by A. Marie
Coty, with the ease of a house cat relaxing in a warm window, lounges against the doorframe. My doorframe. I plant my foot behind the bottom of the door, keeping it firmly in place. Unabashedly, his gaze runs the length of my body reminding me I’m only wearing a sports bra and tiny shorts.
My fingers clench around the cold handle.
“Yes?”
His eyes meet mine, holding for a beat before moving past me to scan my apartment. I resist the urge to turn and check what he might see. If a box of pantyliners, or worse, is on the counter, I will die a quiet, yet agonizing, death of embarrassment after he leaves. But not a moment sooner. Coty might try to beat mortification to the death punch by killing me himself and I can’t have that. No overzealous neighbor of mine is going to kill me before I can ensure my feminine products are properly hidden away first. I refuse to show up to my afterlife with unfinished business on the other side. It’d be just my luck to get stuck haunting this shithole for the rest of eternity.
While he searches my humble abode, I give him a once-over. Hair adorably ruffled from his helmet, alert eyes taking in more than his casual posture suggests, with a clean white shirt and low hanging jeans on, he looks like the kind of guy any girl would be lucky to move next to. Any girl, but me.
Coty nibbles the corner of his mouth as I pick up the distinct smell of beer. It’s faint but it’s there. Corona. With lime. My hold on the doorknob tightens. The hint of citrus on his breath tempts me more than if he were to have shown up naked. Him showing up naked would be weird. And awkward. For both of us. But the promise of tasting lime, my all-time favorite garnish/fruit/snack/side dish/whatever, directly from those restless lips, nearly overrules all the guidelines I’ve previously written. The citrus mixes with his usual coconut fragrance making my mouth fill with enough water to put Hot Spots out of business. Well, for at least an hour. Coty’s chocolate eyes make their way back to mine. Maybe two.
Finally, he releases me from my tropical haze, stepping back. All the way to his door, in fact, without so much as blinking. I wonder briefly if he knows how hot men multitasking is. It shouldn’t be. It should be commonplace, yet somehow, we’re always amazed when someone from the male species is able to pull off more than one task at a time.
“Goodnight.”
Coming to, I shake my head, asking, “That’s it? You woke me up to say goodnight?”
He stops in front of his apartment, peering across the hall at me. “So, you were just sleeping?”
My eyes search his. The few feet between us seems minor, insignificant. The wall erected directly in the middle of it though, the one Coty has yet to learn about, that’s fucking insurmountable. The stairwell chatter from before springs to mind. “Goodnight, Coty.”
I close the door softly, leaning against the scuffed metal, blowing out the breath I so desperately needed a few seconds ago. A glance at the clock has me groaning. Thanks to Coty, I’m now horngry—horny and hungry—with little to no chance of sleep without solving at least one of those issues first.
Tossing a frozen waffle into the toaster, I settle on the easiest of the problems, shelving the other for a more…convenient time. As I wait for my snack to pop up, I glance around my countertop thankful when I don’t find any rogue tampons. Sighing, I scoop up my tips from earlier still scattered across the worn laminate and stuff them next to the new jar containing coins for laundry.
What was he looking for?
Coty’s wakeup call was odd for sure. He said six words. Six. And not one of them was important enough to warrant knocking on a neighbor’s door at one o’clock in the morning. I mean it was nice he wished me a good night and all, but wouldn’t the night have been better without needing to be dragged out of bed in the first place? One could argue that hearing the sentiment straight from Coty’s citrus-spiced lips made the slight inconvenience worthwhile.
One would be right.
CHAPTER 7
Angela
I slip on my white with black stripes shell-toe Adidas then take a quick glance in the mirror to throw my wet hair into a ponytail, pulling it through the back of my black sports hat knowing it’ll dry on the drive over. Luckily, my hair is easy to maintain even though it’s long. Thanks to a life of limited funds, I rarely get it cut, allowing my locks to grow unchecked. Even making my own money now, my hair isn’t a top priority. Call me crazy, but I’d rather buy a new pair of shoes any day over getting a trim. It’s a dark brown naturally but the sun has played master color specialist by bleaching blonde streaks throughout. It’s why I choose to wear hats to work over the visors Hot Spots provides. Now. I learned that lesson a little too late and after months of working at the wash, my hair currently showcases more colors than a paint store display.
Parking in the back lot, I grab my small bag and climb out, smoothing a hand over my altered work shirt before noticing my sunscreen slipped out onto the passenger seat. Unlike the ugly visors, sunscreen isn’t optional. Working in the sun is downright dangerous, just look at my hair to see the damage it can cause, and I never want to get caught unprepared even if skin care isn’t as important to Hot Spots as logo-splashed merch. If I had my own car wash, it’d provide sunscreen by the bucketloads. Non-negotiable bucketloads.
As I reach back in to grab the tube, I get that feeling. The feeling every woman knows by heart. The one that says someone is watching. Someone that makes your skin tingle in an unwelcome, unflattering way. With a peek over my shoulder, I see the outline of my boss, Joe, through the office window. My mouth scrunches into what I hope passes as a friendly smile but feels more like I ate something incredibly bitter. Meekness. It tastes like oppression going down, so I keep it floating around my mouth until he looks away then blow it out on a fortifying breath.
When I first started here, Joe was nice but distant. The way a manager should be. Lately though, he’s been different toward me. Lingering looks that seem more intrusive than curious. Comments that sound more flirtatious than friendly. My hours were something we both agreed on when he hired me. I needed the money, he needed the help. With a long line of irresponsible teens as my predecessors, my reliable work ethic came at the perfect time, making my employment a fortunate arrangement for both sides. Or so I thought.
I’ve heard rumors whenever someone at school finds out I work here. He’s known for dipping in the staff pool. A very young, very feminine pool. A pool that should not only be off limits to him for ethical reasons but also because he’s married. Like with kids and a dog and probably a white picket fence that’s in desperate need of touch-ups.
I haven’t seen any of his supposed affairs for myself, thankfully, so I try not to buy into the gossip but his behavior has become a cause for concern lately, where before it was something I didn’t have to think about. Just yesterday I caught him standing next to the towel spinner just inside the door leading out to the drying station but when I went to grab new towels, there were no clean ones to be found. If he saw the pile of dirty towels sitting there, why wouldn’t he put them in the washer himself? Why else would he be standing there?
It’s a small car wash, so the owner won’t hire that many employees, but we make do by helping wherever we can. I usually work in the front where the cars roll out of the bay after going through the wash cycle. I like the front for two reasons: solitude and tips. Technically we all get tips since we split them up equally at the end of every shift but I like knowing I got the tip when there was a tip to be had. I’ve seen so many girls botch the opportunity by mindlessly drying and walking away. I, however, have a foolproof system for getting a tip every time, provided the customer was going to give one to begin with. The trick is to always end at the driver’s door so that when you open their door to wipe the doorjamb, they can easily hand you the tip before driving away happier, cleaner, and a few bucks lighter than when they drove up.
I get hit with the most sun upfront since there’s no overhang like the back but it’s worth it to me. The back is where the payments are taken and the c
ars are hosed down before entering the mechanical portion of the wash so there’s at least two people working back there at all times. Nobody usually bothers me unless to help with the towels, which is never-ending since the ancient machines we use to clean and semi-dry them are slow and sometimes even ineffective causing the laundry to pile up quickly on busy days. There must be better machines out there but, in the months that I’ve worked at Hot Spots, I have yet to lay eyes on the owner, so it shows how much he cares.
Occasional sunburns aside, I still prefer working away from the others, Joe included—since he has to stay by the cash register. Luckily, there’s a container by my station I put all the tips in so I don’t have to go to the back very often. The camera directly above it helps keep everybody honest even while I’m busy drying. I’ve never worried about management recording the thing though, because I only accept what I deserve. If I didn’t earn it myself, I don’t want it, and stealing from the community tip jar defeats that purpose entirely.
There’s another side of the building where additional detailing is offered but the two sides don’t mix often. For one, they’re all males. Males that think they’re God’s gift to cars just because they get to vacuum and shampoo the insides while we’re only allowed to rinse and dry the outsides. They wield their shrinking hoses in true macho bullshit fashion which I find both comical and pitiful at the same time, mostly pitiful if I’m being honest, so I just ignore them altogether which isn’t all that difficult since they’re steadily busy on a daily basis whereas the wash’s rushes vary from day to day. You would think that with one side being comprised of teen girls and the other side full of arrogant guys that the two would come together as a muddled mating ground of sorts but it’s not. It’s weird, but true.
No matter who’s around though I try to always be aware of my work outfit and the hints of skin it can reveal if I’m not careful. Although shorts are a must in three-digit weather, I make sure they don’t show my ass cheeks as I bend over the cars I’m working on. The armpits in all my uniforms may be cut out but I double up on the sports bras underneath just to further prevent accidental nip-slips.
Even though the early morning has a delicious bite to it, it’ll start to feel like a damn convection oven out here in no time. Later when I take a bathroom break, I’m sure I’ll resemble something akin to Ross trying to get his leather pants back on from one of my all-time favorite episodes of Friends.
Contrary to popular belief women get overheated just like men, even though we’re expected to cover up while men are free to walk around shirtless in public without repercussions. I have to wring out my bras after every shift but if I wear anything less, I risk someone catching a peek at what is most definitely mine to show when I want to. Key word here is want. I don’t cover up for them though. I cover up for myself. I was raised by a hustler, so I’ve seen firsthand how a woman’s body can be used as a tool. Both by her and against her. I’ve watched the damage it’s caused treating something so sacred like a game piece in a seriously fucked round of Chess. I’ve always been more of a Checkers girl myself, plus I like knowing my tips were earned without stooping to my mother’s level of scamming. She wove a thread of fraud so tangled that I’ve never even toed the line for fear of becoming ensnared forever. Yet another reason she’s never liked me.
“Good morning,” I say as I enter the confined office.
Ignoring the pit in my stomach, I squeeze past Joe who’s positioned himself beside the outdated time clock to punch in my code, careful not to touch him on my way back outside. Outside. Air. Space. Witnesses. All very good things.
I work independently the rest of the morning, getting the wash ready for the day, only losing focus each time I turn to find Joe’s beady eyes scanning me. There’s a difference between a sexy gaze and a disgusting leer. News flash: if a girl isn’t eye-fucking you back, she’s just not that into you.
Finished with the opening duties, I bypass Joe as he continues counting out the till and head down the hall to fold any towels that were cleaned overnight. I halt when I hear my name.
“Come in at 11 tomorrow.”
What? Two crappy Sunday shifts in a row? Last weekend was bad enough getting off earlier than usual and now he’s taking away extra hours of easy work before the real day even begins. Joe knows I need full shifts on weekends. It’s always been that way but why is he changing it up all of a sudden?
“Are you sure? I don’t mind opening.”
He peers at me over the top of his reading glasses before murmuring something like, “I doubt that.” I take a step closer to hear better but he waves me off saying, “I’m sure. You’re not needed.”
Grudgingly nodding, I turn for the machines but swear I hear him add on, “yet,” as I leave.
The towels end up getting folded with more force than necessary after that.
I manage to avoid Joe the remainder of my shift, staying busy without any further distractions. It’s the best method at pushing my own issues out of mind. Busy work has always kept my troubles from consuming me whole and working at a car wash leaves no room to dwell on anything other than the four thousand pound car rolling directly at you. If you get sidetracked for even a second, you could lose your toes in the blink of an eye. Well, the roll of a tire to be more precise but still, this job’s been the perfect fit for me so far and I want it, no I need it to stay that way.
* * *
That evening, after confirming the library was closed for the night, I grab a bite to eat at my favorite Italian restaurant on my way home as a treat for such a long day. There were barely any lulls in customers, giving me more than enough for a dinner out in lieu of the rubbery chicken I still have in the freezer.
Pulling into Creekwood, I notice the boys’ cars are gone which leaves their motorcycles open for the ogling. I take my time admiring the beautiful bikes, wondering how fast they can go, if you fall over speeding around a corner, and what happens if there’s one of those humps on the highway that warrants a huge sign that says BUMP but it’s never placed correctly so you hit it as you read it sending you—what feels like—airborne for a split second. Those seem like legitimate concerns. I mean does the rider fall off? My Jeep doesn’t have any doors or windows, save for the front windshield, so I know all about the wind battering you while driving, but I can’t help imagining how it feels slapping against your body without any barriers as you charge down the road. I picture Coty, with his impressive physique, not having any issues handling such a powerful machine. His forearms contracting each time he lays on the gas, his thighs flexed around the seat, his back rigid as he leans down.
And just like that now Coty’s body is all I can think about, the bikes easily forgotten. Right when I was starting to cool down, too.
With the sun just starting to set, I decide to go for a swim. It’s that beautiful time before it gets dark when the entire sky is on its best behavior just long enough to give you hope that tomorrow will bring a better day.
Back in my color-block swimsuit, I descend the stairs in time to see Marc approaching the back set of stairs. I hadn’t even noticed him arrive and his fierce red BMW is hard to miss. I’ve caught glimpses of the red with black accented leather interior—it screams custom. Sometimes the detailing guys will send over a car they’re working on to run through the wash. They won’t bother driving it themselves, so one of us—usually the dryer on duty—has to ride it through the wash then drive it over for them to finish. I’ve done it enough times to know what kind of cars pay extra for extensive detailing. And Marc’s beauty qualifies. Without question. No simple car washes for him. No simple anything probably.
He must’ve pulled in while I was changing or he parked somewhere else entirely. He hasn’t noticed me yet, obviously lost in thought, so I glance over his shoulder, not finding anyone behind him. No open doors beckoning him in, no women drooling after the broody hunk, no angry husbands yelling about their wives being stolen out from under their noses. Yes, he’s that good looking. The gray jogge
rs he’s wearing alone are enough female kryptonite to take down this entire complex. Never mind the all black hat with a white upside-down symbol giving him the perfect amount of careless vibe to attract you anyway, or the deep V-neck tee that fits all the right places urging you closer for a better look, or the ridiculously hot red sneakers unlaced to ensure you fall at his feet accordingly. Seriously, where did he come from?
He finally notices me as I hit the bottom step but instead of frowning or ignoring me altogether like usual, his face morphs into fear—or something like fear—before he swings his gaze behind him frantically. I can’t figure out where he’s looking or why he’d be afraid, so I smile politely, sidestepping him for the pool area, saying “hey” as I pass.
When he realizes I’m not as nosey as his roommates, he grunts out a greeting of his own. Unfortunately, it’s completely incoherent but I take it as a good sign nonetheless. It may be his first official word—or two, I’m not sure—to me and I’m not about to ruin the moment by badgering him into repeating it.
I swim for what feels like hours before the cold sets in. By the time I leave, it’s dark and several degrees cooler than it was when I got here. My plan to keep my windows open at night hasn’t exactly worked like I’d hoped, considering said windows are not in the optimum wind catching position which leaves me a hot, sweaty mess most nights with the oven-like air settling around my bed instead of flowing in or out whatsoever. With my hours being tweaked lately, I can’t risk any unnecessary costs like air conditioning at night so a cold shower, or tonight’s swim, before bed is my best bet for combatting the cocoon of heat my apartment truly is.
As I wrap the towel around my torso, I look up as if being summoned and there at the sliding glass door of the boys’ balcony is Coty. Staring right at me. Completely unashamed. Not even pretending he’s not looking. He’s inside but has both arms resting against the glass framing his body making me wonder how long he’s been there for. He boldly cracks a smile which I almost return until I realize he’s been creeping on me—not unlike my boss from earlier today. Although, my body doesn’t respond to Coty’s gaze the same way it does to Joe’s. Not at all. My body detects Joe like a rabbit knows a fox is near whereas Coty is more like a bear. He could be a threat if he really wanted to but my body doesn’t sense a predator when he’s near, even if his presence would still do a hell of a job scaring off the shifty fox.
