Bass-Ackwards: A Wrong-Way Romance

by Eris Adderly

  Like hell, you are.

  His words had been rattling around in her head, violating the safety of her two days off without him even having to be there. Whose fault was it when her pulse leapt earlier? When he’d pointed out they’d be the only two working today?

  There would be sense to make if it were all clearly a power trip. But it wasn’t. She could see the cracks in his control, those hairlines of light on a volcanic crust, fracturing here and there, but grinding closed just as quick. There was something at stake here for Bill, too. What that was, though? Who the fuck knew.

  Aluminum clunked at the side of the cargo box on the truck behind her. Christina turned her head to see Bill settling the ladder into place.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Seeing if any of the eggs got on the roo—are you kidding me?”

  Now she put down the rag and turned all the way around, squinting up in Bill’s direction. “What’s going on?”

  “There’s tortillas all over the fuckin’ top of this thing!”

  “What?” She couldn’t hold down a laugh.

  “There’s gotta be … ten, twelve of ‘em up here?”

  Christina outright cackled now. “You gotta give ‘em credit, though,” she said, wiping her eyes, “that’s pretty creative.”

  Bill mumbled something about ‘goddamn kids’ while he climbed back down the ladder. Mischief, maybe contagious on the air from the vandals of last night, had her running her mouth.

  “What’s wrong, Bill, you never did nothin’ totally irresponsible before?”

  He stopped, mid-step and blinked at her, and the look on his face was worth the full hundred percent of whatever price she’d have to pay. Then the corner of his mouth twitched in what Christina was coming to learn was as close as he got to a grin. With a shake of his head, he headed back into the shop.

  She shouldn’t have been smiling after him.

  He came out with a push broom, Daisy loping in wide circles as he returned to the ladder.

  “Add this to the list of shit they don’t tell you about when you buy a rental yard.”

  Christina lifted the bucket and set it back down a few steps further along the truck. Her brows pinched together when she went back to scrubbing. She’d only been working there the last two years. Before that …

  “Bill, what’d you used do before you bought the Haul Ash?”

  Nothing from her boss. He was dragging the business end of the broom toward him across the top of the box, pulling tortillas off to drop on the concrete. Maybe he hadn’t heard.

  Maybe you pissed him off! You think Asshole Bill wants to answer a bunch of questions?

  She attacked egg remnants with more vigor.

  “I was a cop.”

  Her hand fell at her side. Really? Bill, a co—yeah. It made complete sense. All of it. The no-nonsense attitude. The way he just expected everyone to do as he said, without question.

  Jesus Christ, no wonder he had you bend over that table and spread your ankles that first time.

  “Why, uh …” She was pushing her luck. “How come you’re not still?”

  “You really wanna know all that shit?” he said to the top of the truck. Muscles in his back made the shape of his shirt change as he reached with the broom.

  “I asked, didn’t I?”

  Another tortilla hit the cement. Bill made his way down the ladder and slid it a few feet further along the side of the truck. Started back up the rungs.

  “I ain’t a cop no more because I got sick of being a party to a bunch of immoral bullshit.” Christina’s eyebrows nearly launched into space. “And yeah, I get it,” he said. “Irony.” As though he’d seen her look rather than the company logo on the side of the truck as he climbed.

  “But I’m gonna dig my own goddamn grave. Ain’t gonna let someone else dig it for me. I could tell you stories, make you wanna burn this whole place to the ground.”

  They were having this conversation almost at a holler, what with distance and facing opposite directions, but Christina felt as though she’d pulled some lynchpin. Her normally reticent boss was rolling now, and she could only stand there and blink at the relative flood of candor.

  “And you know what else I got out of the deal?” She didn’t. “A brand new ex-wife.”

  She wasn’t even pretending to clean up egg now. “You got a divorce?” Bill had an ex-wife? Who the fuck would …

  Daisy trotted between the trucks just as another tortilla fluttered down—fwap. The black glossy nose made a beeline.

  “Yeah. Right after she left my ass.” An elbow hauled back on broom handle. “It was like she never stopped being a teenager,” he went on. “Wanted to party all the fuckin’ time. When I left that job, though, the party was fuckin’ over.”

  The yellow mutt was happily wolfing down tasty flour circles.

  “How was you being a cop a party for her?”

  “Well,” he said, starting another trip back down, “if you’re the wife of an officer, a lot of stupid behavior gets overlooked. Normal person might get a dui. Her?” He shook his head as he reached the ground. “No. Plus, it ain’t nothin’ to brag about when your husband runs a tr—goddammit dog! You’re gonna get sick!”

  His tail-wagging best friend looked up at him, licking her lips. Christina laughed without even hiding it.

  “Did she eat a bunch of those?” Bill asked, leaning the broom against the truck.

  “I think only one or two.” She leaned down to start helping Bill collect the scattered tortillas. “I don’t think they’ll hurt her any.”

  “My luck she’ll get the shits at two am.”

  Christina snickered. Not over the gross image of dog indigestion, but of Asshole Bill derailed from a perfectly good rant by his own goofball mutt.

  He added her handful of edible vandalism to his own and walked the bunch over to the trash on the side of the shop. “You about done with the egg over there?”

  Back to business, then. She sighed. “Yeah, just this one last place here.” Went in for a final round with the brake fluid.

  Bill came back for the ladder and moved it to the truck she was cleaning. Daisy hovered around near the tire, eyes on the broom, probably on the lookout for more manna from heaven.

  “What about you?” He was climbing again.

  “Mm?”

  “Before,” he said. “You didn’t just … materialize outta thin air and start workin’ for me two years ago.”

  The phone rang in the office. “Hang on,” she said.

  I can’t believe he bothered to ask.

  She ducked in the front door and around the counter. “Thank you for calling Haul Ash Truck and Trailer, how may I help you?”

  …

  “We are open on Sunday, yes.”

  …

  “You’re welcome. Have a good day.”

  Christina put her hands on the counter, eyes going unfocused as she stared out the front windows. What was she going to tell him? Had to be something. He’d told her about leaving his job and his ex-wife.

  Bare bones. That’ll be enough.

  She put on a neutral face when she rounded the back of the truck again. Picked up the soapy rag for the last of it.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I didn’t materialize. Had about a semester and a half left on my degree. Had to drop out and take care of my granddad.”

  There didn’t seem to be nearly as many tortillas on top of this truck. “Why?” he asked, looking down through his armpit at her. “Why’d you ‘have to’?”

  It had been enough time. She could say it and be calm. “Dad passed away. There was no one else to do it. I got a couple cousins, but … they got their own problems.”

  There. She stepped back to eye the side of the truck. It was egg-free, as far as Christina could tell.

  “I know about relatives comin’ up scarce when someone needs help. Sure do.” A boot pressed onto a rung beside her head. Then another, lower. Bill leaned the broom again. “What was your
degree supposed to be in?”

  She snorted. “Oh, no. ‘Cause I don’t want to hear any shit about it.”

  “Come on.” He put his weight on a hand on the side of the truck, and wiped his brow with the back of his other arm. “I’m not gonna say anything.”

  Why? Was it the show of being hot and tired? His worry about the dog? Something softened beneath her ribs. She let out a breath.

  “Sociology.” To his credit, not one muscle in his face twitched. “I was focusing on gerontology. Old folks.”

  Bill nodded. “Someone’s gotta worry about old people. Might as well be you.” The corners of his eyes crinkled with some kind of warmth she didn’t understand, just before he tilted the ladder onto a shoulder again and headed back into the shop.

  Christina looked down at the bucket. Let the rag fall into it with a splat.

  What were they doing here? Pretending like everything wasn’t colossally weird? Like they were just two coworkers who hadn’t sucked, fucked, and fondled all over this goddamn lot?

  But his comment about irony told her he knew. This wasn’t two different universes for him, either. Their whole arrangement was fucked up and wrong, but Bill didn’t have to start getting nosy about her past. She’d never once seen him make small talk just to be polite.

  If she subtracted the money, and added in a few other factors ...

  Could his interest extend beyond convenience? Was she more to him than just a person to fuck with? Both physically and mentally? Because that was what was going on at this point.

  He was headed toward her again, aimed at retrieving the broom.

  Did she want him to be interested in her?

  His work shirt shifted over his chest as he walked. The normal sourness had melted away from his face. She fought down a flutter in her gut.

  Was … was she interested in Asshole Bill Marshall?

  No. That wasn’t a thing. Not a thing that existed in nature.

  Christina. Come for me.

  Unmistakable: that hum between her thighs. He grabbed up the broom, setting her nerves to jangle from a couple feet away.

  Okay, time for an emotional sobriety check, Dodd. What would you do? If he came over here right now. Stopped what he was doing, pushed you up against the side of this truck, and broke the very first rule you agreed on? If he tried to kiss you, what would you do?

  Christina did not like her gut reaction to the pop quiz question. Not even one little bit.

  “Think we oughta tackle that fence line before lunch,” he said.

  She turned her head to look where he nodded. There was still toilet paper everywhere.

  ✪

  Christina was playing tug-o-war with the dog, a shop rag—not the brake fluid one—stretched between fist and canine jaws in the driveway of the shop. She fake-growled at the mutt, and Daisy snorted back. From the concrete running along the back of the office where he stood, one side of Bill’s mouth curled down in assessment. Mostly of himself.

  You’re an idiot, Marshall. And you’re doin’ this wrong.

  Yeah, all wrong. He’d been paying her for sex. Well, access, anyway. Not acting skills. She didn’t need to be nice to him. Or pretend to be. Nobody ever said anything about that.

  So why was she?

  And was this what he’d been wanting for months and months? Just to fuck her? Was it?

  She managed to get the rag away from Daisy and ended the game with some well-placed dog butt scratching. Even got a hind leg kicking. Bill smiled from where she couldn’t see, and watched her head back to the front door of the office.

  He eyeballed his watch under the sun, cupping a palm around it so he could see the numbers. Nearly lunch time.

  And they were the only two there today.

  So what do you want, then, Bill?

  His eyes closed as he pictured it. Yup. Perfectly stupid, but maybe ...

  Actions spoke louder, and he was shit with words, anyhow. Maybe it was the right way.

  Bill turned and opened the door to the back half.

  ✪

  Something about being able to move freely around the front office in pants had at least one layer of tension melting away for Christina. She bent down to grab a stack of printer paper and didn’t have to worry who she was showing her ass to while she did it.

  He hadn’t asked her to change after they’d finished cleaning the lot. Just went on about his day, passing through the front only a couple times, the last of which to say he was going on lunch.

  She could have put the skirt back on, she supposed. Who could tell if he was going to spring some more stickler-for-the-rules bullshit at any moment? Christina frowned. Hell, maybe she ought to: avoid herself another ‘incident’.

  You didn’t hate it so much last time, Dodd.

  Well, at least not until the end there. She sighed and shoved the loaded paper tray back into the printer. Bill spent most of his time being a prick. A couple bouts of spontaneous humanity weren’t enough to justify the way she c—

  “Christina.” His voice carried through from the back half.

  Speak of the fucking Devil.

  “Yeah,” she yelled into the empty office. Blinked at the front door, waiting.

  Whatever he said next came as a low tumble of sound, either not meant for her or not enough projection to pass through the wall intact. Christina grumbled a light profanity and left the counter to swing open the door.

  “You talkin’ to me, Bill?” Her hand was on the knob, weight on the ball of her leading foot. As though leaning in rather than committing bodily to the other room would forestall his wracking of her nerves.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Come in here.”

  It didn’t.

  Bill sat in one of the folding chairs at the lunch table, his back to Christina. The last nub end of some kind of sandwich rested in the shell of an open wrapper next to a bottle of water in front of him. A paperback lay face-down, cracked wide on the tabletop. The blinds were open on the back window, and the space was bright with mid-day light.

  Daisy was passed out on the floor, blocking the door that led outside. The dog’s upper jowl flapped in her sleep and for some reason this made Christina exhale, too. She stepped into the room. Came into Bill’s periphery.

  “D’you need somethin’?” She was all raised eyebrows and teetering hesitation.

  He cocked his head at her. “Why’on’t you come sit down.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Am I in trouble?

  She took a step toward the other chair, the one she usually sat at on the adjacent side of the table, but Bill’s work boot came up to shove it out of the way. The rubber feet brayed over the floor. Her head swiveled on him like an owl’s.

  “Over here.” A nod to his leg.

  Fuck.

  His lap? His lap?

  Well, there goes the rest of the afternoon.

  Her brows came down. “Bill, no one’s at the counter. Customers might come in.”

  “We’ll hear ‘em if they do,” he said. “Come on.” He sounded like he was explaining to someone that there were no monsters underneath the bed. All quiet patience.

  On one hand, Bill had asked her for a lot worse. On the other hand, who’s to say he wouldn’t be doing just that five minutes from now?

  “I don’t …” She worried at the fingers of her right hand with the grip of her left. Sighed through her nose. “I don’t understand.”

  Bill only stared at her. Shoulders relaxed, palms on his thighs. “It’s not that complicated,” he said after a time. His voice was some blunt, steel tool, placed with a careful hand into a velvet-lined drawer. He was … trying?

  Christina swallowed. At least he wasn’t trying to kiss her.

  She stepped around his knee and sat on his left leg. Back straight and laced fingers wedged between her thighs. He gave an airy snort of amusement and shook his head.

  When he leaned forward, pressing her arm into his chest, she almost fell off. His right hand reached past to the
table and scooped up the paperback. Her boss settled back into place, his focus between pages.

  He’s … gonna read?

  Christina’s eyes ticked around the back half. There was the bathroom door, slightly ajar. Daisy on the floor. A stack of unfolded boxes on the table by the window. Her ass in Bill’s lap. His nose in a book.

  Um …

  “Jesus Christ, relax,” he said, without looking up. “Lean back.”

  Lean? It … it was too confusing.

  She did it anyway. Slow, like a trap was about to spring, but Christina did. She let herself settle into his shoulder, and the new angle of her spine made her hips twist, her legs draping over his where she’d been prim and perpendicular a minute ago. Bill’s free hand slid around her waist and hung on her hip like a hat taken off at home.

  The silence was going to make her wiggle right off onto the floor. He was just … reading. Christina was lost. She punctured the surface tension.

  “What book is this?”

  He flipped the front cover closed with a thumb. It was a copy of Dune. And judging by the cover art, not printed at any time during this decade. Or the last.

  “Nice,” she said, as he went back to his place, about a third of the way through the book. “I’ve read it, but it’s been a while.” A while like ‘high school’ a while.

  “I pick it up again every few years,” he said to the pages. “I don’t know if it’s because I really like it that much, or my brain is just getting high off the familiarity.”

  Hearing him talk like this, in this quiet way, no urgency, no formality, was thawing something in her bones. She softened further into his shoulder. “You ever see that documentary? About this dude who was supposed to make the Dune movie? Before the David Lynch one got off the ground?”

  He shifted the leg she wasn’t sitting on and adjusted his grip on the book. “I’m not really into documentaries.”

  “But you’ve seen the movie?”

  “Yeah.” He brought his right arm around her and, for a moment, she was in a circle of warmth that fucked with her reality on several levels. But he was only bringing the pages to his opposite hand so he could flip to the next one. The circle broke and she corralled her thoughts.