Are you just joining us for Barely Contained? Check out installment one here and installment two here!          

A NOTE TO MY READERS: If you are jumping in as a new reader, let me just tell you a little bit about BC.

Firstly, this story is along the lines of flash fiction. I took the prompt “when quarantine strikes, who would you want to be stuck with,” and ran with it. Details and backstory are sparse, but it does not make the story any less relatable and (hopefully) funny. Secondly, I am not making light of current events. I am doing what I do best by taking a shit sandwich and making it tolerable with wit, humor, and a whole lotta steam! Lastly, I am not profiting off of this in any way. Once all installments are complete and have been live for six weeks, Barely Contained will still be FREE for my newsletter subscribers. I do not aim to profit off the chaos of the world. I just want to give everyone a little balm for their anxiety and something to look forward to each week.

I hope you enjoy installment three!

XO,
Brit (B.L.) Olson

CHAPTER THREE: DAY ONE-MAGEDDON

Waking to the soft call of my name in the early hours of the morning was entirely disorienting. It conjured long forgotten memories of Tamsin behaving in much the same way when our parents first left. The resurfacing of those recollections was a bitter reminder of how out of control I felt at that period in my life, when I should have been preparing for my entrance into the adult world. Instead, the responsibility of caring for and raising a child was thrust upon me.

            When our parents first left, Tamsin would wake up from a bad dream and cry out for our mom. When reality would set in, she would quietly pad to my bedroom where she would stand in the doorframe and whisper my name to ask permission to crawl into bed with me.

            It has been awhile since I’ve reflected on those turbulent times, and the odd start to my day threw off my rhythm a little. I attempted to shake the lingering anxiety and tension that settled on my shoulders like a cloak by diving into my work, but that did nothing to ease it.

            And Honey’s bullshit story about a character named Ian, when it was so clearly the news on the television? She is hiding something from me, and I aim to find out what.

            If anything, because it is a great distraction.

            A distraction from the strain of being separated from my sister when she likely needs me the most right now, and also from the woman murmuring my name suggestively before the sun is even up.

Four hours. Four godforsaken hours of watching Honey do the most insane things, surely meant to tempt the boundaries of my patience and control of my lower extremity.

            The unusual wake-up aside, she walked out to pour herself a cup of coffee with her wild blonde mane atop her head, already short sleep shorts riding up her backside and displaying just the barest hint of cheek, and a tank top that is dipping so low that I didn’t even have to imagine the exact shape and perkiness of her breasts sans bra.

            They were there, on full display, and fuck if they weren’t just as juicy and tempting as the woman they belong to.

            I had trouble making eye contact during our awkward small talk and instead focused on the contents of my coffee mug as if they were the most fascinating thing since Professor Trelawney found a Grim in Harry Potter’s tea leaves.

            I know, I know. No Game of Thrones, but Harry Potter is part of almost every millennial’s childhood, so my comprehension of that material is much vaster. Especially since I would read it to Tasmin every night before bed in an attempt to show her that being an orphan isn’t the worst thing in the world, and that she can survive with a little help from her loved ones and friends.

            That was yet another reminder to keep my hands off of Honey and my mind away from all the wickedly delicious things I would like to do to her, with those legs of hers wrapped around my waist.

            Things went downhill from there.

            I settled at their small kitchen table, my laptop and the case files I grabbed in anticipation of lockdown spread out before me, and dove in to work that would usually make me tune out the rest of the world.

            Honey decided it was time to water her plants, which with her comes with a full show. Each plant has a name, a backstory, and a place in the plant hierarchy in her apartment and I got an intimate report on everything via song and dance.

            I am halfway through reading up on a case similar to the one I am supposed to defend when her watering routine ended with an orchid, a long rant about how it is more stubborn than my sister (who doesn’t even rival me, by the way) and jazz hands.

            I am not even fucking kidding. I heard the final high notes belted and glanced into the living room to witness Honey on bended knee and her fingers jazzing up all over the damn place.

            Contrary to everyone else who whips them out, on Honey it was kind of… hot… but that could be because she still hadn’t put on a bra and her tits were whipping back and forth as enthusiastically as her jazz hands.

            It took every single molecule of willpower within me to rip my eyes from the spectacle and try to make sense of the words sitting before me.

            It didn’t help. My vision was still all hands and boobs and fuck, my dick started getting hard and we hadn’t even made it very far into day one.

            From there, the day just further descended into madness.

            My own, that is.

            Have you watched the show The Witcher on Netflix? Yeah, I had no clue about it, but I quickly got the low down from Honey before starting it.

            She described the franchise with her usual golden aura pulsing with her excitement at getting to witness a series she found long ago come to life in another form of media.

            The show started innocently enough, or at least as innocent as a show where the hero’s favorite word is “fuck.” I half listened to it as I scanned another file, wanting to have at least somewhat of a grasp of the content because Honey’s behavior suggested she would want to discuss what she saw afterwards.

            And then… we reached the scene in the woods with Renfri. The first explicit scene of the show, and one I would learn is tame compared to the next one in the third and final episode we watched. It was one where the new sorceress Yennefer and some dude who I feel will become irrelevant in an episode or two, get it on in a cave.

            I could see the show from my place at the table, and at first, I admit, I got lost into the scene, the faces and bodies quickly replaced with Honey’s and my own. When it was all I could see, the only image that my brain would allow, I bat it back and got up from the table with a loud screech from the chair I was sitting in.

            I decided I needed a break from work and spent twenty minutes on their tiny deck, breathing in the moist spring air. I focused on the sounds of birds chirping away in the ornamental trees lining the apartment complex until my dick’s mini rebellion against me failed. 

            Only then do I go back inside, finding Honey had moved on to reorganizing the kitchen cabinets. The contents were all pulled out and precariously stacked on the counters, appearing as if a domino effect could take them out at any moment.

            I made it through half of another file pertaining to my case when something worse happened. I watched as Honey filled a bucket produced from under the sink with soap and water and proceeded to half crawl into the cabinets in an attempt to wipe them down.

            The only part of her visible was her back half. On anyone else my mind would equate the scene with that of Winnie the Pooh, which is fitting because he usually gets stuck with his ass hanging out while he is rooting for honey.

            Instead, Honey is stuck instead of the bear, with her supple ass cheeks wiggling with the frantic wiping of the sponge inside each and every single cupboard of the kitchen, beginning with the bottom row.

            I thought that was the most torturous position, what with the image of her mouth on my cock at the forefront of my mind, and not the case meant to be argued set before me.

            But then she got to the taller cupboards. Honey had yet to grasp that an absolute stranger was sharing her living space and hadn’t put on a bra yet. She wiped away at the higher cupboards, humming some unknown tune under her breath the whole time, and her boobs swayed from side to side as if in tempo with her tune.

            Right about now, you’re probably thinking, “What a dick. A woman can wear whatever she wants, or doesn’t want, and should do so without your blatant ogling.”

            I know. I know. As a man who had to have the sex talk with a young Tamsin and teach her to be nothing but herself, I am in opposition of everything I taught and preached.

            I hate it. I loathe myself for it. But does the acknowledgment of my abhorrent actions help me get them under control? That answer would be no. I am still wrongfully lusting over the woman my sister forbade me to have such thoughts over. 

            Have I mentioned we hadn’t even made it to lunch time on day one?

            I am fucking terrified of what havoc this quarantine will wreck on my self-control.

            Which brings us to present.

            Honey has finished her task of cleaning the cupboards, but the contents are still spewed all over the counters and sections of table not taken up by my computer, files, and legal pads of notes.

            By the looks of it, she has washed her hands of the whole endeavor and is moving on to her next task, which heaven help me with whatever the fuck that is because I just barely passed the last few trials meant to test the limits of my self-control.

            A limit I thought endless until I met Honey. Now, I have no idea where the line is drawn, and it is that uncertainty that has me snapping out to her before I can stop myself, “Stop. Where are you going?”

            She falters in her step and turns to face me. Her posture at first suggests contrition, as if she realizes her current project was left unfinished, but I watch as she pulls herself to her full height and appraises me with those blue-gray eyes that always seem stuck on the brink between a clear day and a stormy one.

            “I was going to go clean the bathroom,” she states plainly.

            “What about all this?” I gesture at the sea of china, Tupperware, and pantry items that stand between me at the table and her at the threshold of the kitchen.

            Her eyebrows rise in question but her voice challenges me, “What about it?”

            “Aren’t you going to finish before you move on to the next thing?”

            “Nah,” she shrugs casually. “The bathroom feels more pressing right now considering we still have hours until lunch.”

            I groan inwardly, the reminder that only a few short hours have passed since I awoke with the soft moan of my name on her lips.

            There are no doubts as to her actions, the evidence stacked against her.

            “But-” My words stop her from turning and pursuing her next project once more. “Why not finish this and then move on to the bathroom?”

            “I gave you a reason.”

            “Sure, yeah. It’s your place. Do what feels right to you.”

It doesn’t feel right to concede, but my words are nothing if not truthful. Who am I to dictate how Honey handles being locked up in her own apartment? For all I know, singles and couples are dealing with the same abandonment of tasks when faced with the unknown timeframe that the Beer Virus has forced us to deal with.

            “I told you to tell me if I was getting in your way, Liam,” Honey chides.

            I backtrack, throwing my hands up in a gesture meant to placate her. “You’re not getting in my way. Just making an observation.”

             “You weren’t making an observation; you were stating your opinion.”

            “Okay, maybe a little bit. It just makes sense to finish one thing before moving onto the other.”

            “And I told you, it just makes sense to me to go and clean the toilet right now.”

            “Sure, yeah,” I nod. “Whatever you want.”

            “Stop trying to placate me, Liam. I am not some timid witness sitting in the stand for cross examination.”

            “Fuck,” I mutter, much like the hero she had recently been watching on the television. I am beginning to understand why Geralt of Rivia enjoys the expletive so much.

            It so perfectly encompasses the situations, and women, we find ourselves dealing with.

            “Your kitchen looks like a tornado ripped through here. What situation do you have going on in the bathroom that is so desperate, you cannot put everything back before tackling it?”

            Honey gapes at me, words seeming to not come to her for a long moment. “Why does it matter?” She finally demands.

            “It doesn’t!” I snap. “Fuck, what are we even arguing about? This is stupid,” I mutter and slip my fingers into my hair, tugging at it out of frustration. An action that only one woman evoked from me before, but not anymore, apparently.

            “You tell me. You started it!”

            “What are we, five, Honey?”

            “I could say the same thing about you. I tried to go about this maturely, outlining the things I had planned and my expectations of you. You gave me certain expectations as well, and I followed them. So, what exactly has you so riled up, Mr. Turner?”

            “You!” I explode, “Fuck, Honey. You’re not listening to reason. Do I have to strong-arm you across my lap and spank your ass until you do?”

I wish I could take back the words the moment they leave my mouth, especially when I can’t help but notice they hit their mark, if the sharp intake of breath and fresh outbreak of goose pimples are any sort of indication.

            “W-what?” She stammers, understandably.

            “Nothing. Just forget about it.” I wave her off, turning my back to her and effectively ending any more questioning. Or at least I hoped.

            “Forget about it? You can’t just say,” her soft voice trails off for a moment before clearing and coming back stronger to say, “that, and then tell me to forget about it.”

            I pull a case file closer to me, trying to inject the finality I feel over this conversation into my tone, “I believe I just did.”

            Honey stomps from the room, her voice echoing to me as she presumably heads towards the shared restroom, “It’s not forgotten, Turner. Just on the back burner while I tackle the next thing on my list.”

            I mutter under my breath. “More like start and abandon the next thing on your list.”

            Quarantine was going to be one battle after another. An Armageddon, if you will, and who will be the victor remains to be seen.

            Where I once thought it would be me, I no longer believe that to be the case.

            Honey may just prove to be a worthy opponent, and we have all the time in the world to plan and execute our moves and find out.

            Nothing is certain with quarantine, most of which is the undisputed winner of the sure to be infamous case, Liam Turner v. Honey Montgomery. 

            A large part of me is thrilled at the prospect of such a highly unusual scenario, but the sane part of Liam knows the entire case is a risk.

            And Honey may just get my heart in the settlement if I am not too careful.

Check back next week for installment four!