she walked back into the living room. Her client sat where she'd left him, except now his chin was resting on his chest, and he was tipped forward at an alarming angle.
Hurrying forward, Marron decided that sleep would be the best thing for him, until the effects of the alcohol wore off. If she could just get him into a more comfortable position, he might stay that way for an hour or two, and give her time to clean up the deplorable mess around the house.
Mrs. Morris' explicit instructions echoed in her mind. Ignoring the little voice that warned she was breaking all the rules, Marron took hold of Trunks' broad shoulders and eased him sideways until his head lay flat on the seat.
Now that he was sleeping, she couldn't help noticing that her new employer was a good-looking man. Straight nose, firm jaw and what she liked to call a poetic mouth - sensitive and sensual. Embarrassed by her unexpected appraisal, she turned her attention back to the task at hand.
Gingerly, she lifted the bandaged foot and propped it over the arm of the couch. Then, taking care to keep his lap covered with the blanket she pulled his other leg up to join the uninjured one, rolling him onto his back. So far, so good. Except he looked kind of scrunched up in the middle, and his head needed to be raised.
Reaching behind the sleeping man, she tugged at the cushions jammed behind his back. She let out a startled shriek when without warning he clamped his arms around her back and pulled her down on top of him.
"Cold," he mumbled. "Come down here and keep me warm."
Darn, I thought I could get away with not revealing the temp for a while. I didn't know you lot were mind readers! (Or maybe I've already declared my undying support for T/M somewhere. Just like marron12 says, "TM4eva!")
I really appreciate it that you like the fics and want me to hurry up but I can only type so much! :) But don't worry, I always finish the things that I've started.