by Meghan Quinn
Once I regain feeling in my legs, I wiggle my way to my phone and my wallet that rests on my nightstand. I pull out the number Princess’s friend gave me. Christ, am I really going to do this?
I roll onto my back and look up at the ceiling that is covered in beautiful stained wood planks. It was a touch my father was so proud to add. He believed in making every part of the house special, including the ceilings.
I squeeze my eyes tight and take a deep breath. I will do just about anything to keep this house, even if it means stripping for a bunch of rich women.
Reluctantly, I dial the number and turn the phone on speaker. It takes three rings before someone picks up.
“Hello?” I know instantly that it’s Princess’s friend. Her voice is beyond recognizable, as it’s the kind of voice that sends a shiver down your spine, a memorably shrill one for sure.
“Uh, hey. This is Racer McKay. I redid the pool house for Mr. Westbrook.”
“Racer, how nice to hear from you. Have you changed your mind?”
I swallow hard and nod even though she can’t see me. “Yeah. I’m interested in your job.”
“Fantastic. Can you come over now?”
“Now?” I look out the window, it’s daylight. Err . . . aren’t bachelorette parties at night?
“Yeah, now. Are you busy?”
“No,” I answer, wishing I had an excuse I could fall back on even though I’m the one who called her.
“Great. I’ll text you the address.”
“Uh, yeah, sure. I just need to take a shower first.”
“No need,” she says casually. “You’re just going to get sweaty all over again.”
Jesus. “Understandable, but no one likes dirty dick in their face, so I’ll take a quick shower.”
“Dirty dick? That’s a term I’ve never heard, although I’ve never hired someone like you before so I guess this is a learning experience.”
Yeah, for the both of us.
“All right, well I’ll be quick.” I clear my throat and say, “Anything I need to bring? Props . . . music?”
“Props.” She giggles. “Funny. We have music. Just bring your tool belt and body. See you in a bit. Oh and Georgiana doesn’t know, it’s a surprise.”
“Ah, got it. Not a problem.”
I hang up and stare at my phone for a second. Georgiana doesn’t know? Does that mean she’s the one I’ll be dancing for? I sure as hell hope not. I’m already on rocky terrain where she’s concerned; I can’t imagine she would want me tickling her chin with my dick.
Shaking my head, I walk to my bathroom and start the shower. I have no doubt that my dad is laughing his ass off right about now. Yup, no doubt in my mind.
Chapter Five
GEORGIANA
“This was a bad plan.” I still the rolling brush and look at the wall. “I mean, a really bad plan, you can still see the wallpaper.”
Next to me, Madison chews her bubblegum and puts her hand on her hip as she studies the accent wall we’ve painted twice now.
“Hmm, should we have primed some more? Mr. Paint Stick on YouTube said we only had to prime once.”
“Yeah, but he mentioned nothing about wallpaper. I knew we should have looked up painting over wallpaper.”
“What’s the difference?”
I point to the wall that is gloppy and gross. “Clearly there is a huge difference. This doesn’t look like any of the walls in our houses.”
“Because we don’t have wallpaper.”
“Exactly!” I sigh and put my paint roller in the pan of paint before I sit on the floor and put my head in my hands. “What the hell am I doing? I can’t do these renovations on my own. I need to build cabinetry, break down walls—”
“We started on the wall,” Madison points out.
I glance at the wall we tried to take down and inwardly groan. “Poking holes in the wall with the heels of our Manolo Blahniks doesn’t count, Madison.”
“It was working until you made us stop.”
“Because you almost sparked a fire from hitting some kind of electrical thing on the inside of the wall. I think we were supposed to turn off all the power before we started banging walls.”
“Hmm.” Madison looks thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “You know, that sounds about right.” She shrugs. “So we skipped a step. No biggie.”
“Madison, that was a huge step. We could have gotten hurt or burned the whole place to the ground.”
She pops a bubble and motions to the floor. “At least we know there isn’t hardwood floor under the tile. We can rest easy.”
I scan the floors we ripped up. There are patches of torn tile everywhere from where Madison wanted to “keep checking” for hardwood flooring. This is going to cost so much money.
“Yeah, now it looks like crap.”
“I told you, just get some Gorilla Glue and patch it back up. Simple.”
“And what do you suggest we do about that?” I ask, pointing to the wall behind me that we attempted to hang shiplap but failed miserably.
“I will admit that was a miss on our end. Apparently one of those stud finder things they talked about in the video was important. Who knew wood could be so heavy?”
Wood is very heavy, it’s evident in the way the nails slid right out of the dry wall and made giant divots all along the side of the wall. Yup, it’s a freaking disaster zone in here.
“I’m in way over my head, Madison. I should have never done this. I should have never taken your advice. What was I thinking?”
“Uh, that your best friend is a genius. Come on, look around.” She spreads her arms and twirls. “You have your own shop. That’s exciting.” I know Madison is trying to be positive, but her cheery attitude is kind of hurting right now. How can she so easily dismiss something that means the world to me? How can she be so nonchalant?
I scan the room but can’t feel any excitement. All I feel is nausea. Pure nausea over the situation I got myself into. I’m five hundred thousand dollars in debt, I’ve absolutely destroyed my store, and the only guidance I have are socially awkward men on YouTube trying to put in their two cents about home renovation.
Good job, Georgiana. Thumbs up.
I shake my head, failure taking over every positive thought I had about this experience. I really should have listened to my dad. Although, I wouldn’t be in this mess if he didn’t cock block me from all the construction companies within a one-hundred-mile radius.
“This is pointless. I should just throw in—”
Knock, knock.
If that is my dad, he’ll take one look at the mess I’ve made and the look on his face will be anything but nonchalant. I can’t face that sort of humiliation. But before nasty thoughts of my dad can take over, Madison claps her hands and runs to answer it. What is going on? I sit up a little and peek my head around the corner.
“You’re here just in time. Come in,” Madison says. “Are you ready to get dirty?”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” a deep, familiar voice answers. Why do I know that voice? “I’ve never done this before though. So go easy on me.”
“Oh I’m sure you’re going to be fine given all your experience. And with those muscles I’m sure you can’t go wrong.”
“Okay,” the man says timidly. “Do you have music? I brought my tool belt. Want me to put it on?”
“Yeah, whatever you’re comfortable with. Is music necessary?”
“Uh, I mean, it would be kind of weird without it.”
“Okay. Why don’t you just play something you’re comfortable with on your phone.”
“No requests?” The man sounds nervous. Why would he be nervous and why are they talking about music? I stand and brush off my bottom.
“I’m good with whatever. Hey, G, come out here, I have a surprise for you.”
I turn the corner to see a man with his back toward me, his head bent forward. I know that backside, that tool belt . . .
Racer?
What’s he doing here?
<
br /> “Uptown Funk” by Bruno Mars starts to play, echoing against the bare walls of my construction nightmare. With his back toward us, he starts to snap with the music and shake his ass from side to side. I look at Madison who exchanges a glance with me and shrugs. With the beat, he spins around, grips the bottom of his shirt and starts to shake his body slowly as he peels his shirt up and over his head, showing off his very impressive body.
“Whaaaat . . . is happening?” I whisper to myself as Racer runs his hands up and down his stomach, his head cast down.
Looking at Madison again, she seems to be entranced as she stares straight ahead and claps to the music, encouraging Racer to continue with whatever he is doing.
Is this some kind of weird congratulations on your new store from Madison? It’s unnecessary if that’s the case. A new vase or flowers would have been just fine.
But more importantly, does my dad’s construction worker moonlight as a stripper? My God, he does have the body for it.
Still, this is weird.
And it just gets weirder as Racer unbuckles his pants, showing off a bright red scrap of underwear. Oh God, is he going to take off his jeans? Do I want him to take off his jeans?
God, I kind of do, even though he’s a mean bastard. But he has such a beautiful body.
“Take it off, take it off!” Madison chants, now reaching into her purse where she starts throwing coins, lipstick, and pieces of gum at him. She’s not a cash girl, never has been.
With his hands now tucked behind his neck, he starts to swivel his hips, making figure eights and thrusting in our direction. With each thrust, his jeans lower until they are pooling around his knees, revealing one hell of a well-packed pair of underwear.
“Yes! Look at that penis,” Madison screeches. “Best carpenter ever. Who knew we would get a show with the job.”
Racer’s eyes snap to Madison where he pauses his thrusting and stands tall, pants still around his knees, a pinch to his brow. He fumbles with his phone before pausing the music and saying, “Carpenter? What are you talking about?”
“Yeah, what are you talking about?” I ask.
Madison glances between us, a guilty look on her face. She bites her fingernail and says, “I hired Racer to help out with the construction of the shop. I knew you wouldn’t ask him, so I did it for you.”
Pulling up his pants now and buckling them quickly, he asks, “You hired me to do construction?”
“Yeah, what did you think I was hiring you for?”
He grips his forehead in disbelief. “I thought you were hiring me to strip. Christ.”
“Well, you did a good job.” Madison gives him a slow clap. “I only have one tidbit of critique. Red isn’t your color. I would stick with a black man thong.”
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Racer huffs, anger exuding him as he bends down and picks up his shirt. It almost looks like he’s about to rip it in half as he puts it back on. Once his head pops through, he sends me the death glare of all death glares. “Did you have a part in all of this?”
“No,” I say in desperation.
“A stripper.” Madison chuckles, which makes Racer spit daggers at me. Crap. “Is that why you said something about dirty dicks in someone’s face over the phone?”
“Yeah.” He removes his tool belt. Anger controls his every move. “What the hell did you think I was talking about?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was some weird construction term.” Madison shrugs, really not seeming to care about the mix-up. He looks humiliated, and I kind of feel sorry for him.
Shaking his head, he walks toward the door and says, “You could have stopped me before I started to unbuckle my pants.” Looking at me as if all of this is my fault, he continues, “That’s fucked up, Georgiana.” He shakes his head, his eyes cast down, and in a sad voice, he buries his dagger into my chest. “Just another way you rich folk prey on those lesser than you.” He tosses two fingers in the air. “I don’t need this shit. I’m not that desperate.”
The door slams shut, the loud sound reminding me of my problem. I have a shop with no one to help make it the way I want it to.
“He’s so sensitive,” Madison says as she picks up the paint roller and starts painting the wall again. “Can’t take a little criticism on his underwear color.” Oblivious, completely and totally oblivious.
“That’s not what he was mad about, Madison,” I groan. I waver between chasing after him and letting him go. A part of me knows I’ll have to beg him to come back if I chase after him, and I’m not sure my pride can take that kind of hit. And yet, it seems like this irritated and volatile man is my last hope.
Crap.
Gah, am I seriously considering this?
“Dance, jump on it, if you sexy then flaunt it,” Madison sings, the tune “Uptown Funk” still stuck in her head as she rolls the paint onto the wallpaper and dances in her own little bubble.
Rolling my eyes, I take a deep breath and run out the front door. I guess I am going to do this. What do I really have to lose? Pride? That was shot out the window when I started using my heels to bust open a wall.
I scan the main street looking for a fuming man and see an old rusted-out truck to the side, and Racer is stepping into. Bingo. Being safe, I look both ways before crossing the street, and reach his truck just as he slams the door shut. Lucky for me, his window is down.
“Wait.” I grip the side of his window, startling him ever so slightly.
When he sees me, he lets out a long breath. “Come to boast? Throw some more gum at me?”
“Madison was tossing the gum, not me.” Really, Georgiana? Could you make the situation more awkward?
“Whatever.” He starts his truck and puts it in drive, but I hang onto the side of the window.
“Wait, you can’t drive off with me hanging on to your window.”
“Just watch.” He looks out the side and starts to roll forward.
I screech and grip tighter. “Please don’t drag me into traffic. Hear me out.”
Leaning back in his seat, his eyes fixed ahead, he says, “Why?”
“That wasn’t my idea back there. I had no idea you were coming or why you were coming to the shop in the first place.”
“And yet, you still let me embarrass myself. Let me guess, you got it on camera and will be emailing it to all your friends to laugh over while you munch down on your . . . shrimp cocktail or whatever bullshit food you eat.”
Growing more and more irritated over his assumptions about me, I fling open his door so he can’t drive off. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
Now he looks me straight in the eyes and says, “Yeah, I know. If that’s all you have to say, then I’m going to take off.”
I should let him go. We already have a terrible rapport, and it would make for a bad working environment, but for some reason, I’m clinging to him. I can’t seem to tear myself away. Maybe because the look in his eyes; I can see he’s just as desperate as me. Or maybe because right about now, I would offer up my left boob for any kind of help. I hate to admit it, but I need him. I only hope that he needs me too.
“Work for me,” I blurt out before I can change my mind.
“Work for you?” He shakes his head. “Sorry, Princess, but I’m not really in the stripper business.”
“Not as a stripper.” I exhale. “As my contractor.”
“Your contractor?” He lifts his brow and puts his truck in park. He turns toward me, and it’s hard not to notice how his broad shoulders take up the entire space of his cab. “What on earth could you need me to build?” And it’s not the question he asks, but the patronizing tone in his voice. I get enough of that from my father.
Such a freaking asshole. I’m seconds from telling him to shove everything up his pee hole, but I bite my tongue and continue to move forward with my request.
“No. I need a contractor for my shop.”
“Your shop?” One of his arms his draped over his steering wheel whi
le the other lines the back of his seat. “What do you sell? Bitch pants?”
I grind my teeth together, hating every second of this.
“Your snark isn’t appreciated. Maybe you should learn how to represent yourself in a more appropriate manner, then you might have more jobs, and you could afford a better car instead of this rusted-out piece of junk.” I kick the side, which jars my toe. My goodness, what is this hunk of junk made of?
“Thanks for the advice, sweetheart.” He taps his temple. “I’ll be sure to remember that. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be going.”
He goes to put his truck in drive again when I lean over him and grip the gearshift. My breasts lay across his lap as I look up at him. Shock is registered across his face.
“What the hell?”
“You can’t leave.” I hate this. I hate that I’m begging. I hate that I am willing to do just about anything right now for him to agree.
“Why?”
Looks like pride is going to be pushed right out the door. Kind of where my butt is hanging at this mortifying moment.
“Because I need your help.”
Taking a moment, he looks out the door, mulling over my painful request. He’s pausing on purpose—to torture me—and I guess at this point I wouldn’t expect anything else. When he scratches the scruff on his jaw, he asks, “Will I be paid?”
“Yes.”
Mentally I cross my fingers as he deliberates over his decision. I’ve never wanted such a moody human to stick around and help me out before, but here I am, at the end of my rope, dangling out of his truck, lying across his lap, begging.
When I think he’s about to shift his truck again, he reaches for his keys and turns off the engine. With a huge sigh of relief, I lift off him and brush off my clothes. I can almost see desperation coming off me in flakes.
“Why me?” His question is simple, but oh so complicated.
I decide not to beat around the bush. Might as well be completely honest. “You’re the only one who’s even given me a chance to ask.”
He quirks his lip in understanding. “Build yourself a bad reputation there, Princess?”
Don’t flip on him, do not flip on this man who might be your last hope, this man who can fix the paint on the wallpaper and the high-heel holes in the wall.
