Caulk Tease

by Green, Megan

  In high school, this was a major hook up spot. Hell, it probably still is. The owner’s daughter used to work the desk nights and weekends when she was in school. If you had cash and there was a room open, she would rent them by the hour and pocket the money. I had never seen the inside of the dingy rooms up until now, but I know Benton did a time or two. And if there’s one thing I don’t want to think about, it is the number of potential babies that have been made on the bed I sleep on at night. Yuck.

  The creaking coming from my car is a combination of my body unfolding from the seat as I get up and my car door opening. I don’t know which one is louder, but both sound bad at this point. A bath. That’s just what I need. A long hot soak with my one splurge—Dr. Teals Pink Himalayan Mineral Soak. I’m not one for essential oils or anything like that, but whatever is in the bath salt melts all the cramping and aches in my muscles like nobody's business. I learned early on working for my uncle that a good Epsom salt soak after a long day at work is just what the doctor ordered.

  I actually stumbled upon the Epsom salt purchase by accident. After a particularly grueling day of roofing, we spent all day in the blistering hundred-degree weather laying out shingles on an almost four thousand square foot house. All of the guys had shed their shirts early in the day and my ribbed tank was saturated by noon. I remember feeling grimy and just wanting to die in a puddle on the supermarket floor when they were out of the generic bags of salt that were my usual. I outwardly groaned as I grabbed the girly pink mix that went so far against who I am, but the minute I slipped into that tub my frustration completely left me and I haven’t stopped using it since.

  The room is pitch black as I unlock the door and I can’t unthink the correlation between it and my heart. I refuse to let anyone other than family get close to me. I know that’s how I am, but it hurts less to experience the pain of just anyone leaving me behind. I turn one of the lights on and it barely brightens the room as I focus one hundred percent on getting that bathtub running for me. I disregard the depressing part of my life, that I’m staying in a motel, and I head straight for the bathroom. The mirror isn’t even on my radar as I scoop out a heavy portion of my favorite miracle worker into the tub and turn the hot water on. The last thing I need to see right now is my appearance. Between the can of spray paint and myself, I sorely lost that battle.

  As the bathtub slowly fills with steaming hot water, I venture back into the bedroom. I move to walk toward the bed and sit for a minute, but a small shoebox across the room calls to me like a beacon. I need to open it and deal with the contents inside of it, but not tonight. No, I’ll put it off for a little while longer, and let it continue to sit there taunting me day after day. I have more important stressors at the forefront of my mind, I know I’m making excuses for myself, but for the time being, I will continue allowing myself to ignore it.

  With a sigh, I turn away from that side of the room and I focus instead on peeling my clothes away from my body and tossing them into the small plastic laundry basket in the corner of the room. I stop by the TV on my way to the bathroom and turn it on for some extra background noise. If it’s too quiet, I’ll be stuck with my thoughts and I’d rather not go there tonight.

  The scalding hot water is a shock to my system, but I continue my slide into the tiny bathtub. It’s odd how you can crave something you’ve never had or experienced, but a huge soaker tub or a jacuzzi is something I’ve always wanted when I own a home someday. Somewhere to call my sanctuary and I can let all of the stress and tension from my day just release itself into the scorching salt filled water and allow my muscles to turn to mush. It sounds like heaven just thinking about it and I don’t stop the tiny moan that falls from my lips. Until that day happens, I’ll just have to use my imagination and pretend I am there instead of the cramped shower tub combination of the motel bathroom.

  I close my eyes to help the fantasy take over and to erase the chipped tiles and worn out caulking on the walls. Focusing on my breathing, I escape my tight quarters to the open and airy bathroom of my dreams. I might not get it today or tomorrow, but someday it’ll happen and then I’ll never want to leave that room. For now, pretending that is my reality will have to be enough. Slowly the tightness in my body slips away with each moment in the water, and I let those thoughts warm me, not thinking about the small shoe box or what kind of battle I’ll be walking into at work tomorrow.

  Chapter Six

  Barrett

  Three days have passed since the night I shall henceforth refer to as Paintgate, and I can’t help the smirk that crosses my face as I hoist the box of donuts I’d grabbed on the way here up on my shoulder.

  I’d decided on my way home that night that I would lay low for a couple days, give Monroe some time to cool down—and do some chilling of my own—before coming face to face with her again.

  I had been royally pissed when I’d seen the change Monroe thought she could make to my design without even consulting me. And, even though I could vaguely understand where she was going with it—fine , it might’ve even been a good idea—I still had to let her know that shit like that didn’t fly. Not with me.

  But I also knew I couldn’t risk pissing her off and losing her. Once my anger had waned a little, I had to admit that she’d accomplished more work in one day than the rest of these assholes had done in weeks. Benton may be full of shit about a lot of things, but on this one, he was right.

  Monroe Daniels knew her shit. And we needed her.

  Didn’t mean I couldn’t have a little fun with her though.

  I drop the box of donuts on the table, lifting the lid and waiting for the sweet scent to hit the first nostril. It doesn’t take long, and before I know it I’m surrounded by half a dozen sweaty, hairy men, jonesing for a sugar fix.

  “Thanks, Boss,” Smith says as he snags an extra-large eclair from the box, not wasting a second before jamming one end into his mouth. “What’s the special occasion?”

  I shrug. “Just thought you guys might need a little pick me up. You’ve been working hard lately from what I hear.”

  Several other guys overhear my remark and start nodding their donut filled faces. “This new chick has been riding us hard, Boss,” Mitchell says, polishing off his first donut and reaching for a second. “She doesn’t let up for a second.”

  My blood heats at the remark, my thoughts immediately going to the bar bathroom, remembering just how hard Monroe can work a man. My dick stiffens in my slacks, and I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other in an attempt to hide my growing erection.

  The last thing I need is word to get around with the crew that donuts get me hard.

  I just about have things under control when a soft feminine voice comes from behind me.

  “What are you doing here?”

  A wide grin spreads across my face as soon as I hear her, my cock springing back to attention as I spin to face her.

  Good holy fuck.

  Her dark hair is pulled back off her face, showcasing her gorgeous features and large dark eyes. A light sheen of sweat has broken out across her brow, and as I watch, she lifts an arm to wipe it away, causing her tits to press against the tight fabric of her shirt. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever seen, and I have to pull my lower lip between my teeth in order to resist leaning forward and taking a bite.

  How the fuck any of these guys manage to get any work done around here with her looking like that is beyond me.

  I school my features into a stern look, not wanting to let her know just how much her mere presence affects me. “Thought it would be nice to stop by with a treat for the guys. Ben told me how much you guys have been getting done out here the past few days.”

  Monroe’s hands move to her hips as she turns her head to survey the scene around her. Her long neck stretches, exposing the delicate flesh that I’m certain tastes even better than it looks.

  Get your shit together, Barrett. You’re here to remind her who’s boss, not pop a stiffy like a prepubescent
boy at his first co-ed swim party.

  “Yeah, it’s really coming along nicely, I think,” she says, turning back to face me again. When her eyes meet mine, I’m almost certain I see a flash of...what? Longing? Lust?

  It’s gone before I can place it, however, her normal no bullshit attitude coming back in full force. “It was nice of you to stop by, Mr. Brooks. I’m sure the guys appreciate the gesture,” she says, nodding her chin to where the whole crew is now gathered around the nearly empty box of donuts.

  I can’t help the smirk that crosses my face. Does she really think she can just dismiss me from my own job site?

  “It was no trouble at all. In fact, it’s the least I can do for my star crew. Here,” I say, stepping toward the box and grabbing a chocolate frosted pastry. “I got this one especially for you.”

  She takes it from me, eyeing it warily, almost as if she’s expecting it to burst into flames or emit a noxious gas and kill her. I chuckle. “Don’t worry. It’s safe. Go on, take a bite.”

  I can see the skepticism in her eyes, the indecision as she mentally debates listening to her new boss or telling him to get lost and go straight to hell. After a few seconds of deliberation, she finally sighs, taking a small bite off one side of the donut.

  White cream coats her lips as she pulls it away, her tongue darting out to clean them as her eyes lift back to mine. “How did you know cream filled was my favorite?”

  I hadn’t, but I’d be sure to make a note of that for future reference.

  “Lucky guess,” I say with a shrug. “Better finish ‘er off.”

  Now that she knows it’s not going to blow up in her face, she takes a bigger bite, a large dollop of cream falling from her lips and down to her feet.

  I take a step closer, lowering my face next to her ear so that only she can hear my next words. “Careful, Monroe. Wouldn’t want to cream those jeans. We both know how messy you can be.”

  A strangled noise escapes her lips as she nearly chokes on the mouthful of donut. She coughs for a few minutes, bending over and putting her hands on her knees as she struggles to catch her breath.

  “Next time get my approval before making any changes,” I tell her as I pat her on the back and head back out the way I came.

  I’m halfway back to my car when I hear her finally catch her breath, a few guys from the crew now at her side, smacking her lightly on the back to try and help her clear her airway. I turn and watch her, walking backward for a few steps as her eyes lift to mine.

  And even from this distance, I can see the words as clearly as if she had screamed them across the yard.

  This means war, Brooks.

  I grin as I turn and stride back to my car.

  Something tells me work is about to become a hell of a lot more fun.

  * * *

  Nine hours later, and I’m finally ready to call it quits for the day. After I left Monroe and the guys at the job site, I came back here to the office, spent three hours on two different conference calls, drew up plans for another prospective job that we might be able to lock in if we manage to pull this City Hall shit off, and then spent the rest of the day putting out fires and juggling numbers in order to keep our doors open for another week.

  To say I’m exhausted is putting it mildly. The splitting headache that developed above my right eye right around the time Ash showed up to tell me our check bounced for the next shipment of siding that’s due to arrive in three days only worsening with every passing catastrophe. The only things I want right now are a beer and a burger. Not necessarily in that order.

  After swinging by Mickey-Dees and grabbing three of my favorite calorie-laden sandwiches and a large order of fries—I’ll have to put in an extra hour or three at the gym this week, whenever the fuck that’s going to happen—I pull up to a light and begin stuffing my face as I wait for it to turn green.

  I’ve just about polished off the first burger, swigging down a huge gulp of liquid crack—aka, McDonald’s Coke—when a car pulls to a stop beside me. Two women sit in front, both of them leaned forward and looking at me.

  I lift a hand in greeting, giving them my most winning smile. The driver’s brow lifts almost questioningly, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s interested.

  Maybe this will be the way I can finally put Monroe Daniels behind me. How does that saying go? The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else? This woman looks like she might enjoy a ride.

  I quirk my brow, nodding to let her know I’m open to the idea if she is, knowing very few women can resist the cocky smirk I plaster on my lips.

  It’s the dimples. Women are powerless to their charm.

  But instead of throwing the car in park and leaping into my passenger seat like I’d hoped—okay, a bit dramatic, but come on. I need to get laid here—the women look at each other before bursting into laughter. At that moment, the light turns green, and the woman floors it before I can even try to grasp what the fuck just happened.

  I lift my face to the rearview mirror, wondering if maybe I have a glob of ketchup on my chin or something. But I’m met with only my normal—if not a little haggard—expression. Surely my worry-lined face wasn’t enough to evoke that sort of reaction, was it?

  I drive the last few blocks home, laughing pedestrians and honking cars following me the entire way. I have no fucking clue what’s going on when I finally pull up in front of my house, but I know that I need that beer now more than ever.

  I slide out of my car, grabbing the rest of my food and trodding up to the door. Sliding my key into the lock, I turn to look back out at the street before going inside.

  That’s when I see it.

  In large block letters, written in what looks like white chalk, are the words I HAVE A TINY PENIS across the passenger side of my car.

  I hadn’t seen it when I’d left the office, walking straight to the driver’s side and collapsing inside from exhaustion—a fact I’m sure Monroe was betting on.

  Dropping my food on the welcome mat, I walk back out to my car. And as if to erase any doubt I might’ve had as to who did this, a small white slip of paper is taped underneath the message. I pull it off and flip it open.

  Thanks for the donut.

  I should be pissed. I should be livid that this woman just embarrassed the fuck out of me in front of God knows how many people.

  But instead, I throw my head back and laugh. I laugh until my stomach hurts, my face aching from the giant grin spread clear across it.

  I underestimated my opponent.

  Monroe Daniels doesn’t just want a war.

  She wants a full-on nuclear blowout.

  I’m going to need to pull out the big guns for this.

  Chapter Seven

  Monroe

  This whole prank thing might be getting out of hand. But I’m definitely not going to be the one to stop this war. To be honest, I’m having way too much fun trying to think of new ways to make Barrett squirm. I haven’t had this much fun in…come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever had this much fun and I plan on holding onto this as long as I possibly can.

  I’ve been putting in long hours these days and I splurged this morning on a three-dollar cup of coffee from the coffee shop. It tastes like heaven wrapped in caffeine. I could see this becoming a regular addiction, good thing I’m too broke to partake in it on a daily basis. I’m sure my ass would triple in size from the sugar content alone.

  “Where did these come from?” I ask as I eye the small box of pastries warily. My mouth waters as a waft of the sugary goodness hits my nostrils, but I’m still unsure.

  “The boss man,” Smith tells me as he chomps down on something flaky. His face is covered in sugar, and bits fall out of the side of his mouth.

  I quickly study the contents and my eyes light up with glee as I pick one of my favorites from the box. A pistachio croissant. Benton knows how much I love these things and I almost scream out thinking about the delicious combination of buttery flaky dough mixed with
the creamy pistachio filling.

  So good.

  Smith continues to talk over his very stuffed mouth and says, “I was told to leave that one for you. Apparently, it’s your favorite.”

  I pluck it from the box. I’ll have to find Benton and thank him for this. I nod my head to agree with him, but he’s already turned to walk away. Poor guy, he came into work late this morning complaining of being up all night with a sick kid. I definitely don’t envy him in that regard. I can barely take care of myself let alone another human being.

  Lifting the croissant to my mouth, I overdo it a little bit and shove half the thing in there. They’re just so damn good and I can’t help myself. I bite down waiting for the best flavors to tangle on my tongue.

  As soon as the first bite hits my tongue, I’m instantly spitting it out. I should have known better. You never trust any form of food when it comes to a prank war. You have no idea who could really be offering up the free morsel.

  The insides of my nostrils are molten, and it hurts. Oh, it hurts so bad. My mouth is on fire and the taste. Oh my god, the taste. I reach for my cup of coffee and bring the cup to my mouth only to find the contents completely empty.

  “Fucking son of a bitch!” I yell out to an empty room. Why did I have to be greedy with my damn coffee? And why is Barrett the freaking devil disguised in a perfectly form-fitting suit?

  Wasabi.

  The inside of the croissant is filled with fucking wasabi and not pistachio butter. Who even does something like that?

  I’m choking and tears run down my face as the burn continues to attack my taste buds.