I literally fell for her; tripped over and fell on her, on the sunny, gritty beach of Virginia Beach. I wasn't spiritually ... emotionally lost, I believe; but, what we "believe" is so very often wrong. I suppose I was inactively, instinctively hunting something ... something I almost felt, but couldn't as yet begin to verbalize.

        Anyway, because of muggers, mad dogs, and badly driven cars, I'm always very aware of everything and everyone around me, when I take my morning run; but, it was late in the day. So, maybe because my flight'd been delayed or because I'd become strangely out-of-synch or...?

        My mind was ... fixated on a problem, now entirely forgotten, as I turned my head, toward the frightened, anguished cry of a lone sea bird, who sounded ... terribly and despairingly lonely to me ... and, somehow, devastatingly lost. And, in gazing aside at the bird, for all of two blind seconds, I knocked her down, onto the sand-a brown woman, in a long, potato sack, calico dress.

        What a face!

        An American face of excellently blended African and Native American genes, with a healthy little dollop of European blood, a terribly agitated face, as she fetally balled up in great pain and wouldn't let me look at her injured ankle.

        I explained that she could "trust me", that I knew what I was doing, when I wasn't "knocking defenseless young women to the ground". She didn't laugh, slightly chuckle, or even crack the tiniest of a smile, and from furtive, dark eyes, she gave me a shaky, cursory once over-at the brown skin over hard-angled facial bones, at my black hair and dimly Asian eyes.

        I have a lot more than "a healthy dollop of European blood" myself, from Dad's side, which explains the beard [a recent addition] and the general curliness of my hair, which I've let grow to its own rule for months now. But, despite the Old World genes, I look most like my mother's Peruvian-Incan / Mexican-Mayan, New World genes.

        I told my hapless victim my name was Benn, Bennet Gillespie.

        She took a more thorough, ill-at-ease view of me into her head, which was covered with tousles of ... dark brown ringlets, which in the sunlight had auburn streaks, speckled with very premature silver. The sterling was incongruous with her physical youthfulness; but, the heartrending glance from those eyes hinted that it was well earned. Finally, she stared into my eyes, then nominally stopped cringing and gazed downward, as her ("demure" came oddly to mind) ... as her demure signal permitting me to have my way with her, so to speak.

        I checked her injury.

        She had the shapely legs of an athlete or dancer, and wore battered out, lowheeled ankle boots, that were slightly Victorian or Edwardian or one of those old "-ian" styles, laced over soft, thick socks. The ankle moved stiffly, painfully. The footgear was in the way, so, I began unlacing to better ascertain how bad off it was, because sometimes there are hidden breaks and misleading damage.

        She abruptly realized I was actually opening her boot and flinched away, shrieking at me; but, the small boot and sock slipped off into my hand. She fell silent, completely mortified, then started crying, wailing, in fact, lying flat back in the sand.

        Besides the swelling I'd caused, her ankle had a deep cut. Not an immediately recent cut, that I might have caused her, but a deep, nicely healing, surgical one — and I know this because my mother was a surgeon and she'd made me take "real" medicine classes and be her assistant, to go with the rest of my training.

        This cut was nicely, cosmetically stitched; but, I bet you, and I'd win, that the seam was there to repair something grossly traumatic.

        She was lying there sobbing actual tears. I know because I pulled her hands away from her face and checked. However, whether the tears were also actually genuine...? I glanced up and down the beach and saw absolutely no one else around for continents. The nearest anything was a lonely looking, one-story beachhouse behind us, that was showing no life or interest in us, and I had a little insight.

        She attempted stopping me, as she sat up and wordlessly defended her secret, until finally allowing me, in mute, humiliated resignation, to unlace the other boot—that stiff and pained ankle was also restitched. Both of them were sewn quite a way around, like a can opener makes a cut around a lid, until it's nearly severed. However the original lacerations had been made, it hadn't been by penknife or train wheel — I've seen the resulting cuts of both of those on the human body; these'd been done by something in between.

        I asked if she lived nearby, I suggested I call for an ambulance, or I could carry her to my car at the hotel a mile or so back up the beach, and she obviously hated all my ideas. Noisily so. Who'd think so much mournfully, piercing sound could come out of such a perfect mouth. I began considering that she might be completely inarticulate, then, I had another insight — with her ankles this raw, she had to've come from nearby. I asked her, quite specifically, where she lived.

        She clammed up like a petulant child and really didn't want to answer that, so I told her if I couldn't take her home, I'd have to take her to a hospital. I couldn't just leave her there, like a beached wha—.

        "What are you doing to her, young man?"

        It was a Scottish accent, hurried and harried, from a probably usually pleasant but now distressed, slimly roundish and handsome, middle-aged woman in her fifties, who glared at me, as if she already hated my very existence.

        "I fel...we bumped into each other and she's bruised, maybe even sprained her ankle. It's a little hard to tell ... with all the other damage."

        "My young lady hasn't torn open her wounds, has she?"

        "No, ma'am; but she refuses to go to the hospital, or tell me where she lives. Where—?"

        "For shame, Ms. Day. You know, quite well, you're not allowed out here alone. Why did you come so far out, without me? And so close to the water?" The Scot wanted to chastise more but apparently felt my rocking and sobbing victim / patient was already in enough piteous grief.

        "Is she all right? Can she walk?"

        I shook my head "no". The younger woman's leg was ... well, both legs were enough of a problem, but her tremulous demeanor wouldn't get her anywhere. I told the Scot I'd play beast of burden and carry "Ms. Day", if I could be pointed in the right direction. I picked the young woman up and she smelled of fruit, of peaches and vanilla; some sort of shampoo, I thought. The weepy thing stiffened, then calmed and relaxed in my arms, as I followed the older woman, carrying her socks and boots, to the same beachhouse I'd spotted behind us.

        If it had a style name other than beachhouse, I wouldn't know. I have cousins in the Yucatan with a shack on the beach, at the edge of the jungle where, on our vacations as children, we caught snakes and milked them of their venom for cash from a New York City researcher, who "wasn't good" with poisonous serpents. This house wasn't huge but it was no shack, either. The Scotswoman was its live out housekeeper, as she led us in and found a proper place on the sofa for me to place my shapely charge.

        I know that sounds a bit ... but, a man gets a fairly involved idea of a woman's body, when he's carrying it against his own.

        "What's this all about, Mrs. Gorbachev?!"

        The Scot, Mrs. Gorbachev, explained our situation to the late sixties, early seventy something, Anglo-English master of the house, a Mr. Hopkins, who seemed even more suspicious and disdainful of my presence than the Russian Scot. He didn't want me touching his ... whatever "Ms. Day" was to him. Then, he called her his "daughter"....

        Plenty of people don't look anything like their parents; plus ... he could be a foster or step—.

        It didn't matter what they were to each other, the logic loving part of my brain reminded me.

I suggested my hosts have someone look at her injury and in the meanwhile I could make a poultice—.

        "A what?"

        Yeah, like he wasn't old enough to have heard or probably worn one himself sometime. Probably back during The Blitz, The Great War, or that little altercation between Generals York and Washington even. Something about the man pissed me off. I think it was just him — not because he was English, or much older, but because he was ... him — whoever he was. I took a step to leave and Ms. Day grabbed my hand, tightly. She dug her sharp, natural, and hard, little nails into me, not to hurt me, but plainly because she was afraid for some reason.

        "Let the man go, Day. He must leave."

        She shook her head "no", then began saying "no", over and over, and when I moved, she stood up abruptly, which had to have hurt her legs a great deal. She continued clinging to the flesh of my arm. Her begging me to stay could have been nice, if her nails hadn't been gouging me, nearly to drawing blood, and if the other two people in that uncozy, expensively appointed house hadn't glared at me, as if I'd put her up to it.

        I tried peeling her off me and getting her to lie back on the sofa, but she wouldn't heed me, and she certainly wasn't listening to either of them. Actually he was no help at all, and managed to make everything worse, as he barked sharp orders at her. Condescendingly, I felt. I did wonder if Day's middle name were Night. He snapped at her to "behave like an adult" and to let me, "the stranger", go about my business, etc. That sounded condescending, too. It was getting out of hand, and I was losing needed skin cells to her clawing.

        Mrs. G, however, had a simple idea.

        "You know, sir, how she detests all those doctors you brought her here to see. Ms. Day, do you want the gentleman to stay?"

        Day instantly looked at the woman in relief without letting go of me. Hopkins, old bean, was very pissed at the question. I thought I could, perhaps, help all concerned, and suggested, if I could leave for an hour or less, I could grab some things from my hotel, some herbs—.

        "'Herbs'?" He pronounced it like a man's name.

        I explained to him that I was a curandero, a trained and licensed healer. That got a big harrumph. I also added I was the son of a surgeon. He asked why I wasn't a "doctor" doctor. Maybe it was his stentorian tone of voice that annoyed me. Then again, it was none of his business—okay, it's a sore point of mine.

        I merely reminded him, instead, that since she was refusing to go to the hospital, her leg might become infected, or at least hurt a hell of a lot, for a hell of a long time, making her more lame. Even in America, gangrene still occurs, which can lead to amputation. Also, as temperamentally highstrung as she'd been since I'd met her, neither of them would get any rest sleeping or fetching and carrying for her every second, which they'd ... which Mrs. G'd most likely had just stopped doing recently, because of the ankle surgery.

        I explained that as a well-trained, experienced, and highly sought after curandero, I always carry or can find herbs, oils, and teas to soothe, calm, and take down the swelling of most any infection or injury. The treatments might even urge her to sleep for awhile. I kept it to myself that I thought she was being juvenilely bitchy; however, I suspected the beauty was something of a headcase, or at least terribly spoiled rotten somehow.

        What a waste.

        Neither of them had a better idea of what to do with her, in order for them to handle her, as she refused to listen to or be touched by them; so, Hopkins, in his extreme reluctance, agreed to let me return. The really hard part came when I tried to extricate myself from Day. Finally, I convinced her I was coming back, "soon", by setting her attention on the ancient gold locket I wore around my neck.

        It has a childhood photo of my sister and me, and one of my mother; my dead mother. I was reaching for simpatico involvement from Day, to affect her and get her out of herself and more focused. I slipped the locket, hanging on its black cord, from my neck onto hers. Her possessing it, in payment against my return, seemed to satisfy her enough, and she let me go.

===========

        "Dipping into several genres from erotica to mystery, even sprinkling a little comedy into the mix, Sourne created a story like no other. This morbid (yes morbid) tale had me shaking my head in astonishment and I can honestly say I never read anything like Hobble before.

        Sourne wrote a novel with such a large supply of twist and turns it'll have you dropping your mouth in shock.

        But be forewarned, Hobble has a crazy mix of characters who made me wish I had some holy water to splash on every single one of them. Some of the sex scenes had me (a person who loves erotica) squirming. Although the book is racy, it was an interesting read and should be picked up by anyone who enjoys reading something different from the norm."

--Joy Farringdon, Nubian Sistas Review

READ  Full Review  BUY HOBBLE

===========

        I — unfortunately or fortunately, depending on your perspective — never actually gave it serious, full consideration; but, it crossed my mind, more than once, while I was gone from Day ... not to go back. Which wasn't disputable. The heartshaped locket was not emotionally or psychologically replaceable; and Day's ankles, especially the one I'd bruised on top of the old injury and surgical repair, needed my attention. I'd said I'd take care of it, and I was most likely the only person she'd allow near her who could help what was wrong with her-in the leg department, at least.

        I also had to admit, when I took a few moments to rinse off, change, and grab a bag, that Day ... intrigued me. Maybe, I should've sat and thought about that a while longer, perhaps in a chilly shower. Her "intriguing me" was probably not a good thing, as my newest, gratis client; especially, since Hopkins was so clearly defensively overprotective of her ... and I had no possible clue about whatever it was that kept her so stressed way up there on that thinly taut highwire of hers.

        It didn't help that I didn't believe the father-daughter equation. Not fully. He did act somewhat brusquely fatherly toward her; but, that could've just been the vast age difference. Plus, my gut said there was something else about them.

        My brain logically said their personal relationship absolutely wouldn't matter, once I took my scheduled flight back out, so, I left it at that.

        I parked my rental car in the drive, and heard her before I got to the porch, that runs all along the oceanside of the house, then around the one side nearest the drive and garage. She was shrieking again, "keening" Mrs. G called it. It was an effectively poignant sound, if keeping the household at bay and stepping gingerly around her was the goal.

        "Ms. Day, here he comes now!"

        The young woman had her palms and elbows up, defensively barricading herself from being touched, especially by Hopkins, who threw his hands up in total, practiced impatience with her. Day looked around at me. My first impression this time at the sight of that extraordinary face was that she was indisputably bright; it was in her eyes; but, there was also a coldness there, and again that look of fear ... an old fear.

        The sunny eagerness she stunningly expressed at my presence warmed me more than I should have let it, and it never occurred to me that I'd fallen down the proverbial rabbit hole. But, I was plainly needed and it was a smart thing, that I'd come back, because she was feverishly exhausting herself, in fending them off, and now both naked ankles were in incredibly bad, unusable shape.

        She shouldn't have been on the shore in the first place.

        I had Mrs. Gorbachev make her tea from the leaves I'd brought and she had to hold the cup for Day, who was shaking too much to maintain it herself, while I gently massaged, then wrapped the damaged ankles in poultices of warm castor oil and herbs. Hopkins had no tolerance for any of it and went outside to chainsmoke. She fell asleep and Mrs. G had me carry her to her room, where Day obviously spent a lot of time, by the look of the presence of a great number of books and videos.

        Her bedroom had a full bath attached that was shared with another room alongside. From what I could see in there, it had a large folded futon, some boxes, and little else, as if someone had half moved in, then forgotten it all. I was fairly certain Mr. Hopkins' room was behind the closed, smoky door across the hall from hers. Mrs. G opened Day's windows, which were tall, large, deep silled, and placed comfortably for sitting, then she pulled the curtains partially together, leaving only a narrow view of the waning afternoon.

        "Have you eaten?"

        Mrs. Gorbachev's gentle question was an insightful one, and kind. I hadn't eaten, not since very early in the morning on the flight in to the convention, then I'd had seminars [one I conducted] and meetings at the Association's facilities with some others, who do or are interested in what I do. That's the Association for Research and Enlightenment(tm) (A.R.E.(tm), the Sleeping Prophet, Edgar Cayce's people.

        She set a place for me at the dining table. The cramped dining area openly adjoined the living room and a tiny bar area. The house was basically made for only one or two people to be in comfort ... and probably never any guests, if Hopkins' attitude were evidence.

        "You're a good cook, Mrs. Gorbachev."

        "Thank you. And, you're good with Ms. Day. Most people aren't." My esteemed value had definitely gone up in Mrs. G's treatment of me, since her first words to me.

        "'Most people aren't'? Really? She's so ... soft ... so sweet. He calls her daughter. Is he--?"

        "She is sweet, normally. Ms. Day has a ... vagueness, though, and ofttimes becomes confused. Plus, the injuries to her legs trouble her a great deal. That's all." She seemed to remember something unpleasant she didn't want to, before adding, "He's quite responsible for her."

        A little cryptic, and it was said in a manner, that said nothing else would be said about it.

        "Gorbachev? Scottish accent? Is there an interesting story there?"

        She laughed. A warm, pleasant laugh. There was an interesting story. Nice, sweet story. I avidly listened, although, I was becoming really tired. A good bedtime story. Her narrative had all the elements: immigrants in a new land, romance, love, children, widowhood, a job opportunity taking care of—.

        Day was awake, and not happily so. The girl had way too much electricity going through her brain and should've stayed asleep. Mrs. G went to her young lady, who wanted to know where I was. I went to her and asked Mrs. G to bring her another cup of my herbal tea.

        Day had shed her dress to the floor and had slipped on a soft, thin ... thin robe. Except for my wrappings at her ankles, it was clearly the only thing she wore. I notice those kinds of things. She was trying to walk, and making a turtle's progress, which meant my attention to her legs was working; but, obviously, she shouldn't have been on her feet yet, as she looked like she was seriously considering getting down on all fours to crawl to wherever.

        "Where're you trying to go?" She hesitantly, petulantly pointed to the bath.

        We all hate it when we need assistance with going to the toilet, because it's all part of being a mature and independent person. I scooped her up and carried her in and told her to call me back-when she was ready. Finally she did, she was too incapacitated to do otherwise. Tea. Massage. Rewrap.

        Mrs. G had to go for the night, and hoped I'd have a wonderful life, since she wouldn't see me again. Too bad, I wanted to hear more specific details of how a Scottish widow of a Russian immigrant had ended up playing nanny to this particular woman ... and man.

        I'd forgotten about Hopkins. He was somewhere, out of the way. Day's swelling, the one I'd caused, had gone down noticeably. Thank you, Mr. Cayce. She took my hand and I thought she was just going to hold it. People do that, sometimes. They're grateful to be out of pain, to not be alone, to be gently touched. No one touches anymore, not without first considering if they could be sued for it. She slid my hand up the inside of her firmly inviting thigh.

        "No."

        It was bad enough I didn't want to say "no", and of course, Hopkins picked that moment to check in. I didn't think, or at least hoped he hadn't seen. Which all probably didn't matter because he'd made it clear the first moment he'd seen me that my presence was absolutely not something he wanted. He took me aside, out of sight and sound of her.

        "Mr. Gillespie, Mrs. Gorbachev has pointed out that your skills might be ... required ... in the night; should Day become distressed again. She has ... a condition ... besides her ankles. But, in the past, we've given her various drugs; but, the 'way she's wired', as the experts here say, the chemicals only aggravate her to horrid distraction or inordinately depress her. You ... you seem to have a ... somewhat calming affect on her."

        He didn't like saying that, and wanted even less to say the rest. Finally, he did.

        "Mrs. Gorbachev prepared the sofa for you. There's a restroom off the side." His face screamed that it pained him to have me there, killed him to need me, and if he could've dropped a house on me right then, I know he would've.

* * BUY HOBBLE * *

        I slept for only about an hour ... an hour and a half, maybe. Theirs was not a house of rest. I got a glass of water, then wandered out, onto the beachside porch, and followed it around to where it becomes a balcony over deadly rocks above the road below. I'd never before seen a home porch railing with what appeared to be ... jumper bars.

        There were weak, sharply distressed sounds, hers, and a man's calmly wheedling voice, his. I could see and hear them between the wide crack in the drapes of her open window. Hopkins was murmuring unintelligibly to Day, as he lay beside her, in her bed. She plainly didn't want him there, she was stressed and cringing at his touch, dodging her face away from his, as he endeavored to gaze at hers; but, she wasn't shrieking or physically keeping him at a distance, as she'd done earlier, when she'd wanted me to stay.

        Whatever their true relationship was — I couldn't, didn't really believe ... not in the pit of my stomach that they were blood or stepwhatever. I normally can trust my gut's input. Anyway, despite what my eyes saw and whatever the roiling distaste was churning my dinner, I didn't feel I should ... interfere.

        Day turned her mouth from his, and I believe she saw me, as he whispered something in her ear, unheard by me, which made her flinch, before he more loudly, coaxingly instructed her to "close her eyes", "as always", because it "would be all right", it "would be better that way". It did seem to help calm her, as she lay still as death in her unenthused, desireless body, as he stared at her, touched her in his coveting of all of her.

        And, I was no better ... watching.

        I didn't mean to stay; but ... I did. He flung open her robe, through which I'd already judged that I liked her body immensely. In his revealing her.... I loved her body.

        Oh, great. Now, I'm officially a friggin' peeping tom!

        I became hot with shame, anger, and confusion-probably pretty much what she was feeling ... unless this was some convoluted game of theirs.

[End of Excerpt]

REREAD First Chapter Part 1,

The Dangerous and Sexy Part of First Chapter, Part 2,

Plot Paragraph Excerpts,

Emotional / Psychological High Stakes "Yes. MORE.",

and snippets of Adults only -- XXX Yes. Adults only.

Yes, you may find: oral sex, anal sex, public sex, rough sex, threeway, and possibly father daughter incest sex.

*********************************

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