Furious Jeffrey Higgins (english love story books TXT) 📖

The sun had set, which meant I had been asleep for at least four hours.

I slipped off the bed and winced when I put weight on my injured foot, now swollen and painful. I balanced on the ball of my foot and exited the berth into the dark salon. I climbed the stairs to the deck and gazed at miles of black sea. The engine hummed as we motored west through the windless night.

Brad had been violent and scary, but I needed to check on him. I owed him that as a doctor. And as his wife. I tried not to think about his imminent death.

I climbed below and entered to the dark stateroom. Brad lay atop the sheets and breathed through thick mucus. His leg twitched, like a sleeping dog, probably from muscle spasms. I watched him for a few minutes, then inspected my body. I had not bathed in two days, and I felt tired, dirty, and out of ideas. I needed to shower, drink a pot of coffee, and develop a plan to reach shore.

I stepped into the head and inched the door shut. I stood in front of the mirror and stripped off my bikini. Underneath, my white skin contrasted with my bronze tan. I had not realized how dark I had become since we had taken to sea. Lines of salt crisscrossed my skin where sweat had dried.

I examined my reflection in the mirror. I looked ten years older than I had on land. I pulled the dressing off my foot, and it bled. I would need to give myself stitches and take an antibiotic or risk infection. I reapplied the dressing to avoid staining the deck any more than I already had.

I opened the shower stall, stepped inside, and closed the plexiglass door. I turned on the faucet and stepped under the large, rain-forest showerhead. Warm water beat against my breasts, like a thousand fingers massaging my stress away.

I dipped my head under the flow and let it embrace me. I reached for the shampoo and lathered my hair while the water ran. I had no intention of taking a navy shower. I needed this.

I rinsed the shampoo out of my hair, slipped a washcloth off the rack behind me, and lathered it with a bar of soap. I scrubbed my face, upper body, and legs. The warm water felt like the fountain of youth. I spread my feet and rubbed the cloth between my thighs. The soft cloth felt good. I lathered again, turned away from the shower head, and cleaned my posterior. I let the soap wash down my legs. I could stay in there all day.

I turned around and screamed.

Brad stood inches from the plexiglass door. He stared at me with dilated pupils and perspiration beading on his forehead. His eyes drifted between my legs.

I covered myself with my hands.

He did not move. His erection pushed against his boxer shorts, and his eyes locked on me with the same leer I had seen in the eyes of middle-aged men when I jogged on Commonwealth Avenue in my skin-tight leggings. Brad’s expression looked prurient, hungry, dangerous.

He pulled his boxers off and let them drop to the deck. He grabbed the stall handle and pushed the door open.

I threw myself against the glass, slamming it shut.

“Stop it Brad. What are you doing?”

“Grrrgh.” Drool dripped off his teeth.

“Get out. I’m in the shower.”

He opened the door again.

I leaned my weight into it again, and my feet slid until they bumped against the bulkhead. I used it for leverage and pushed. The door clicked shut.

“Brad, you’re scaring me. Stop it right now.”

“Fuck,” he said, and pointed between my legs.

“Get out. I mean it.”

What kind of neurological horror is this?

Brad’s eyes rolled up in his head and he placed one hand against the stall. He grabbed himself with his other hand and orgasmed. Creamy ropes of semen splashed against the stall door. I watched. Horrified. Shaking. His ejaculate slid down the door leaving long soapy streaks. I had never seen Brad touch himself, not even during sex. What the hell was this?

I cried. This thing was not my husband.

Brad opened his eyes and gaped at his erection and the mess on the stall door. He wrinkled his forehead, confused. He raised his eyes to mine, as if asking a question, and cocked his head.

“Head hurts,” he said.

I glared at him, silent.

He turned and walked away, dripping his seed on the floor.

I realized I had been holding my breath and gasped.

He groaned as the mattress settled under his weight. What should I do? If I had not closed the door, would he have raped me? Did he know what he was doing?

I’m trapped.

I pressed my face against the glass and cried.

Brad’s snoring echoed through the cabin, more gurgling than breathing. I stepped out of the stall and peeked through the open door. He lay in bed, his feet twitching with muscle spasms. I had to get away from him.

I slid the door open more, and it creaked.

Brad stopped snoring.

I froze. I held my breath until his respirations resumed. I stepped over the mess he had left on the teak floor and stayed on my toes.

Brad’s eyes were closed, and he smacked his lips, as if desiccated. When had he last been able to drink anything?

I had stored my clothes in the wardrobe on the other side of the bed. I slipped into the stateroom, three feet from the foot of the bed.

Brad snorted and bared his teeth, still asleep. Probably.

I stepped toward the bureau, and a hunk of glass pushed against my dressing. I stopped and lifted my foot before it pierced my skin. Tiny shards still littered the deck in front of the bureau.

I eyed Brad, who was getting another erection. This virus was demonic.

Brad grabbed himself, and his snoring stopped.

I had to move.

I swung the medical kit over my shoulder, tiptoed across the cabin, and shut the door behind me.

Brad groaned.

I made it,