My Lover’s Stepfather

I looked over to where there was a wing-back chair in front of a fireplace. There was a small side table next to the chair and a breakfast tray on top of the table. I decided that was why I had heard the door click. I’d received breakfast.

I had to admit I was hungry. I painfully pulled myself off the bed, took a pair of jeans from my suitcase, pulled them gingerly on, and went over to the tray. I was pouring a cup of coffee, when I heard the braying of more than one dog out on the front lawn. Taking the coffee with me, and sipping as I went, I went out on the porch and over to the railing.

I arrived there just in time to see five men striding down the lawn toward the water, with three hounds nipping merrily at their heels. Four of the men were dressed as Joe was the previous day, prepared for a day of hunting. One of them was Joe Morton and three of them were almost carbon copies of him—undoubtedly the remaining Morton brothers. The head of hair on one of them brought back a painful memory. They must have arrived yesterday while Joe was fucking me down by the pier. I wasn’t all that dumb. The “nightmare” of the previous night was getting a lot less hazy. I’d been drugged and bagged by the Morton brothers. It wasn’t only ducks they hunted down on the remote Pamlico Peninsula.