Hatched

Chapter Twenty-Nine

July 1st, 2021

2200 hours

The dim backlight of the computer terminals emitted barely enough light to keep Shepp awake. For the last three hours he had been staring at the same scene: an empty office in nearly complete darkness, nothing moving except the almost imperceptible flutter of papers on Lynne's desk. His eyelids hung with exhaustion. The room was compact, but not uncomfortable, and he had been able to pilfer a cushioned swivel chair from a neighboring office. It had seemed an unquestionably genius idea at the time, however, he was now fighting the tantalizing call of slumber. The cushioned seat, accompanied by the heat pouring from the monitors before him, equaled a perfect equation for napping. His tired brain tossed around the idea of just nodding off.

There was nobody in the office to watch. Most of the more central members were attending the ball and the rough necks were soundly sleeping in their bunks, which was where he desperately wanted to be.

Actually, where he longed to be was at home, in bed, with his tall, leggy wife. Shepp could almost smell gardenia, her favorite flower. The sweet, perfumed scent of them wafting through their open bedroom window from the garden was relaxing. So meticulously pruned, and fruitfully blossoming, they bordered the whole of the house. The smell of the body lotion she wore as his skin embraced hers, that so closely mimicked that plant, stupefied him. Her auburn hair would be snaking in tendrils around her shoulders as she slept.

He sighed contentedly, heavy lids succumbing to fatigue, arms drooping over the sides of the chair.

Shepp wasn't sure how long he was out: his dreams were consumed with visions of milky white flesh snug against his. A frantic knocking at the door jerked him awake and he sprung up from the chair, one hand on his Glock and the other rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

He eased to the door as the knob rattled, but after a few moments the noise ceased. He frowned and leaned his head near the door, ear close to the metal in an attempt to discern if the person was still out there.

"Let me in!" Bellowed a voice from the other side. He thought he recognized that earthy, easy tone. His hand reached up tentatively, fingering the lock hesitantly.

Shepp had barely unlocked the dead bolt before the metal door came swinging in, knocking him off his feet. He ended up sprawled on the floor, gun still trained at the opening, eyes wide and nervous.

Tinkling laughter trailed in as a disheveled figure trudged inside, water pooing in her wake.

"Miss Bourke?" He asked lowly, incredulously, still pointing his pistol steadily at her visage.

"Who else?" She asked, irritably, eyeing his sprawled position. His legs were jutting out with one arm bracing his upper body and the other holding up a steady hand, pistol drawn.

"This is an unexpected surprise." He grunted, ungainly struggling to compose himself. "I thought I recognized your dulcet tone. You sound like a stuck pig." He braced a hand on the jamb and stood, taking in her appearance. The evening gown she wore was soaked, her skin covered in goose bumps, hair dripping wet, tendrils escaping from her elegant coif and dripping water all over the floor.

He noticed that somehow, despite her disheveled exterior, she retained a rather elegant composure. Her shoulders were square, chin tilted in defiance, blue eyes tinted with emerald, an associated, fiery ignominy issuing from their feverish depths.

"I've endured entirely too many unexpected revelations today." She admonished, stepping into the room. Her slim fingers closed the door succinctly and he swallowed. At the moment, her countenance almost emanated the fiery destruction of an inferno. Evidently, something had upset this woman, and Shepp wasn't fool enough to meddle in the emotional state of a female, especially one as passionate as Robyn.