by Meghan Quinn
Racer raises an eyebrow at me. “You’re right, you could have a lot on your plate. Tell me, how long do you think you’re going to try to tan today? Is there a required amount of time each day?” He crosses his arms over his expansive chest. “I’m not well-versed on lounging, especially when it seems a necessity on your to-do list.”
God, he’s an asshole.
“I was thinking at least two hours,” Madison responds while looking at her nails. “G, what about you?”
I hold back the knife-hand I want to deliver to my friend’s throat. I love her, but Christ! “I have . . . things I have to plan.” This causes Racer to snort and shake his head.
“Good to know, princess.” He slips his hands in his pockets, his triceps flexing in the process. Stop noticing his body, G. Stop. Noticing. “I don’t want to hold you two up from your busy schedules, so I’m going to get back to work.”
He turns to walk away, and I don’t stop him. He is SO not the guy for me.
“Wait, you didn’t hear how you can make more money.”
“Madison,” I groan quietly. “Let it go.”
“Not interested,” he calls out, putting his earbuds back in his ears, blocking us out from his little world.
“Just drop it, okay?” I beg of my friend. “He probably wouldn’t do it anyway because he’s working with my dad. I’m sure he’s heard about the ban on any project with Georgiana Westbrook.”
Madison turns toward me and lifts her glasses off her face. She holds them on her lap and gets serious. “You’re just done then? You’re not going to try to make this happen. You have the money, G. This is just a little roadblock. Maybe we can do it ourselves.”
“Madison, I love you, but we can’t do this ourselves.”
“YouTube is a powerful thing.” She winks at me.
“Not that powerful.” I shake my head at my friend’s idea, even though I’m so desperate, I might start making friends with all the carpenters on YouTube.
“Never know until you try. The good things are worth trying for, babe.” She gets up and walks toward the house, empty drink in hand, leaving me to seriously think about her idea. Could we? There are DIY YouTube videos on just about everything . . .
Chapter Four
RACER
Fucking flying oranges. You would think one would have been enough. No. Princess’s friend chucked two more in my direction just to remind me she was keeping her eye on me. How do I know this? Because, when Princess was in the house, her friend came up to me and made it known I was missing out on a huge opportunity to make some money and then slipped her phone number in my pocket. She then smiled and told me to call her when I didn’t have my head “sandwiched between my testicles” anymore. And here it is. This is the younger, less experienced version of every Mrs. Sage I’ve spent my spare time with. It’s ingrained.
Being that I just finished the pool house for Mr. Westbrook and was jilted out of one thousand dollars, thanks to being set back in my timeline by a holey hose, I refuse to do business with another Westbrook.
Fuck, I needed that thousand dollars.
The pile of bills I face every damn month is relentless. Sometimes I wonder if it’s all worth it. I work day in and day out to preserve memories. And when I’m doubtful, when I’m tired as shit and ready to throw in the towel, I look around the house my dad and I built together and am reminded why. I’m busting my ass creating calluses on my blue-collar hands. I’m overusing my body, putting miles upon miles of wear and tear on my bones. But it’s for him. He gave me everything from a sensible work ethic, to a caring soul and a humorous outlook on life. He taught me right from wrong, to respect others, and the responsibilities of being a good man.
“Christ, Dad,” I mutter, shuffling through a new wave of bills. “How the hell am I going to pay all of this?”
I rub my forehead, my eyes going blurry from all the numbers staring back up at me while my mind runs a mile a minute. I look around my dwellings, the bare bones of the house remind me of all I’ve lost and sacrificed. I was able to keep a few pieces of furniture from what Dad left behind, but everything else I had to sell out of pure desperation. I had to say goodbye to his 1948 electric-blue Chevy half-ton truck he used to drive around in. I sold the rolltop desk he used to write his short stories on. And the jelly cabinet we refinished together? I sat on the kitchen counter and watched two men wheel it out of my life.
Now, I’m left with his ratty old recliner as the only piece of furniture in the living room, the small kitchenette table that seats four, and my bed. It works, but looking around under the dim light of the dining area, I realize this is not where I pictured my life at twenty-six: stressing about bills, a mortgage, and whether or not I can set aside the fucking cheap-ass bologna sandwich I have every goddamn day and instead splurge for a slice of pizza.
There is a knock at my door, pulling my mind away from the numbers in front of me.
I make my way to the entryway, not bothering to put a shirt on. It’s summer in Upstate New York and humid as fuck. Given the bills, I don’t bother with air conditioning, making the summers unbearable at times.
When I open the door, I’m greeted by my two my best friends, holding a twelve-pack of beer and three boxes of pizza. Damn, I could kiss them right now because if it wasn’t for them, I would be eating saltine crackers and green olives for dinner, the only things left in my fridge.
“I want to put my tongue in your mouth so bad right now,” I say while I grab the pizzas.
Smalls and Tucker don’t even bat an eyelash as they follow me into the house, but once they step inside, they take a step back out.
“Dude, it’s fucking hot in here.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s why I’m barely dressed, and I’ve been sucking on ice all night.”
“Open a damn window,” Smalls says, taking a step inside and walking around the house, flinging windows open. “The air is cooling down, use that to your advantage.”
Not bothering to help him, I flip open the pizza box, snag a slice and take a huge bite, letting the grease and cheese swirl around in my mouth. Shit, that tastes good. My boisterous and hungry stomach is grateful.
“Why don’t we eat outside?” Tucker suggests, still standing outside with beer in hand. They’re both wearing shorts and T-shirts, but they’re men. The shirts will go soon enough.
“Where do you plan on sitting outside? On the grass? Not sure I even have a blanket I could lay down for you.”
Tucker shifts away from the door and calls out, “I’m putting down the tailgate on my truck. It’s better than sitting in your humid house and eating ice chips like a pregnant woman in labor.”
“He has a point.” Before I can protest, Smalls grabs the boxes of pizzas and heads to the truck where Tucker is already setting everything up.
Reluctantly, I slip on a pair of flip-flops and follow them outside, but the moment I take in the cool night air, I realize they’re right. It’s much nicer out now than it was earlier. God, I’m stupid. We built this house with windows on both sides of the house to allow the summer afternoon breeze to cool it down. How have I not remembered that before now?
I hop up on the truck, pizza slice still in hand and ask, “What’s with the dinner surprise?”
Neither of the guys say anything. Instead, they sit back in the truck bed and pop open some beers and start to take down a slice of pizza themselves.
“Is this a pity visit?” I ask. Both Tucker and Smalls know my situation, they’ve spotted me a few bucks when I’ve needed it, so it’s no surprise to me if they came here tonight out of pity. It wouldn’t be the first time, and I’m positive it won’t be the last. Wouldn’t have made it this far without ’em.
“Thought you might want a change in cuisine,” Tucker finally answers. “Those bologna sandwiches are looking pretty stale, and I’m not the one who eats them.”
I shrug. “White bread and bologna is pretty cheap, man. You get used to it.”
“At least have peanut
butter and jelly.” Smalls chuckles. “Switch it up, man. Do you know the possibilities you can build with peanut butter and jelly, all the different varieties you can create? It would keep you busy for days.”
“You could make a chart of all your different flavor combinations,” Tucker adds. “That seems like a fan-fucking-tastic Saturday evening.”
“Make sure you color-code it.”
“I’m not a savage,” I say. “If I made a peanut butter and jelly chart of course I would color-code it. I might be broke as shit, but I’m not stupid.”
From the mention of my money situation, Smalls and Tucker tense uncomfortably and shift in their seats.
“So is it bad again?” Tucker asks.
I take a long swig of my beer and recollect the stack of bills resting on my table. I nod.
“What happened to the Westbrook job? I thought that was going to give you a little breathing room,” Smalls says, looking concerned for me.
I sigh and look out toward the woods that flank the back of my house, providing the kind of privacy my father always craved, the kind of privacy I myself crave now as well. There’s something so serene about drinking a cup of coffee in the morning and looking out your kitchen window to see nothing but nature surrounding you. It’s one of the reasons why my dad chose this location.
“The Westbrook job was supposed to give me a little breathing room. That was until I didn’t finish on time and for every hour I was past my timeline, Mr. Westbrook deducted two hundred dollars. Five hours later, I was out a thousand.”
“Are you fucking serious?” Tucker asks, sitting up now, a pinch in his brow.
“Yeah. Apparently it was in the contract I signed.” I roll my eyes. “Last time I sign a contract for a side job.” I run my hand through my hair out of frustration. “I saw the price tag on the job, and I signed immediately without even reading it. When I went to talk to him about when I planned on finishing, he said it was fine for me to take my time; he’d just dock it from my pay. I slightly blew up on him, and that’s when he pointed out the stipulation in the contract. I spent the rest of the day pissed off as hell while fruit was being thrown at me.”
“Fruit?” Smalls asks.
I lean against the truck and shake my head while my beer dangles in my hand. “Westbrook’s daughter and her friend found great pleasure in fucking around with me when I was working. Talk about a spoiled life. Those two, all they did was tan, eat chicken nuggets, and drink alcoholic beverages served by their maid.”
“Chicken nuggets are the shit.” Smalls sips his beer. “I have to eat them with honey mustard though.”
“Nah, man. Barbeque all the way,” Tucker interjects. “What about you, Racer? Honey mustard or barbeque?”
Not minding the rabbit trail, I say, “Neither. I like sweet and sour sauce.”
“Ah, sweet and sour,” Smalls groans. “I change my mind. I like sweet and sour too.”
“What happened to I have to eat nuggets with honey mustard?” Tucker asks, a smirk on his lips.
Smalls shrugs. “I lied.”
“Idiot,” Tucker mutters and then points his beer at me. “So, flying fruit, huh? Did you toss it back?”
“No. I tried to avoid engaging with them, given the dollars going down the drain every hour.”
“Sounds like they wanted a piece of your dick, man,” Smalls points out.
I shake my head. “Nah, they wanted to offer me some way to make money.” Smalls and Tucker chuckle, harder than I would expect them to. “What?” Irritation starts to grow inside me.
Smalls and Tucker exchange knowing looks. “Dude, they totally wanted you to strip for them.”
“What? No way.” I shake my head and finish my beer only to reach for another.
“Tell me this, were you shirtless?” Smalls asks. I nod.
“Were you wearing your tool belt?” Tucker adds.
“Of course.”
“And they were trying to get your attention to offer you money?” Smalls asks, the wheels in his head turning.
“Yeah, they had some kind of job for me . . . what are you trying to say?”
Together, in unison, Smalls and Tucker throw their heads back and start to laugh, their voices echoing across the woods that surround my house. Fireflies blink in behind them, crickets chirp in the near distance, and my irritation skyrockets to a new level.
“Don’t be douchebags, just fucking tell me what’s so funny.”
Smalls shakes his head in disbelief and drinks from his beer while Tucker clears his throat. “Racer, they want you to strip for them.”
“Strip for them?” My brows pinch together. “No fucking way.”
Tucker nods. “All the signs are there. When you’re working, they’re tanning. They’ve been trying to get your attention, and they have a way for you to earn money. Why would two rich girls have any other reason to offer you a chance at making money?”
I think about Tucker’s question for a second. What would they want to do with me? Princess’s friend wasn’t specific as to what the job was; in fact, she was actually quite evasive about it. Shit . . . they want me to strip.
I run my hand over my face. “Jesus.”
Laughter erupts again, this time, louder than before. Princess doesn’t seem like the stripper-hiring type, although, given her status and her age, she’s probably right in the middle of wedding hell where all her friends are getting married. And since it’s summer in Upstate New York, the volume of weddings is higher. Is she in charge of a bachelorette party with her friend and looking for someone to bring the entertainment? I roll my eyes and down half of my bottle. At this rate, I won’t be sharing the beer with my friends.
When their laughter calms down, Tucker picks up another slice of pizza and asks, “So, are you going to do it?”
“Do what? Strip?” Tucker nods and chews at the same time. “Are you kidding me? I would never do that.”
“This coming from the man who likes to wear thongs for old women while building shelves.”
“That was one fucking time. She was discreet and . . .” I take a deep breath and try to calm myself. “I’m not going to fucking strip for some rich bitches.”
“How is stripping for a bunch of sweater sets different than wearing a thong for an old woman? I would think stripping would be better; at least you’re stripping for someone your age.” Typical Smalls—tries to make some kind of logic out of the situation.
“It’s just . . . different. Okay? I’m not into making an ass out of myself.”
Tucker smiles over his beer and says, “Too late for that, man.”
***
Stripper.
No way in hell would I do that.
I scratch my chest as I sit up in bed, the sun beating down on the floor in front of me. It’s past ten on a Sunday, one of the first Sundays I don’t have a job to do. Most people would welcome the time off, but not having anything to do causes me to panic. I haven’t had any new leads, and I’m starting to worry. Tucker can only schedule me for so many hours and with nothing to do on the weekends, my stressing over my lagging bank account increases. I hate having to work so much and see so little shift in that fucking balance. There has got to be more I can do.
Standing, I stretch and glance at the mirror in my bedroom, taking in my physique. I have to admit . . . it’s totally stripper material.
Jesus.
Who says their body is stripper material?
A semi-desperate man considering lowering his standards for a dollar, that’s who.
Now standing in front of the mirror, I run my hand down my stomach and watch as every muscle in my chest, stomach, and arm flexes. Hell, I could possibly do this.
Completely nude, I play a song on my phone and listen to the beat. I start with bobbing my head to the bass. “Good jam,” I mutter, looking around the room as If I’m expecting someone to pop in and catch me red-handed.
Knowing the coast is clear, I widen my stance and look in the mirror as I start to do a m
ove that resembles Danny Zucko while singing Grease Lightning. Quickly I notice what a tool I look like so I stop waving my arm about.
“That’s not hot,” I mutter and grab the back of my head.
Looking down at my semi-hard dick, I start to thrust my hips forward, watching my dick flop forward. The image makes me chuckle, so I thrust harder because, why not? I’m a guy and if I can flip my dick around, I will.
Hands on hips now, I stare into the mirror and thrust harder, willy flying about.
“Oh yeah, feast your eyes on that dick, ladies.”
I run my hands up my body and link them behind my neck where I pump my elbows in and out and start to hop around the room, cock leading the charge. I could so do this.
Cock to the face.
Cock to the leg.
Cock against the arm.
Fucking cock everywhere.
“Such a beast,” I say, really feeling the music now.
I thrust so hard that my dick starts to slap against my leg, my stomach, and . . .
“Fuuuuuuuckkk.”
Cock and balls to the bedpost.
I crumple to the floor, cupping my moneymaker, and will the bile in my throat to settle as I catch my breath. Note to self: when feeling the music and thrusting hard, keep eyes open. At all times.
As I lie on the floor, hoping I can still have children one day, I think about my situation. Would stripping really be that bad? Is a stripper really what they want? I can be way off base here. They could just want someone to chat to about the opposite sex . . .
Who am I kidding?
If I wasn’t so desperate, I wouldn’t even consider it, but with the pressure of heavy debt at the forefront of my mind, I feel as though I don’t really have a choice.
Just like my dad didn’t. Medical bills from his Parkinson treatments were barely covered by insurance. And personal loans my dad took out to help pay off medical bills. Thanks to property taxes, the mortgage bills are crippling. But he didn’t have a choice. We were fighting for him. For quality of life.
