by Eris Adderly
The list of things Christina would have found acceptable for her boss to do just then was long and embarrassing.
The bells on the front door clanked.
Bill gave her calf a squeeze. “Try to stay in one piece for me, will ya?”
He shoved himself to his feet and disappeared through the door to the front half.
Christina sat, trying to slow her pulse, and having a serious internal debate over the nature of reality and fantasy. About what sort of judgments she ought to place upon herself. About the half-life of conditions she could only pretend to understand.
Something was going to break. Someone.
✪
Two o’clock in the morning was as good a time as any to masturbate. Not like she had roommates to worry about waking.
Christina had concerns.
Some of them involved the simultaneously growing and shrinking clusterfuck with her boss. Some, her lack of sleep over the last couple weeks. And some debated whether it was wrong to be giving serious consideration to buying a more expensive vibrator.
She was about to wear the little cheapie one out.
There was no pretense at all anymore. No hiding it. Christina thought about Asshole Bill Marshall when she wanted to get off. Which, these days, happened with alarming frequency.
The small silver bullet ground over her clit as Christina sought that pinpoint of focus. Her knees fell wide atop the bed, sheet thrown aside, even that thin layer too much in the late-June heat. The cheeks of her ass flexed, pushing her mound up, up …
Her head whipped to one side, mouth in a grimace.
Come on, where are you? Where?
Scenarios flipped past, gaining speed. Just after he’d put that bandage on her knee, Bill’s hand sliding higher on her thigh, under her skirt to her panties … Not enough.
In the front half, right after she’d handed him the documentary, and his hand had brushed her wrist. But instead, the brush was a grip, a twist. He was whirling her to face the counter, pushing a palm between her shoulders to bend her forward … Not enough!
That very first time. Again. Always. Cock filling her full. Two fingers twisting into her ass. The blunt head of his prick replacing them, opening, stretching.
Yes. There.
The alternate version in her head didn’t have her bewildered or mute like the first time, though. ‘Bill,’ she said. Her back arched, and he came down to meet her. ‘Christina.’ They broke rule number one.
There.
The spot. That liquid pulse revved up behind her pussy and topped out when it sped to a blur. Christina sucked in air through her teeth and came with a squeal that sounded like a question.
She let her muscles relax after, one by one, and the tiny vibe dropped to the mattress.
It was still there when her alarm went off, along with the rest of her problems.
✪
After more than a week, the scrape on Christina’s knee had all but healed. No need for a bandage now; the skin was just fresh and pink in that spot. It showed when she sat on the stool and the hem of her skirt rode up.
The calendar above the monitor in the Haul Ash front office told her it was Friday, the 22nd of June. She frowned at this and turned her focus back to the scheduling software.
There was no way it had been that long. What was it, somewhere in the beginning of May? When she’d lost her grip on the way things worked and asked for that first Friday off?
No. Asking for a day off hadn’t qualified as her losing her grip. Agreeing to Bill’s terms had. That was the point where a sane person quit their job. A sane person, who worked somewhere big enough to have an hr department, reported that shit.
A sane person definitely didn’t start enjoying it.
Christina eyeballed the overlapping colored bars on the screen and made a frustrated little noise. They were not going to have enough trucks this weekend. At least not for anyone else.
She glanced to the calendar again and her agitation grew. Not over the fucking schedule, of course. That would be sane person stuff. Nope, that was not her problem at all.
How long had it been? Since the shop? Since the reading?
One … two … three weeks already?
She had not started wearing her hair down for her health. Or bothering with lip gloss. Mascara. Not in the summer. It was amazing how a person could change their behavior without admitting just what the fuck was going on.
When the blue truck pulled into the lot and Christina’s pulse leapt, however, she got a healthy and unavoidable dose of ‘just what the fuck was going on’.
From the side of the building she heard the truck door slam, and then the outside door to the back half. She sat up straighter. Untucked her hair from behind her ears. Tried to slow her breathing.
This is ridiculous.
There was some clattering around in the back half, and then the door right behind her opened. By some narrow miracle she kept a professional gaze on the computer and didn’t swivel around with parted thighs and open arms.
“You were right,” he said, taking a hammer blow to her composure.
“Hm?”
There was a clack on the counter near her left hand, and now it was his turn to plunk the blu-ray case down. She’d almost forgotten about lending it.
Rather than drop the damn thing and back off, however, her boss’s left hand slid over hers. Now she had to look at him.
“I said you were right.” A thumb brushed her knuckle. “I did like this one.”
For the most intense two seconds she could imagine, Christina’s brows furrowed. Her mouth came open. Then, containment was over.
“Bill, what the fuck is going on here?”
“What do you mean?” And she saw it. “I’m just bringin’ your movie back.” That twitch of a smile, a gathering at the corners of his eyes.
He knew. Bill Marshall knew every bit of fuckery he was laying down on her.
His touch whispered up her arm and he leaned in; took a long breath right next to—was he smelling her goddamn hair? Sonofa—! The exhale was some long-suffering sigh and his fingers trailed along her shoulder.
And then he was gone, stepping out through the back half again.
Christina let the tension in her spine loose and shuddered.
A new vibrator it was, then. This fucker.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, Bill promised himself as he fled to the shop, one documentary lighter and tenuous control at best over a growing erection.
He needed to start down his work list for some of this equipment or he’d lose his shit. The self-torture had to be worth it. It had to. He was ready to cram his dick into damn near anything that moved.
The only consolation prize was being able to torment Christina right along with his own stubborn self. And it was working, too. The look on her face when he’d done no more than touch her hand ...
Tomorrow. She’d play along. He was sure of it.
On the shop floor, in front of the workbench, was a box of parts they’d just received. Belts, hoses, a couple sets of brake pads. He went for a box cutter and grumbled when it wasn’t in its normal spot. Sometimes it seemed to Bill Marshall he was the only person in the world who put things back where they went.
Midday sun lit the space through the open roll-up door as he shuffled around hunting for the thing. He lifted some shop rags. Shoved some cartons of oil out of the way. Pretended he wasn’t doing what he was doing.
Bill was playing games. He knew it, and Christina probably knew it, too.
At first it had just been an unbelievable left turn when he’d run off at the mouth like he shouldn’t have. You didn’t talk to a woman that way. You just didn’t. But when she’d floored him and agreed, well then … then it had become some sort of challenge. Some fucked-up piece of one-upmanship. What wouldn’t she agree to? At no point had she stepped up and said, “No, Bill, I’m not gonna do that.”
Habits and ways of thinking from his past nagged him that this degraded her s
omehow. Her willingness to go along with his creepy shit made her less. But the reality in front of him right now told a different story.
When Christina had managed to get hurt, even if it was only a skinned knee, Bill had wanted to literally pick her up and carry her into the back half. Nothing bad, he’d decided, should ever happen to her again, and that was pretty goddamn hypocritical considering he was likely to be the main bad thing that kept happening to her. At least here at work.
What hump was he looking to get over? What final sign did he need to approach her in any realistic sort of way? It couldn’t go on forever like this. Escalating until they both lost their minds.
There. On top of the twelve-footer’s rear bumper.
Because that’s where the fucking box cutter goes, you guys.
Bill shook his head and snatched up the knife.
Tomorrow, though. He’d know something, at least.
✪
On Saturday, the phone kept ringing. Christina had to keep answering it and telling people who hadn’t planned ahead there weren’t any trucks available. Those same people kept bending her ear about What Kind of Way Was That to Run a Business, and she kept listening and offering patient apologies.
The tedium of service industry jobs was at times its own special hell.
There was one bonus coming in her weekend, though. Tomorrow was Sunday, which meant tomorrow was Bill’s day off. She’d be able to do her job for one whole day without getting all fidgety every time her boss came around the corner.
Because today, like yesterday, had been a nightmare of that. It was late afternoon now and Christina was counting the hours—no! The minutes—until she could assault that time clock and move on to less stressful pastures. Hell, even her granddad’s hoarding didn’t set her on edge like this. At least there, she knew what the deal was.
At least there, someone lo—
Clank-a-lank.
The bells on the front door snapped her out of her worry cycle. The mail carrier pushed her way in, unusually late for a Saturday, and handed Christina a stack of various-sized envelopes and ads.
“Thank you,” she said in that universal customer service chime.
The woman nodded. “Have a good weekend.” And was on her way back out to her white delivery truck.
Good weekend. Right.
Christina leaned on her elbows and started leafing through the mail on the counter. Sorting it into junk, things addressed to the business, and then a third pile for anything addressed personally to—
Bill was right fucking behind her.
And not like, Oh, hey, excuse me. Let me get by. He was invading-her-personal-space behind her. Right up against her back, palms coming down to brace himself on the edge of the counter, trapping her in the middle.
How had she not heard the door to the back half opening?
“Christina.”
The asshole practically nuzzled her name at her own ear. She wanted to whirl around and slap him, suck his dick, and possibly make out with him, and in who-knew-what order.
Instead, she tried playing cool.
“Bill.”
His name came out like she’d just run a marathon. So a fail, then. Still, she went ahead like opening envelopes was the most pressing matter at hand.
“When’s the last time?” he said, shifting behind her in a way that had nothing to do with equipment rentals or anything else that ought to be going on at the Haul Ash.
Christina let out a shuddering breath and glanced at the calendar, though she didn’t need it. Didn’t need him to elaborate either. They both knew this dance.
“Three weeks.”
She stuck her thumb under the flap of another envelope and tore it open lengthwise. His left hand came to her hip and fingers squeezed. Hauled her back against him.
Jonah and Travis better stay the fuck out in the shop right now.
“Then that means I got three hours saved up.”
The sentence was a wall, and Christina ran right smack into it. Bounced off, dizzy.
Three hours? She tried to recover. “You never said anything about banking time.”
He plucked the envelope from her hovering fingers and laid it on the counter. A warm touch skimmed up her ribs. More words melted where they shouldn’t have.
“You never said I couldn’t.”
Christina couldn’t help her mouth hanging open. So he was going to fight dirty, was he? She cursed herself for setting terms in such a stupid hurry. But that’s why it was called a Devil’s Bargain, wasn’t it.
Bill was reaching with his right hand for a pad of sticky notes; a pen. He brought both arms around her to start jotting something down, Christina folded against his chest in a not-at-all-work-appropriate embrace.
There were subtle shifts of muscle as he scribbled out the two angled lines of print. It brought her back to that lunch break on his lap, and she wanted to close her eyes and fall into it. To just give up, already.
But Bill was peeling the note from the pad. Pressing it onto the counter in front of her.
“This is my house,” he said, indicating what she now saw was an address on the yellow square of paper. “Nine o’clock tomorrow night.”
His house?
She slid sideways in the cage of his arms and turned to let him see the open disbelief on her face at last. He tapped the note with the address.
“Tomorrow,” he repeated. “And Christina …”
She swallowed. Bill leaned close, intimacy overwhelming.
“Only if you want to.”
A final squeeze at her shoulder and she stood alone at the counter again, staring at the path away from sanity, written down on a piece of paper.
Bill Marshall wanted her to come to his house tomorrow. For three hours.
What could possibly go wrong?
✪
Bill opened the side door and Daisy went out, but then turned around and looked up at him with confused eyes. ‘This isn’t the time I go out, Tall Monkey. I’m supposed to be sleeping in front of the couch right now. What are we doing?’
He squatted to dog level and scratched the back of her neck. “I know, sweetie, but I can’t have your cold nose in everyone’s ass tonight. Go do dog things, and you can come back in later. Try not to rile the skunks.”
The furry face pummeled him with guilt, but Bill stood and shut the door. He checked out the window after her, though, and Daisy was trotting off into the yard. Which was fine, because he couldn’t worry about having to police the dog when Christina got here. He was barely going to be able to police himself.
Bill returned to his living room and surveyed his progress. All the surfaces were clean. He’d vacuumed. Sprayed some spray that helped the air not scream ‘bachelor’. Turned on only the least hideous lamps.
Put on music? What if she didn’t like his music?
If he hadn’t scared her off yesterday with his creepy boss routine at the front counter, Christina would be here in maybe ten more minutes.
He leaned backward and cast an eye down the hallway to his bedroom.
Fuck.
There was a box of tissues on his nightstand. She’d see it and think he used them for beating off. He was already striding toward the evidence, snatching the box up and shoving it under the bed.
Of course he beat off. Everyone did. Christina had done it in front of him, and oh god, he was going to right fucking now if he didn’t get that image out of his head.
But some irrational part of him didn’t want her to think about him in here all worked up and desperate, so he hid his tissues like a guilty teenager.
In the nine minutes he had left, Bill was going to have to stand around in his living room and coax his boner down.
You have a plan. Sort of. Calm down.
Unless she didn’t show. But then he knew where the tissues were. He would just probably need them for crying first. Or maybe after.
He wanted this so goddamn bad.
Calm. The fuck. Down.
✪
>
The Bronco escorted Christina down the highway to the far side of town. Road noise was the sole accompaniment to the catastrophizing going on in her head.
She could end up in a basement, putting the lotion in the basket. Daisy could sit there, staring and judging them the whole time. Everything might be a dream scenario and she’d catch feelings.
Or maybe admit that you’ve—
No. Nope. Not happening. Not that. Then, somehow, he’d win.
And this is a fucking game?
It was barely dark out at a quarter-to-nine, just days after the summer solstice. Most of the businesses along the highway, aside from the handful of fast food joints in town, had their minimal after-hours lighting on, and that was it. There was nothing to do in a town this size at this time of night, especially on a Sunday. Nothing but drive to Bill Marshall’s house and get fucked.
Or whatever he had in mind. Her train of thought only rode on the tracks of her anxieties, not his.
There was no helping it. If he’d planned this, he was a pro. Because unless she was otherwise occupied, it had been all Christina could think about for weeks: Bill touching her. Convincing her to do filthy, nerve-wracking things. Pinning, spreading, filling her.
Only if you want to.
Yeah. She was going slide off the seat, and she wasn’t even at his house yet.
When she made a right turn off the highway and shifted down into second, the skirt she’d chosen for the night whispered over her thigh. She wasn’t even going to pretend anymore. Fuck it. Christina had gotten dressed with the sole motive of looking hot for Asshole Bill.
Her tank top and bra were black and shelved her tits for display. She wore sandals that would come off without a fuss. She’d bothered again with mascara. Eyeliner, and that never happened. And of course, there was the skirt.
He hadn’t seen this one because it was way too short to wear to work. It was left over from her college days, white, and barely covered her ass. Beneath it, a white thong rode up and reminded her why she didn’t wear thongs.
