Marcus Caravahlo (_caravahlo_) wrote in horror_story, @ 2013-01-10 23:59:00 |
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Entry tags: | complete, cycle002, marcus, sully |
Who: Marcus and Sully
When: December 20th, around 10 PM (following this thread and these texts)
Where: The St. Claire house on Orange Street
What: Marcus ventures forth to valiantly conquer what was, essentially, a booty call.
Warning: Adult. "M for Marcus." They're both getting nudity points for this one.
The picture she'd texted him had been the deciding factor for Marcus. He'd been considering getting in touch with her again, wasting some time during the holidays, but he hadn't acted on the idea. As far as the mad dash to get days off at the hospital was concerned, Marcus usually bowed out. He didn't have family obligations for any of the holidays, and he valued the overtime pay. So around that time of year, he was picking up a lot of extra shifts, earning him hefty paychecks and plenty of good will with his co-workers who did have families they wanted to be home with. By simply being willing to work a few doubles throughout the week, Marcus could look like a fucking saint. Later, when he did want time off, he'd have a laundry list of people who owed him one. It was all win-win, so long as HR didn't cut him off for violating OSHA regulations with his scheduling. No more 32-hour straight shifts. He could work with that.
That Thursday was actually his first night off since the last time he'd seen the tall, lanky blonde at the bar. Had she not texted him the picture, he might have drunk himself over to the funeral home to embarrass himself. Again. Instead, he found himself carefully driving over to Orange Street, hoping like hell that he wasn't stopped by a patrol. O'Brien wasn't too irritating to deal with, but he wasn't prone to working late Thursday nights since his promotion to deputy. It would have been Donnelly, likelier than not, or one of the other petty traffic officers, and those guys were a bit more righteous than Marcus could handle without a fistfight.
Not exactly how he wanted the night to go.
So he drove carefully, keeping to the speed limit because he knew he wasn't fucking sober enough to keep himself from punching a cop. All because a stranger had texted him a picture of herself in her underwear and heels. He'd been right about the nature of said underwear, but that had never been much of a question for him. Sure, she was too skinny. Undeniably flat-chested. But she didn't seem to be ashamed or self-conscious of that fact, which Marcus appreciated. What mattered most to him was that it was an unmistakable promise. Not the subtle, barely there hints and innuendo he got from Bryant, so flimsy they could vanish under the scrutiny of retrospect like fucking cobwebs, making him feel like a goddamn idiot. Goldilocks teased, too, but it was broadstrokes teasing. Whatever her end game was, it probably wasn't going to involve leading him on for months on end, digging her way under his skin. She probably just wanted a sure thing, which he was.
The big white house at the end of Orange Street was big, situated next to Fauna Marshal's overgrown place. Marcus was surprised by it. He wasn't sure who the fuck lived there that she could be staying with, and the thought occurred that she might not be alone in a house that size. Maybe she'd found one of the older rich fucks in town to shack up with. Maybe there was some kind of party going on, and he was being baited out for entertainment.
What the fuck ever, though. He was social. If entertainment was desired, he could fucking provide. There wasn't a lot in the world that a man his size had to be afraid of, and Marcus was too hard-up and far too drunk to exercise caution. Even with the thought that she might not be alone in the house, even knowing that it could be the wrong house for all he knew, Marcus sauntered up to the door and rang the fucking bell. Whoever was inside was going to know he was fucking there, whether they knew he was coming or not.