‘Bad Habits’ will be featured on The Divas Pen starting November 1st. A reformatted edited version promises to be a dramatic tale of love, obsession, frailty and perseverance. I’ve considered many times adding this story to the list of ones to be published and ultimately decided that the epic tale should remained free to the readers, and expanded on for future works. Please be sure to check back in November for a full synopsis and the chapter updates under ‘Free Reads’.

SM

Lauren held tight. Her fingers ached in their joints, but her grip was steady. It needed to be, the ladder had claimed at least one near casualty since she bought the vineyard. That was one too many. She tested her weight on the rung beneath then descended the 20-foot tall ladder carefully, one foot at a time.

Hector gave orders. The usual diatribe of a mad Spaniard lit fires under the workers heels. It was the only time Lauren was reminded of Monty while she worked. Sometimes Hector’s voice sounded painfully similar. Her stomach dropped and churned with an acrid burn over the memory. Hector’s commanding voice sounded off like a bullhorn above the hum of the machines. Lauren reached the final rung and stepped down from the ladder. What had him so worked up? When she turned she saw the hard work of the others. There was one man in particular she checked for. Mr. Dylan McGuire, was heaving, and sweating through the chores of lifting and carrying. Interesting. Lauren observed. He had shed his top shirt. Now he wore a white tee. Sweat stains circled his armpits and collar, in manly way. His hair was nearly slick to his head. It was fifty degrees inside the containment center. The temperature control was set by her to aid in the preservation of their harvest. Dylan looked as if he labored in the Sahara.

He wiped at his brow, staggered a bit, then went to the next crate, lifting, carrying, stacking. That was his routine. Over and over he proceeded with his head bowed, and muscles flexing. Why would he bother? Was he seriously going to labor just to prove a point? For the life of her she couldn’t figure out the angle. The man was now a billionaire or close to it. This was borderline insane.

“Hombre’s a hard worker.” Hector said, with a note of approval.

“How long has he been at it?” Lauren asked. She eased off one work glove then the other, tucking the pair in the back pocket of her pants. After the last stack was in place Dylan joined the others. He had found his rhythm. Fell right in line, and began separating the white grapes from the reds as they tumbled along the conveyer. His movements were stiff. His chest rose and fell in rapid succession. Something about him was off.

“He’s been at it for, eh, over three hours now. Maria was worried, you know? She thinks he’s a character, but he seems to be giving it an effort. An honest one.” Hector looked behind him to the doors. “The rains haven’t stopped. I will take some men and go to the fields.”

“Huh? Okay, radio me if I need to join you.”

“Si..” Hector said. The old man in overalls, shuffled away. She watched him go, her heart softening. Maria was less forgiving, as was she, but Hector gave every man his fair chance. She trusted him, and for Lauren that took work. She could count on one hand the short list of people she did. Lauren checked her watch. The first shift for the men should end. Lunch was fastly approaching. Other than the cup of coffee she provided Dylan she hadn’t fed him anything, and he hadn’t asked. Now was as good a time as any to call it. When she looked back to call out to him, again she saw him waver. He then stopped. Gripped the edge of the bin near the conveyer he appeared to be winded. Lauren frowned. He was pale as a ghost in a flash, in the distance his skin looked ashen. Something was definitely off about him.

“Dylan?”

He stumbled down the dark hall—hands to the wall. Thankfully the bathroom was only a few paces from his room. The rain is what woke him. Tiny torpedoes were what they were. Each drop an explosion against the shingles of the roof, awnings, gutters, until he could deny it no longer. Dazed and a bit winded by the urgent need to piss he cursed the last bottle of wine he’d finished alone.

Dylan’s hand reached inside the cool darkness, fingers splayed and brushed over the icy surface of the tiles along the wall before flipping the light switch. Light exploded before his eyes in a searing white flash. He squinted against the florescent globe at the center of the ceiling. The strain caused the headache nagging at the back of his eyes to send a piercing blade of pain through his skull. Immediately he reached aside and turned off the light.

Dylan welcomed the absence of light. “Motherfucker,” he cursed, his feet shuffled him forward. He needed coffee, a pitcher full. Then maybe another hour of sleep before he considered turning over. He stopped at the sink, dropped his hands on the enamel. Dylan pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror. It helped soothe the pressure needling his temples.

Dylan inhaled. The clean stench of pine and disinfectant had a strange hint of spicy cloves of cinnamon that flooded his nostrils. He lifted his head, stretched his eyes searching for the source. A potpourri pot at the top of the commode. The intake made bile rise in his throat. Was he sick? His tongue felt dry, hairy, in his mouth. His throat burned when he swallowed. He pushed back from the sink and noticed the dark patches under his eyes. He was definitely not at his best.

Side stepping the sink he tossed up the lid to the toilet seat. The bleached water in the bowl hit him full force. It was as if his nose was a magnet for odor. He nearly leaned in and puked. Dylan swallowed again; it felt like glass going down. He needed his bed. Reaching in the front of his boxers for his dick he bought it out, limp and lifeless in his hand. Dylan’s eyes closed. Darkness, rain, bed, darkrainbed, darkrainbed: the words repeated in his head, like a lighthouse beacon signaling for his relief. That’s what he needed—all three. The tightness in his pelvis eased, but not his stomach. Still it churned, and bubbled.

Seconds counted up to minutes. Opening his eyes he shook his dick then folded it back in the opening of his boxers. Dylan stumbled through the motions, his joints felt wooden. But he flushed, washed his hands then shuffled out of the bathroom with the aid of the wall or whatever was nearest. He made it to his room, collapsed on his mattress were the sheets had lifted from the edges and gathered in a tangle mess to the center of the bed. If he had opened his eyes he would have noticed the flashing red numbers on his alarm clock. It was 6:20.