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  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Title

  Cabin In The Woods

  Sign Up!

  First Time & New Adult - "Fate"

  First Time & New Adult - "Soft"

  First Time & New Adult - "Hidden Passions"

  First Time & New Adult - "Love Me Hard"

  First Time & New Adult - "To Kiss A Girl"

  First Time & New Adult - "Forbidden Classroom"

  First Time & New Adult - "I Choose Her"

  First Time & New Adult - "Destined"

  First Time & New Adult - "Secret Teachings"

  First Time & New Adult - "This Is Real"

  First Time & New Adult - "First Time In College"

  First Time & New Adult - "She Fills Me Up"

  First Time & New Adult - "Make Me Smile Again"

  First Time & New Adult - "The Mechanic"

  First Time & New Adult - "Virgin Beginnings"

  Contemporary - "The Masseuse"

  Contemporary - "She's A Nightmare"

  Contemporary - "The CEO"

  Contemporary - "My Boss Is A Pain"

  Contemporary - "A Perfect Stranger"

  Contemporary - "Just For Fun"

  Western & Cowgirl - "The Chase"

  Western & Cowgirl - "Cowgirl From Hell"

  Western & Cowgirl - "Bad Tordado"

  Ménage -"White House Scandal"

  Ménage - "Two Loves"

  Ménage -"Double Grades"

  Thriller & Suspense - "A Dangerous Game"

  Thriller & Suspense - "The Detective"

  Thriller & Suspense - "Love And Crime"

  Thriller & Suspense - "Taken"

  Thriller & Suspense - "Private Investigator"

  Thriller & Suspense - "Officer"

  Thriller & Suspense - "Her Sister"

  Cabin In The Woods

  By: Kristine Robinson

  Simone

  Preparing the microbial growth culture slide and clipping it in place, I peer down through the ocular lens with one weary brown eye. When microbes cease to amaze, it must be an indication of burnout, I admit to myself, blinking into the ambient white glow and obediently jotting down some notes. Standing up, I step away from the table and stretch, easing muscles in my hunched shoulders and lower back. I’m too young to be a wizened old crone; just 23 years old and already a stiff old biddy! I turned around one day and realized that I was a seasoned professional and had made it through my undergraduate and into my doctoral studies before I remembered to have any fun. I received international recognition for my biopharmaceutical research with Dr. Ryan Ross, one of my professors, and hurried on my way to a lifetime of clinical research, every accomplishment improving the reputation of the institution that owns me. What I haven’t done is gone to a party or smoked pot or gotten into trouble or kissed a girl…

  Running my hands through my springy, dark curls I decide to find Dr. Ross and request some time away from the lab. I need a vacation. Before speaking with the professor, I call Louise, my closest friend at Rutgers. I step out into the lounge to make the phone call and Louise answers on the third ring.

  “Hey what’s up, Simone?”

  “Hey Louise, how you doing?”

  “Good, I had a minor breakthrough on my dissertation last week.”

  “Really? That’s good news! I know you were feeling uninspired for a while there.”

  “Yeah, I plateaued for a bit, got my bearings, and now I’m back on track, climbing again.”

  “I definitely understand. Actually, I’m in a bit of a rut myself now. I think I need to step away from the lab for a while to clear my head…”

  “It’s about time!” Louise interjects. I smile because she’s right, I do spend too much time in the lab. In some ways, the lab is easier, simpler, than real life. There are clear rules and guidelines, procedures that tell you what to do at any given time. My shyness is less of an issue when everything is so prescribed. If I were to be completely honest with myself, I’d admit that I use my lab work to hide from my real life or, more accurately, my anxiety over not having much of a “real life.”

  “Do you have any ideas? Where could I go for a respite?” I continue. “I’m thinking somewhere quiet, remote.”

  Louise ponders the question before suggesting a lodge in Alberta, Canada that she stayed at with a boyfriend one summer. She found it overly rustic but knows that I’ll probably enjoy that feature. I hear some rustling over the line and know that she’s looking for contact information. It must be rustic if contact info is on paper and not online or in an email, I think hopefully. This could be just the place for me. Eventually, she finds it and feeds me the information over the phone. We hang up and I immediately dial the number that Louise provided. She claimed it was the owner’s phone number. It rings several times before I reedy voice answers.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, hi, I’m interested in renting your lodge. Are you the owner?”

  The old man on the other end of the line informs me that he is the owner, his name is John Graves, but the lodge is not currently available to rent. Winter is approaching fast and they’re in the process of closing down until Spring. Thinking quickly, I offer to help out with light maintenance and cleaning if he’ll let me use the lodge for a couple of weeks. The old man hesitates but finally agrees. I can’t help speculating that his hesitation is probably sexist. Guys his age never seem to believe that women can perform light maintenance. As if we were all confounded by mechanics. Hate to disillusion you, buddy, but there’s very little about the physical world that confounds me. Now, the emotional and psychological realms on the other hand…

  Having made the decision to take some time off, I realize that I’d better inform Dr. Ross of my intention. I run into him in the hallway on the way to his office. He’s heading out to teach a class. We talk in the hallway and I tell him where I’ll be staying and for how long. He considers it a prudent decision on my part, having noticed my recent apathy. He wishes me a safe and productive Winter vacation. He’ll have Kristie, another graduate student, take over for me while I’m gone. I agree to speak with her first thing in the morning to catch her up to speed and familiarize her with my notes before heading out of town.

  Dr. Ross and I continue chatting for a few minutes. We’re discussing research that we worked on together seven months back when Veronica Ross, Dr. Ross’ wife, comes around the corner. Usually a friendly woman with strawberry blond hair and too much makeup, I notice that Mrs. Ross is looking somewhat haggard and distracted. Still, I smile a hello and leave Dr. Ross to speak with his wife. She waves without really looking directly at me before turning to address her husband. I have some packing to do. As I walk away down the long corridor, I hear Mrs. Ross ask her husband where I’m going. He tells her about the remote lodge in Alberta. The last thing I hear is him excusing himself to go into his class before their voices fade with distance.

  Veronica

  I spend Saturday morning tending to Ollie and Christian. Before they became ill, they were robust children, hardly a scratched knee in 8 years with Ollie and 6 with little Christian. Every day I watch them struggle to accomplish basic things such as ascending the stairs to the playroom or going to school. Walking down to the mailbox tires them now. It breaks my heart to see their pinch
ed little faces damp with perspiration. Still more heartbreaking are the days they don’t have the energy to get out of bed and play at all. They had been mysteriously ill several months ago. The doctors could not figure out what it was and, when they finally did diagnose it, they claimed that there was no guaranteed treatment. But my own husband was involved in relevant pharmaceutical development. He could make sure that our own children were among the first to receive the newly patented pharmaceutical blend. Even before our kids got sick, Ryan was always in the lab. I hardly saw him. After they got sick, I saw even less of him. For a while, I actually believed that he was laboring for them and not for himself.

  On Saturday afternoon, I leave the children with the au pair and ask Ryan to take me for a drive. Looking up from his computer screen, he rubs the bridge of his nose and agrees that a drive would be nice. I kiss Ollie and Christian goodbye, and set out for a drive through the country with my husband. The car is new, an Audi Q5 the color of smoke with tan leather seats and all the expected, shiny accoutrements. Pharmaceutical development has its perks.

  The leaves have fallen from the trees and the sky stretches wide and blue through skeletal branches. Ryan tells me about the research he was just doing at home and shares his impression that the kids seem to be gaining their strength back slowly. I bite my tongue and nod evenly. Yes, the kids seem to be getting better slowly. Of course, if it wasn’t for that “medicine” you developed, they wouldn’t be so sick in the first place. I keep these thoughts to myself. We pass the city limits and the road winds up a steep hill, our luxury crossover vehicle climbing without strain. Faking car sickness, I grab my stomach and bend over. Ryan pulls the car over, ever the conciliatory gentleman. Unbuckling his seat belt, he leans over me and I pull out the knife I have hidden under my dress. It was surprisingly easy; masking tape was all I needed to secure the kitchen knife to my inner thigh. I could feel the flat, cold steel on my bare leg just as I felt the pressing awareness of its significance on my consciousness throughout our idyllic drive.

  I know what I have to do. My hand does not tremble on the hilt of my makeshift dagger; I’ve heard that kitchen knives are a stereotypical choice for women due to their familiarity. It’s true, we gravitate towards the most familiar tool for the most onerous jobs. Stereotypical or not, Ryan never saw it coming, bent over me as he was. Leaving the knife sticking out of the base of his skull, I crawl out from under Ryan’s inert, slumped body and exit the passenger seat. I move in a daze towards the driver’s side. Opening the door and staring dispassionately at my husband’s surprised, dead visage, I start the grueling task of sliding him over to the passenger’s side. He is heavy and his legs anchor him to the driver’s side. Alternately pushing and pulling Ryan’s body is hard work and soon I’m sweating and grunting with the effort with images of my two sick little angels flitting through my shattered mind.

  Once Ryan is successfully relocated to the passenger’s side, I slide behind the wheel, clicking my seat belt out of habit. I set the GPS to a remote lodge in Alberta and continue on my way, once again going for a drive through the country with my husband.

  Simone

  Early this morning, after meeting with Kristie, I fly from Newark Liberty Airport in New Jersey to Calgary International. I had to dig out my passport to fly to Canada and, flipping it open I see a picture of myself taken when I was 16 years old. In the photo, I’m wearing a shirt the color of kumquats and doing something strange with my mouth that can’t properly be described as a smile. I now know that orange is not a good color for me and, in pictures, either smile or don’t smile, but don’t vacillate between the two options. Suddenly, alone in the airport and confronted by a younger version of myself, with international flights being announced over the intercom in static, impersonal voices, I feel like a teenager again.

  This spontaneous adventure is out of my comfort zone. If taking time off is unusual for me, then spontaneous adventures are completely unheard of. Standing in line to get through security, I realize that I barely know who I am outside of my identity as a scientist. Take the scientist out of the lab and you’re left with the child who existed before she found her place in the world. A wave of uncertainty rises in me and I consider turning around and returning to campus. I could just hide in my room, still take a break but not go anywhere. The people I told – Louise and Dr. Ross – they wouldn’t have to know that I chickened out…But I would probably confess because obfuscation isn’t my way. And I’d be reinforcing my own fears and insecurities by avoiding my problems.

  Taking a deep breath, I suppress my irrational insecurity and commit to this journey. I remove my boots, as instructed, and pile them, along with my winter coat and carry-on, in a grey plastic bin on the conveyor belt. Stretching and curling my toes on the drab airport carpet, I wait my turn to stand inside the full body scanner. Something about this security process always makes me feel guilty, like I’ve done something wrong and somebody will discover it and throw me in jail. In reality, I’m a model, law abiding citizen, downright boring! But intense scrutiny has a way of making me question myself. The women’s studies majors at my undergrad always claimed that my fragile self-confidence was a result of conditioning from living in a patriarchy. I don’t disagree with their assessment, but I still don’t know what to do about it.

  After going through security, I wait at my terminal and read an escapist science fiction novel, my first real taste of leisure. The flight proceeds without any problems. I even have a window seat and enough room in the overhead bin for my backpack. I treat myself to a ginger ale for the sugar and the bubbles to combat mild motion sickness. Soda is not part of my diet ordinarily but this is no ordinary day. I’m going to Canada. Alone.

  By mid-afternoon, the tires of my rented Camry crunch along the gravel road that stretches like a grey ribbon through a tunnel of dark, evergreen forest. It’s hard to imagine humans building settlements here once upon a time, before this road cut through the tall, silent woods, never mind rustic lodges for tourists. The woods feel sacred and undisturbed by man. The access road narrows to one lane and the crunching noise turns to a dull tha thunk as I cross a simple wooden bridge. Glancing sideways, I see a trickle of water, barely more than a seep, under the bridge. I already feel more peaceful than I did on campus and I haven’t even arrived at the lodge yet. I couldn’t have found a more remote location. No one will bother me here.

  A side road, barely wide enough for a car, branches off the main access road. A crude wooden sign planted in the dirt at a cockeyed angle has an arrow pointing down the narrow track with the words, “Deer Run Rd” in blocky black letters. I turn the wheel and ease down the road, arriving at last at the lodge. It’s larger than I expected, with a wide, covered porch. It must be lovely here in the summer, I think. I imagine myself sitting in a rocking chair on that porch, reading a book and picking dead mosquitos out of my lemonade. It could even be a romantic getaway if I had a girl to bring with me, someone sweet and outdoorsy who wouldn’t mind the quiet or the mosquitos. One can dream, right?

  I park in a narrow pull-off beside the lodge and get out just as I hear another vehicle approaching from the same way I came in. It’s the only way in, I realize, looking around more attentively. The only feature of Deer Run Road is this cabin and what looks like a hatch door of some kind around the side. Presumably, the main access road leads to more cabins or structures of other kinds. A beat up, nondescript green truck lumbers into sight. If the vehicle once sported insignia of some kind, it had long since fallen off or faded in the northern winter storms. An old man with thinning, wispy brown hair gets out and identifies himself as the same John I spoke with on the phone.

  We shake hands and he begins the tour, leading me slowly around the perimeter to point out the woodpile and root cellar. The wood is neatly stacked a short distance from the lodge in a simple, three-sided structure with a slanted roof. The root cellar consists of a heavy wooden door that seems to lead into the earth itself while, in fact, leading to a meagre s
upply of root vegetables, apples, and dirty, unlabeled canisters of something. John lets the door fall closed and tells me there’s no reason to go any further into the fruit cellar. He turns and shuffles back towards the front door of the lodge. He produces a key, opens the door, and leads the way inside, handing me the key as he passes.

  He points out some cleaning products under the sink and tools stashed in a closet off the living room. There are a couple of small things that need attention, loose boards and a chronic leak under the kitchen sink that needs proper sealing. If I have the time and can swing an axe, there’s always more wood to split. I don’t bother telling him that I’ve never held an axe, never mind split wood before. The main thing, John insists, is the bathroom. The tub, shower curtain, toilet and sink all need dedicated scrubbing to remove the mold and slime that thrive in damp, humid environments. I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me that “light maintenance” might mean “toilet scrubbing.” I sigh internally. Well, it’s about time I got my hands dirty. People clean toilets every day. Why shouldn’t I be one of those people?

  After John takes his leave, I pull my duffel bag and backpack out of the car and schlep them up the stairs to the bedroom. I spend the afternoon unpacking and settling in. It feels strange to be out of the lab for so long. My hand reaches for the phone to call in and find out how the research is going but I fight the urge. What did I think about before I was a scientist? I can’t remember. Maybe that is because I have always been a scientist. Before going to Rutgers, I was a scientist the way many children are; I was an observer of life and an asker of questions.

  I spend my first week at the lodge remembering to notice life outside the lab and performing light repair and maintenance duties, including scrubbing the toilet. I find that I genuinely enjoy fixing things. Perhaps someday I could do practical mechanics on the side. I spend an entire day taking apart the kitchen sink and putting it back together again. I don’t need to disassemble the sink in order to fix the leak, but I am curious about all the parts and how they fit together. In the process, I am able to thoroughly clean the pipes and fixtures and remove a massive obstruction that looks suspiciously like a peach pit with fur. I suppress the urge to do a biopsy on the furred pit creature and reluctantly relinquish it to the trash only to dig it out the following day. When I crack it open using pliers and a small paring knife as a scalpel, I discover that it is, indeed, a peach pit that someone washed down the drain. It has probably been there since July or August, that time of year when farmers sell produce on the side of the road to campers and hikers on their way into the wilderness. Away from billboards and magazine racks, candy aisles and vending machines, people remember things like peaches. I smile, satisfied to know the answer and to remember peaches myself.