This week, I'm doing something different. Not that I've forgotten Marshall and Lee, far from it, but one of the prompts called to me, and it would never have fit in the guys' story. So I wrote a little something, and I'd like to get your opinion - should I continue it or not? For right now, I'm using a working title of Finndeavor, but that is subject to change. I hope you enjoy it! Don't forget to see what the other Briefers are up to. Their links follow my tale. Enjoy!
How many drummers does it take to drive a man insane?
Just one. All he has to do is pound out a steady rhythm that refuses to quit.
“Please stop that noise,” Finndeavor Washington Burr whispered aloud to no one in particular, but his heartfelt entreaty did nothing to ease the thrumming in his brain. Sterner measures were obviously called for, perhaps even rising, although he was little inclined to follow that course of action at the moment. He cautiously opened one eye but loudly groaned as a bright light of supernova proportions threatened to blind him. He quickly rolled over, away from the offending rays… and up against another body.
Why was there someone in his bed? And who was it?
The lump rolled and resolved itself into the familiar form of his manservant, Jefferson. But that didn’t answer the question. What was Jefferson doing in his bed? Jefferson threw one bare brown leg across Finn, never waking.
Finn cleared his throat. Startled large mocha eyes gazed back at him.
“Excuse me, Mr. Finn, sir, but why exactly are you in my bed?”
“I’m not in your bed, you’re in mine.” Finn corrected him and winced. “And please don’t shout. I’m right here and I can hear you perfectly.”
“I’m not shouting,” Jefferson assured him. “My head would explode if I raised my voice even a modicum.”
“Mine too,” Finn admitted. He tried to sit up, but Jefferson’s leg was making that difficult. The fact that the man was naked wasn’t helping any. Plus he was gorgeous. Under other circumstances, Finn would pause to admire his long limbs and finely sculpted ass. But not today. He gingerly slid the entangled limb from him, all too aware that he was naked also.
There must be a story here, but damned if he could recall it at the moment.
“Jefferson, what’s the last thing you remember?”
Jefferson shook his head to clear it. The sight of his dark mane, hair flowing like sinuous snakes, never failed to fascinate Finn. He often marveled that Jefferson’s locks never tangled, despite their propensity to wave in the slightest breeze. Like the man himself, he was always in control of them, a trait which Finn found to be most admirable.
“As I recall, you wished to go out last night. To, as you put it, celebrate your last night of freedom.”
Finn frowned. “But the wedding isn’t for months yet…?”
Jefferson shrugged. “My place was not to argue, sir. You were most adamant in your desire, and I saw no harm in indulging you in a drink.” He flashed Finn a cautious smile. “Or two. Or maybe a baker’s dozen? I believe I lost count.”
“As did I.” Finn groaned again, his stomach joining the fray, along with his throbbing temple. Bits and pieces of the previous night began to filter into his mind, like watching flashes of a half-remembered play when you had no idea who the characters were or what was going on.
“It was that new drink, wasn’t it? The caramel one.”
“A caramel mocha bourbon flame,” Jefferson confirmed. “The bartender assured us tis all the rage in Paris, so you insisted on having a taste. I must admit, it was very good.”
“Very good,” Finn agreed. Maybe a little too good? He’d found it sweet and addictive, and it went down one’s throat as easily as water, but it was also deceptively strong.
As evidenced by the position in which they found themselves today.
Naked, and in Finn’s bed.
Belatedly, Finn realized that the current tableau would hardly meet with the approval of his fiancé. Good thing she wasn’t here.
Taking his attention off Jefferson for a moment, Finn glanced around them. The room was a complete shambles. Clothes were strewn about the floor, along with what appeared to be feathers. Finn squinted at the walls. Had they always been that colorful conglomeration of colors, or had a madman snuck in and fingerpainted them while he was asleep?
“Did we do this?” Finn found that hard to believe. Sure, he liked to have fun as much as the next man, but this went beyond having fun. This was insane.
“I can’t remember,” Jefferson confessed. “Did I remember to tell you I need today off? Urgent family business I must attend do. I should go now.”
He made a futile attempt to roll from the bed but Finn caught him by the arm and pulled him back. Unfortunately that resulted in Jefferson lying on top of him. Very much naked.
And very hard.
Finn swallowed. “Forget it, mister. You’re staying right here.”
“Right here, sir?” Jefferson leaned closer to Finn, until his lips were mere almost on top of Finn’s.
This was not what Finn had had in mind.
So why did he do nothing to regain the upper hand, which was all Jefferson’s at the moment? And why were his lips parting, almost as if in anticipation…
“I didn’t mean… I didn’t… I…” Finn stammered, unable to form coherent words, just as a piercing cry rent the air.
Jefferson fell back onto the bed, clutching at his head, an action which Finn mimicked.
A small furry bundle flew into the room and up on the bed. It wound its arms around Finn’s neck and began to chitter to him in monkey talk.
“Hamilton, please,” Finn pleaded. “I’ve got a headache.”
“You’ll have more than a headache when I’m through with you,” came an icy voice from the doorway.
Finn knew he was in trouble now. He darted a glance toward the speaker. Abigail Prescott. His fiancé. He’d seen storm clouds that appeared friendlier than she did as she glanced between him and Jefferson.
This was a catastrophe of major proportions. He couldn’t imagine the situation could get any worse.
A lump stirred beneath the blankets on the bed and a sleepy head popped up.
“Morning, gentlemen!” a cheery voice proclaimed.
Oh God. George. It just got worse.
to be continued
Now to see what the other Briefers are up to!