by Meghan Quinn
“Where did you say you got it? Did you say Walmart? Oh please tell me you did.”
Waverly sighs and thumbs through some activewear shirts, picking up a hot pink one and putting it in the cart. “I wish. Man, I would have loved to seen the look on your mom’s face if I uttered the word Walmart at her Sunday brunch. She would have spit fire in my direction just to burn the damn shirt. I told her I got it at a Talbots outlet.”
“You didn’t say Walmart, but you said outlet? That’s risky.”
Waverly shrugs and adds another activewear shirt, this one blue. “I got some grief for shopping at an outlet, but I just shrugged it off. Told her I was with a friend and couldn’t pass up this shirt. She then whispered in my ear and said she wouldn’t have been able to either.”
My laugh echoes through the women’s clothing department. “She is such a snob.”
“Do you know what the best part of this story is?”
“It’s not over?”
Waverly shakes her head. “That following Monday, I went to Walmart, got my favorite honey-barbeque boneless wings from the deli section, cracked open a Sprite and walked around, taking in all the deals and when I spotted the treasured blouse, I got one for your mom.”
“You didn’t.” I can’t contain the smile stretched across my face.
“I did. I spent the rest of my day removing the tag in the shirt and replacing it with a tag from one of my Talbots shirts. I sewed it in, and then carefully swapped out the price tags as well. It was some of the most intense but satisfying work I’ve ever done. I gave it to her the following brunch as a hostess gift, and she practically died, she was so excited. She also told me it was our little secret that it was from an outlet. I zipped up my mouth and told her, her secret was safe with me.”
My eyes are watering from laughing so hard. “Oh my gosh, how did you keep a straight face?”
“Barely made it through that whole conversation. Abe just shook his head at me. But you know what’s so gratifying? It’s your mom’s favorite shirt.”
“Wait, are you talking about the floral light blue blouse?”
“The one and only.” Waverly takes another bite of her beef stick.
The laugh that bursts out of me garners attention from shoppers around us. “I love you so much. That’s amazing.” I wish I was as clever as Waverly, because I would have done this a year ago.
I walk us toward the food section and think about getting some snacks and water for the shop. Might be nice to have some food in case we get hungry while working. Look at me being a considerate boss.
“So are you going to fill me in? All I know is you’re starting renovations, but you haven’t said with who. Did you finally find someone brave enough to cross your dad?”
“I don’t know if brave is the right word, more like desperate.”
“Desperate works. Oh, gummy worms!” Waverly plops an obscenely large bag of gummy worms into the cart. “So who is it?”
I throw some chips in the cart and say, “His name is Racer McKay. He actually just finished up the pool house. I didn’t want to ask him since we kind of don’t get along . . . at all, but Madison slipped him her number and said she had an opportunity for him. I guess he really needed the work because he came over yesterday, and we established a timeline, budget, and payment. He’s coming by tonight to start working on the place.”
“Now when you say Racer, are you talking about the beefcake who spent a few weekends outside your dad’s house with his shirt off, re-siding the pool house?”
“That’s him.”
Waverly nods nonchalantly and then says, “You know, I think I want to be a project manager. Just observe to make sure everything is getting done right.”
“Oh, I’m sure. Don’t get too attached; he’s a real asshole.”
“An asshole, huh? Why does that make me want to stare at him so much more?”
“Because you’re weird.” I sigh and grab a case of water and put it at the bottom of the cart. “He’s really not pleasant. Insists on calling me Princess or Georgie. It’s his way or no way at all, and he doesn’t care for my social status.”
Waverly pets the top of my head. “Poor little rich girl, a boy doesn’t like you for your money. So sad.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I meant he doesn’t like it, throws it in my face a lot of the time. Little does he know, I couldn’t care less about that status.”
“Do you care about what he thinks of you?”
“No, not at all.”
Maybe a little. Ever since I graduated from college, I’ve wanted to be someone else. I wanted to be free of the shackles coated in my dad’s expectations. I wanted to live my life the way I dreamed of it, not the way my dad envisioned it. It’s taken me a few years, but I can feel myself starting to separate from him, and it’s never felt better.
The only bad thing about all this? My dad is unaware of my continuation in perusing my dreams. He thought he shut me down, and I let him believe that. I had to, because if he knew I was moving forward, he would do something to jeopardize it, I just know it.
And how screwed up is that? That a father would try to stop his child from accomplishing her dreams. Shouldn’t parents try to lift their kids up? Maybe he really doesn’t have faith in me like I thought he did. Maybe he has zero belief in my ability. That thought might hurt more than anything. But I’m sure I saw pride on his face when I went through the plan with him. Or did I see what I wanted to see? Needed to see.
“Seems like you might care a little, given you’re buying new clothes to do renovations in.”
“It’s not like that. He made it quite clear that if I want to assist in any way to make this process go faster, I’m to dress appropriately. I wasn’t about to bust out my Ralph Lauren polos to paint in.”
“The sheer idea makes me shiver,” Waverly adds sarcastically. “Well, if you’re going to dress the part, we have to make sure you fully fit in. Come on.” Waverly grabs the cart and heads down the opposite side of the store. When she passes a giant bin of candy, she reaches her hand in like a vending machine claw and pulls out a few boxes of “movie theater” candy and tosses it in the cart as she says, “Bingo bango.” She is so unpredictable, and it’s one of the reasons why I Iove hanging out with her so much.
“Where are we going?”
“Just follow me. We pass a paint mixing station and turn down an aisle a few feet away. “Ah, here we are.” Waverly bends down and picks up a pink tool belt. “Just what we need to top off the outfit. If your mother taught us anything, it’s to accessorize properly. What’s a lady going through renovations without a pink tool belt and matching hammer?”
I’m about to protest but then Racer’s asshole tendencies pop in my head, and I can’t help but let Waverly “accessorize” me for the job.
I can’t wait to hear what he has to say about this.
***
He’s late. He texted me earlier and said he would be here by six o’clock. It is now six thirty, and he’s not here. I’ve sent him a few texts to see where he is but I haven’t heard anything. Did he decide this job was too much for him? Maybe the money wasn’t as important to him as I thought it was.
Did I read him all wrong?
Worry ticks at the back of my neck, and I start to chew on my nails when the door bursts open, startling me half to death.
I hold my hand to my chest and look Racer up and down. He’s carrying a sledgehammer, gloves, and goggles.
“It’s demo day,” he announces as he slips on the glasses and gloves. Not even a hi, or a hey sorry I’m late, or even a courtesy glance in my direction to check out my outfit.
I mean, not that it matters or anything. I don’t care if he notices my outfit.
Okay, maybe I care a little.
Fine, I care a lot. I specifically got this outfit because he told me to, and I would appreciate it if he noticed.
Hands on hips, I ask, “Where have you been? I’ve been texting you for the past half hour.”
�
�I don’t text and drive, Princess. It’s against the law.”
He lifts his sledgehammer, slings it over his shoulder, and walks over to the utility closet. He studies it for a second and then starts switching off power, leaving one light on in the front of the store. He flips the panel closed and stands in front of the wall where we attempted to heel poke the darn thing to death. In one giant swing, he starts taking it down.
I screech and step back as drywall starts to fly everywhere, spraying the air with dust and particles. Please don’t let there be any asbestos in those walls, please, please, please.
I cover my mouth with my shirt and call out. “Do you know what you’re doing? What if there’s asbestos in the walls? We could be sucking it all in since we don’t have masks on.”
Pausing for a second, back still turned to me, he says, “I did my homework, Georgie. This building was built in the early nineteen hundreds but was remolded in the nineties. They removed any remnants of asbestos way before you learned to stop crapping in a diaper.”
With that, he starts attacking the wall again. He pounds on the wall with his sledgehammer and then sets it down, only to rip the wall apart with his bare hands. He’s rabid in his movements, never taking a break, just tearing the wall apart as if he’s on a mission, and it’s to take down the entire building.
Not that I’m really staring, but from behind, his shirt clings to every muscle in his back, displaying the thick bulge of every strong section of his lats, arms, and shoulders, only to narrow down at his waist. I’m not ashamed to admit it; he has an amazing body, at least from what I could see of it over the past few weeks.
I think back to when he had his shirt off while working on the pool house. His tanned body glistened under the summer heat, his hair lightening ever so slightly from the sun, and his abs on full display, rippling with his every move.
The man has a workingman’s body, and it’s hot. It’s hot as hell.
“You just going to stand there with your thumb up your ass, Georgie, or are you going to move some of this junk into that wheelbarrow over there?”
And then I’m thrown back into reality and his dickish ways.
Ignoring his dig, I walk over to the wheelbarrow and lift it up. Jeeze, it’s heavier than I expected, so when I start to move it toward the pile of drywall, it tips over and slams into the floor, causing Racer to look my way.
It’s the first time he’s actually taken me all in. His eyes start at my work boots and slowly peruse up my legs to my shorts and then my shirt that is cut a little low in the front. What can I say? They didn’t have many options at Walmart. I piled my hair on top of my head to keep it out of the way and pushed back the loose hair with a headband. When I see his eyes, their full of heat, a look I haven’t seen from him before. Usually his brow is pinched together, and his jaw is ticking out of pure frustration. But this look, this I’m going to eat you look, it’s completely different.
“Um, the wheelbarrow is heavy,” I say, trying to make this moment less awkward.
“What are you wearing?” he finally asks, removing his eyes from my breasts.
I twist in place nervously. “You told me T-shirt and shorts, so I’m wearing what you asked.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Yes, it is. This is exactly what you asked for. And what does it matter? I’m not wearing heels or a skirt so you should be happy.”
“I prefer the skirt and heels to this,” he mutters as he walks over to me, eyes cast down, and transports the wheelbarrow with ease.
“You can’t pick apart everything or this is not going to work.” I cross my arms in defiance.
“And you can’t wear sexy shit like that to work in.”
Sexy?
I look down at what I’m wearing. Is he high?
“How on earth is this shit sexy?”
Racer starts to put drywall pieces in the wheelbarrow when he turns toward me and looks me up and down again. “To start, those shorts are entirely too short.”
“It was the only kind they had.”
“Well, they’re too short. And that shirt, I can see too much tit. It’s distracting.” What the hell? He’s seen me in a bikini.
“I can wear a camisole underneath tomorrow.”
“And those boots with your socks, yeah, that’s not going to work at all. It’s like a fucking wet dream come true. Sorry, Georgie, you’re going to have to change again.”
Did he just call me a wet dream? I should be utterly appalled, but instead, my stomach is doing somersaults as I start to get slightly turned on. Good God, woman. Get it together!
“You can’t be serious.”
He nods. “I am.”
I walk over to the drywall and start lifting pieces into the wheelbarrow as well. “Too bad, I’m not changing. These are my construction clothes, so deal with it. Be a grown-up and stop leering at women like some creeper.”
“Not a creeper, Georgie, just a man. We notice shit like low-cut shirts, high-cut shorts, and toned legs in work boots.”
Even though he’s pissing me off, his compliments don’t slip past me.
“Well, stop noticing and focus on the project. Think you can manage that?”
“I can handle anything.” He winks, takes one more look down my shirt—pervert—and continues to rip the drywall down until there is nothing left but studs and a few wires. I’m amazed at how fast he works. But after his comments about my tits, my clothing, and my toned legs, I’m feeling just a smidge hotter. And that wink? It makes me all hot and bothered.
Together, without saying a word to each other, we work harmoniously picking up drywall, taking it to the dumpster I rented, dumping it, and repeating the process. Before I know it, I’m sweeping up the remaining dust while Racer drinks from one of the bottles of water I bought today.
“I’m going to call it a night. I have an early morning tomorrow at work and need rest for my muscles.”
“Okay, will you be back tomorrow?”
“Yup.” He lifts the hem of his shirt and bends down slightly, the flex of his abs showing off as he wipes his face with his shirt.
Damn.
It’s all I can think as I stare at his impressive stomach.
“You know, Georgie, if I can’t stare, neither can you.”
Startled, I look to the side and fidget with the broom. “I wasn’t staring.”
He chuckles. “Okay, good cover.” He caps his water, grabs his tools, and walks toward the entrance. “See you tomorrow, Princess. Don’t bother with the camisole; your tits revitalized my strength today. Thanks for the show.”
The door slams shut on his last word, making me inwardly groan from how obnoxious he is. Just because I don’t like to follow directions, I’ll be making sure to wear a camisole tomorrow. The tit show is over.
Chapter Eight
RACER
Fucking bologna sandwiches. Some days they’re appealing and sometimes they taste like rubber.
Today is a rubber day.
With my elbows on my knees, I look over the housing development I’ve been working on, and take it all in. Houses stacked on top each other, each building chosen from a selection of five model homes, sidewalks and parks ready to be installed, making it the perfect neighborhood for families.
Not so much for me.
I’m the kind of man who needs his privacy, a little breathing room from the people living next to me, just like my father. Although it’s nice to have neighbors, I don’t want my neighbors so close that I can share soap with them through the window in the morning.
But even though I would never live in this neighborhood, I’m proud of how it’s turning out. There is something to be said about watching your hard work come to fruition. With my hands and the help of my coworkers, I’ve been able to build homes for families who will make a million memories.
Just like I did with my father. He wasn’t much of a talker, but he always had words of wisdom to impart. “Never rush your work, son. Even if you are working
for someone else, take pride and do your absolute best. Your name may never be mentioned when someone enjoys their new home, but you will know you gave it your all. You will be able to take pride knowing you made sure they got the best.” I recall feeling angry when he said those sorts of things, because giving my all was fucking exhausting. But then at the end of the day, when we were both physically exhausted, we would laugh and joke and carry on as if we were both teenage boys. I found my first best friend on those nights. Now I miss his pearls of wisdom, his quiet ways, but mostly my friend.
I take another bite of my sandwich, trying to chew past the rubber and cardboard feeling in my mouth when a small box is tossed into my lap.
“Eat up, dude,” Smalls says. “Before I do. I think I’m starting to put on some pudge.”
A box of Oatmeal Creme Pies sits on my lap, and I thank Little Debbie eternally for being such a masterpiece of a woman and delivering such goods to the masses.
“I’m not going to be your nut fluffer and tell you you’re not putting on pudge.” I open the box, caring little about my bologna sandwich now, and stick a pie in my mouth, not even bothering to take small bites.
“A little return on the compliments wouldn’t hurt you, you know, man. Tucker and I have spent hours pumping you up, making sure you feel comfortable with your testosterone levels.”
Mouth full, I answer, “It’s because I’m insecure at heart and you two are better people than I am.” I pat his cheek and then say, “You’re not getting pudgy, darling. You’re the same size you were when I first met you.”
“That means the world to me,” Smalls answers, holding his heart.
“Knew it would.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “So what’s with the disposal of Little Debbie? Find a girl? Trying to trim and cut for her? Want her to see the pure definition of your ribcage?”
Smalls is the opposite of small. He’s a giant. Huge, puts my muscles to shame, and you and I both know I’m ripped. You’re picturing my biceps in your head right now, aren’t you? Want me to kiss them for you? Want me to show you where the beach is, because I really—
“Dude, did you hear me?”
