The Castle Mount Book One of The Adventures of a Time Whore

It was so good to be home. I kicked my shoes off and left them in the middle of the room. A trail of clothes followed till I got to the bathroom and jumped right in the shower. Hot water sprayed from all directions, then I chose a fantastic lavender scented soap. The warm sudsy spray was absolute heaven. I stayed in till my hands and toes started to prune. I finally rinsed and turned the dryers on. Let me tell you, the couple of extra dollars to get the air jets in the shower are soooooo worth it. For lots of reasons.

After I was dry, I went into the bedroom to lie down for a while in my own soft, fluffy, bed.

Most everything in my apartment is what you could call functional. I guess I haven’t found my particular style yet. Taking another look at it, I’d say I hadn’t found any sort of style yet. I don’t spend much time there, so really I just have to make sure things are comfortable and adequate. And mostly the same family of colors.

This applied to everything except the bed. That I splurged on. I know, gee, imagine that. Me, focused on the bedroom. Enough room for six (yes, that’s a proven fact), covered in a down comforter, about fifteen pillows of various shapes, colors and firmness, and I don’t care what they come up, they’ll never beat Egyptian cotton sheets. They cost a little more, but they are absolutely worth it.

I slid naked between that cottony goodness and almost passed out without actually managing to get my head down on a pillow. But right before I lost consciousness, I managed to tell the House Management System to wake me up at four so I could meet Dillon for drinks after he was done at work. A couple of drinks, a nice meal and then back here to get reacquainted.

I love my bed. I love sleep. I don’t love dreaming. After eight years of being a Chaser, I have a few…issues, shall we say. Mostly I can handle it fine, it’s just memories drenched in the surrealism of dreams. But there are times, usually when I’m exhausted, that I find myself mired in nightmares. They range from finding myself lost in a city, people speaking a language I don’t recognize, usually I’m naked and don’t have any way to escape. Yeah, I know the naked part is insecurity, not sex, but it doesn’t make it any more comfortable.

Other times, I’m in real danger. The monster is right behind me. It’s reaching for me. I’m trying to run. I’m bleeding, weak, I try harder to run, fall to my knees, using my hands to claw along the ground, but it’s like I’m in quicksand. The monster’s hand reaches for me. I drag my legs desperately, inching, inching. Gotta run, gotta get away. The fingers touch me, ready to close on my shoulder.

My eyes flew open, my hand instinctively went to my shoulder and I clamped down on the hand closing on it. I wrapped my fingers around the thumb and twisted outward. Just before I pushed it to a point where it would snap the wrist, I managed to focus on Dillon’s face. Bastard was actually smiling.

“You play a dangerous game, you know that, right?” I didn’t completely release the tension I had on his hand. In fact, I may have twisted it just a teeny bit more. Doesn’t hurt to teach the boy a lesson now and then. He winced, just a little.

“I knew that from the first time we slept together and you broke one of my ribs.”

I let go of his hand and rolled on top of him.

“I thought I was meeting you after work”. I started angry nibbling.

“I couldn’t wait. I saw you’d checked in so I got to cover the rest of my shift for me.” He started nibbling back. “I missed you”.

“I missed you, too”.

And we made up for lost time.

Dillon is so like me and so very, very different. We’re just about the same height and build, both passionate about our work. We enjoy the same types of movies and music and travel. He’s my best friend, my confidant, my sounding board, sometimes even my conscience.

But there are also some very dramatic differences. I tend to rush in, head first, do what needs to be done and get out. In my job, that’s often how it has to go down.

Dillon pays attention to detail. He loves to take it slow and methodical, move at his own pace. It makes him an excellent Monitor. It also makes him a fantastic lover. The boy does so delight in the details.

He rolled me over on my back, trapping my hands down against the mattress and began to take his good old time showing me how much he missed me. After six years together, he knows exactly how to do that. Ears first, neck, shoulder, breasts. Then, instead of working lower, he comes back up the other side. Patient little devil. Me, not so much. But I’m learning.

I worked my hands free and touched him, just loving the feel of his skin, the muscles (not sure exactly when he manages to work out, but he sure is well toned for a guy with a desk job). I kept it light, taking the pace from him, just skimming along, enjoying.

When he finally did lift his head and look at me with those baby blue eyes, I knew I was home. I travel all over the world, I travel all over the time spectrum, but there’s never been a place or a time where I’ve felt the kind of connection that I do when he and I are together, really together. He’s my soulmate. I don’t think I’ve ever doubted that.

And if I had been born anyone but who I am, I’m sure we would have been in a contracted relationship by now. Dillon knows that.

But he also knows that’s not who I am. I’m a Delta. And I’m a Chaser. I’ve been genetically predispositioned, as well as occupationally trained, to be impulsive, even erratic, but also logical and cold blooded, each as needed. Deltas and emotional commitments don’t work out well. And for reasons I don’t understand to this day, Dillon gets that, too. He’s ok with what we have. And I thank whatever powers that be for that every time I come home.

After we’d both shown our appreciation for each other, I snuggled against him for few minutes then stated, “I’m starving”.

“I figured you would be.” He got out of bed and left the room, returning a minute later with a bag, the contents of which I could smell before he even got back in the room.

“Cashew chicken?!? You’re the best!!” I was up on my knees and tearing the bag open before he even had a chance to sit back down.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah” he grinned, saving one of the containers of rice from falling on to the bed. He handed me a pair of chopsticks and pulled out a container of moo shoo pork for himself. There were a few other dishes, all my favorites and we, ok I, ate almost everything.

That’s another thing I hated about the twentieth century. They still hadn’t figured out nutrition. They left all the fats and cholesterol and all the other crap in their foods that caused heart disease and weight gain. I love food and given my accelerated metabolism, I needed quite a bit of it. But not all the bad stuff. Eating in 1989 had added a few pounds to my middle and left me feeling a little nauseous more than once. And don’t even get me started on alcohol. Have you ever had a “hangover”? Trust me, you don’t want to try it. I only had six stupid beers and felt sick for two days. Give me synthahol any day. It’s no wonder those people only had a seventy year average lifespan.

We finished our meal and took a shower together. For reasons beyond me, Dillon didn’t appreciate me soaping him down with the lavender stuff. I don’t think it was anything about being macho. He just started sneezing and turning blotchy. Fine, nothing like a warm rub down with an antibacterial foam to change the mood. I towel dried both of us, (sometimes the old ways are best) and we dressed to meet some co-workers for an impromptu gathering. Apparently one of the guys from work had decided to take a job in and there was a going away party tonight.

Personally, I could have stayed home in bed for the rest of the night, but Dillon’s really into this being friends with other people stuff. And for a few hours, I could certainly act like I’d miss Whatshisname.