by Meghan Quinn
“Eh, what?” I sheepishly smile at him as he shakes his head. Oops.
“I’m cutting out sweets so I can outshine you in a tux at Tucker’s wedding.”
“What?” I whip my head around, panic starting to blossom inside me. “Did they set a date? Did he pick a best man? I swear to God if it’s you, I will kill you in your sleep. Straight up, I have no qualms about offing the best man so I can claim the title.”
“He asked me this morning. Sorry, man.”
“What the ever living fuck?” I pop to my feet and march toward the house, Little Debbie snacks in hand, looking for the one man who needs some sense beaten into him.
When I swing open the door, I scour the main floor and ask, “Where the hell is Tucker?”
One of the electricians working on the hallway wiring points up the stairs. I take no time in climbing the stairs. “Tucker?” I yell, my voice echoing against the bones of the house.
“Back here,” Tucker calls out.
I trudge through the space that will be the master bedroom and back to the en-suite bathroom where I stop immediately. Standing in the middle of the bathroom—that’s full of black balloons—is Tucker, holding a basket of Little Debbie snacks—my favorite things in the world—and a two liter of Mountain Dew. Above him, written on the drywall is a note . . . for me.
Racer, be my best man.
“Racer—” Tucker starts, but I don’t even let him finish. I scoop him up into a bear hug and spin him around the room, knocking balloons into the air.
“Yes, yes, yes. A thousand times, yes.”
The claps of our fellow men, followed by eye-rolls and laughs, come from the bedroom as they surround the doorway.
“Put me the fuck down,” Tucker mutters, clearly annoyed with my hysterics. When I set him down, he pushes me to the side and rights his shirt. “You happy I made a big deal? Is it everything you wanted . . . princess?”
I know this was for me, because I’m a dickhead like that. Making my friends do outlandish things to “please” me is one of my favorite pastimes, and the best part about it, the nut-sacks fall for it every time. The key to making it happen, to making them go above and beyond to prove their friendship: bitch. Bitch all the time.
For the past few months, I’ve been on Tucker’s case about asking me to be his best man. He got engaged toward the end of summer last year, and I let him go through the holidays without harassing him, since they were taking the planning slowly, but I’ve really stepped up my annoyance. It totally worked.
I mean, the dickhead filled up a room of balloons and painted on the wall. Shit, if I wasn’t afraid he would knock my teeth out, I would be rolling on the floor laughing right now. Oh fuck, this is fantastic. See what a little bit of nagging and persistence get you? A friend who will do just about anything to get you to stop, like a grown-ass man almost bending down on his knees to ask you to be his best man.
Classic.
“You’ve made my dreams come true.” I go in for another hug, because why not, and he looks like he’s on the verge of wanting to choke hold me. He steps away and clears out the room.
“The show is over. Get back to work.” He turns to me and points to the balloons and wall. “It’s your job to clean this shit up. Be rid of it before you leave, and prime the wall. Julius can’t see that shit. Happy best man duties.” Tucker smirks—knowing he bested me—then jogs down the stairs.
Hmm, maybe I wasn’t as smart as I thought I was.
***
“Stop doing that.”
“Stop doing what?”
I turn to Princess, wipe my brow, and say, “Stop fucking humming. It’s annoying.”
“I’m not humming.”
I raise my eyebrows at her and start imitating her sound, exaggerating it a bit, because . . . I’m an asshole. “Is that not humming?”
She crosses her arms over her chest and juts a hip out. I’ve come to know this defensive pose over the last couple days we’ve been working together. “I do not sound like that. Clearly you tried to sound shrill, and I’m the least bit shrill.”
“You like to think you are, Georgie, but you might as well be squawking with the birds. That shit hurts the ears.”
“It does not.”
I start tearing down another wall with my bare hands while she stands behind me and picks up the drywall pieces to place them in the wheelbarrow. After assessing the space, she decided to take down another wall. Lucky me.
I’m a pretty easygoing guy. I like to pull pranks, joke around, act like an asshole a lot of the times just to get a reaction from people, and I like to fuck and fuck hard. When one of those is off, I turn into an irritable bastard where everything annoys me to the point that I snap at the smallest of things.
Well, I’m irritated. I haven’t fucked anyone in a long time because I’ve had no time to even pick anyone up. And why you ask? Because I’m working twenty-four/seven. When I’m not at the jobsite, I’m here, getting bitched and nagged at.
Oh, the fucking nagging.
This woman. Jesus, if she wasn’t so hot, I might have quit by now. But seeing her tits bounce in her “construction shirt” gives me momentum. Does that make me sound like a pig? Slightly, but whatever, they’re nice tits.
When I turn back around, I say, “How about we just don’t make any noise? How does that sound? Hmm?”
“I can’t work in silence. It’s too boring. We could have a conversation, or will that be too difficult for you? Putting sentences together rather than talking like an ass-scratching ape?”
“Ass-scratching ape? That’s the best insult you can come up with? Pathetic, Georgie.”
“I’m not rude. I don’t try to hit below the belt like you.” Pieces of drywall are thrown into the wheelbarrow at a harder rate than before.
“I don’t hit below the belt.”
She snorts in disagreement. “You think you know me, but you really don’t.”
I rip another piece of drywall down, my muscles aching with every movement. Fuck, I need to take a hot shower after this and pop a few Ibuprofen as well. “Good thing part of the job isn’t getting to know one another.”
“What is your problem?” she yells, drawing my attention. “Why are you acting like such an asshole? I’m trying to be nice here when I really don’t have to. I could be a total bitch. I could make your life miserable.”
“Your bombinating has made me miserable enough.”
Her brow crinkles. “My what?”
Picking up a piece of small drywall, I pull the pencil from behind my ear and scribble out a little lesson for the princess.
When I’m done, I hand it to her, place my pencil back behind my ear, and tap the piece of drywall. “Bombinate; to make a humming or buzzing noise. I know big, pretty words too, Georgie. Put that one in your little book.”
She stares at the word for a few seconds before she storms off toward the back of the shop while saying, “You’re so annoying.”
I smile to myself, knowing once again, I gained the upper hand. I might be sore and tired and not in the mood to deal with the client of this job, but hell, a little “poking of the fire” is making these night hours go by a lot easier.
Why am I being a dick? Honestly, because it’s a defense technique. I’m smart enough to know this. When I’m around people who intimidate me or who I know are better than me, I fall back on my ability to act like a total bastard. This way, I can keep them from recognizing my inadequacies, blinding them with a bitter personality.
Stupid? Oh yeah, big time.
But it’s kept me from falling into a deep, dark hole where I know I would go if someone like Georgiana actually figured out who I really am: a poor boy hanging on to the last thread of his past.
And Georgiana, shit, she intimidates me. She’s rich, gorgeous, and opinionated. It’s shitty that what really intimidates me is her status. She’s refined, polished, a fucking Rolls Royce that’s never been touched. Whereas I’m the teal GEO Metro with no power steering a
nd a flat tire that’s huffing and puffing down the street, on the verge of breaking down.
We come from completely different lives, and I’m not blind to that. So instead of trying to be friends with this girl, of finding out down the road after we’ve bonded that I don’t belong in her world, I use my strongest defense and dick her around.
Not the most mature way of handling things, but hey, I never claimed to be perfect.
“Do you want a soda?” she calls from the back, interrupting my thoughts.
Huh, maybe I didn’t poke the fire as much as I thought I did. “Got any Mountain Dew?”
“Diet Coke.”
“Not Coke Zero?”
“Just Diet Coke with lime.”
Christ, fucking girl drink.
“I’ll take one,” I answer reluctantly. It might be a girl drink, but I’m thirsty.
Her boots clomp down the hallway. When she approaches, she’s sipping from her drink and hands me mine. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
“Aw, Georgie, you’re just the fucking sweetest.” I wink at her, sarcasm dripping from my lips as I pop open the tab of the soda only to be sprayed up the nose and down the shirt by fucking Diet Coke with Lime.
Talking over her drink, she smirks and says, “Maybe if you start being nice to me, next time I won’t shake your can for a minute straight.”
Coke drips from my nose as I hold my arms out, trying to figure out what to do. Hate to admit it, but I’m kinda digging that Georgie has a little spice in her.
“You don’t know what you just started, Princess.”
She shakes her hands in the air. “Ooo, I’m scared.”
“You should be.” I take a step forward, closing in on her. “I’m a relentless prick, the king of driving people crazy, the master of pranks. I’m not afraid to open up my toolbox and bring down the hammer.”
My words have zero effect on her. “Your metaphor is subpar at best, Racer. Your attempt at intimidation is sad, and frankly pathetic.” She twirls her finger at the drywall. “Have fun cleaning up by yourself.”
Still dripping, I nod and wring out my shirt. “It would be easier to take you seriously if your fly wasn’t down.”
On a gasp, she looks down at her crotch where in fact, her zipper is all zipped up. When her eyes meet mine again, they are full of murder. I can’t help it, I laugh. I laugh fucking hard. “That was just a warm-up, Georgie.” I tip her chin, and she slaps my hand away. “Wait until I’m fully warmed up, you’ll regret ever shaking my soda.”
Without a word, she heads to the back of the shop while pulling her phone out of her back pocket. I call out, “Don’t bother searching the Internet for workplace pranks, they will have nothing on what I have in store. Don’t waste your time, Georgie.”
“I wasn’t . . . go to hell!”
I chuckle to myself, take a sip from my half-empty can, and get back to work. Not a bad day in the office I would say, even if I’ll be a sticky motherfucker until I can get home to shower.
Chapter Nine
GEORGIANA
“Don’t touch that,” I snap at Madison, who’s twirling Racer’s hammer around.
“You’re tense.” She drops the hammer on the floor and sits. “Do you need a snack? You’re looking a little possessed.”
“I’m not possessed. I’m just trying to look for something.” Where is the godforsaken spreadsheet? Last time I had it, I was scrolling over my budget, making sure all updates had been entered. Mind you, all I’m entering so far is outgoings. Sigh. I like to work on paper once everything is set up, and update on my computer when necessary. I’m old school like that.
But being old school means you lose your shit. And since I have yet to make updates on my computer, only scribbled notes on my budget sheet, I need it.
“What are you looking for?” Madison looks around. “Sex? Because you need some, maybe it will ease some of the tension out of you.” She flips a piece of wood over. “Nope, no dicks under here. Hmm.”
“I don’t need sex,” I yell, a little louder than I mean to. Taking a deep breath, I place my hands on my hips and say as calmly as possible, “I’m looking for my spreadsheet. It has all my budget lines on it. I made some notes on it last night, and I want to enter them in the computer.”
“You’re not using your iPad? You should just use that. Paper is really becoming non-existent now.”
“Your helpful commentary isn’t appreciated right now, Madison.” Go ahead, label me with the bitch card, I deserve it. I’m just . . . I’m high strung right now. Maybe I do need to get laid . . .
“Sheesh, last time I suggest something.” She leans back on her elbows and stretches her legs out in front of her. “You should keep the place like this, see-through walls, electric stuff hanging around everywhere, and the floors, they’re magnificent, you’re really capturing the true essence of dirt.”
“Madison, you know I love you, but I can’t handle—”
“Hey, what’s that?” Madison points to the ceiling and stares at it, a squint in her eyes.
Looking up to the ten-foot ceilings, I see a pencil stuck through the cracking drywall, pinning my spreadsheet to the top.
“Ahhhh,” I scream as my blood boils. “That freaking man!”
“Is that your spready doo-dad you were looking for?”
“Yes,” I groan.
“Racer do that?”
“Who else do you think would do this? God, he’s so . . . he’s so stupid.”
Madison laughs and tilts her head back. “Good one, G. You really burned him with that comment.”
Annoyed with everyone, I grab the ladder against the wall and drag it over to where my spreadsheet is hanging. Good Lord, this thing is heavy. “A little . . . help,” I grunt.
“You seem like you’re doing a fine job on your own.”
“Why are you here?”
Madison shrugs. “Company I guess. I don’t want to be around my nagging mother, plus once all this dusts settles and things are starting to look pretty, I’m going to help you hang things. My help is holding out until then.”
“Glad you’re waiting for the easy projects.” I open the ladder and situate it on the floor.
“Hey, don’t forget my attempt at painting wallpaper, hanging shiplap, and finding Racer. I think I’ve done my fair share of helping.”
I sigh and start climbing the ladder, feeling unsteady and wobbly. “Can you hold the ladder for me, Mad?”
“You’re not going to fall, are you?”
“If you hold the ladder I won’t.”
Being the semi-good friend she is, Madison makes a big deal about getting up and walking to the ladder. She holds the legs firmly to the floor, making my ascent slightly more sturdy.
“Why would Racer put your spreadsheet up there anyway?”
I reach the top wrung with my hands and look up at the ceiling. I’m going to have to climb a few more steps. “Because he’s an asshole.”
“Who’s an asshole?” That deep, annoying voice I’ve grown to despise . . .
Madison turns toward the door, moving the ladder with her.
It happens too quickly. As I move to the next step on the ladder, it twists to the side, knocking my foot away and causing me to lose my balance. My hands flail in the air as I try to gracefully catch myself, but there is no hope.
Girl is going down.
An obnoxiously ugly cry for help rips out of my mouth as I twist my body awkwardly and start to fall, right into the barrel of Racer’s chest. We topple to the floor, an oof coming out of him and girly cries ripping from me.
I find myself with my head awkwardly resting on Racer’s jean-clad crotch and my lady bits tickling his chin with my legs on either side of his head.
We are casually prepped and primed in a sixty-nine position with Madison gawking over us. I can feel his breath between my thighs, which sends a shiver up my spine. The only thing resting between my face and Racer’s penis is his jeans and I’m assuming briefs, but w
ho knows, he seems like a man who goes commando.
Oh God, what if he’s commando right now? My fingers itch to yank down his zipper and find out. Good Lord, my hormones need to take it easy.
But then his mouth is right against my arousal . . .
“Take a guy out to dinner first, Georgie.” Racer pats my butt and chuckles, although I detect a strain in his voice from catching me.
I don’t know what comes over me. Maybe it’s the fact that my dad hasn’t spoken to me since I started this project. Maybe it’s the infuriating man that holds my future in his hands, or maybe it’s the fact that I really do need sex, but before I can even stop myself, I whack Racer right in the scrotum and roll off him.
“Asshole,” I mutter as he scrunches to the side and holds his crotch, small moans coming from him.
“Devil woman,” he mutters.
I right myself and watch in amusement—sorry, I can’t help but be a little pleased with my choice—as Racer’s muscles strain while he takes deep breaths. Serves him right.
“Oh man, you got him right in the nads.” Madison offers me a fist bump, which I match gladly, even though she was the reason I fell off the ladder. “I guess he won’t be messing with your spready doo-dad anymore.”
“I guess not.” I wink at Racer and go back to the ladder. Hopefully Madison won’t be distracted again this time.
***
“Is the limping necessary?”
“You punched my balls, Princess, of course it’s necessary.”
“I did not punch them.” I make sure my phone is in my purse and I have all the paperwork I need in my file folder for our trip.
“You sure as hell did. You punched them so hard, I felt them swing up my back and wink at my asshole.”
I cringe. “God, don’t be so vulgar.”
“Don’t be so stuck-up. I know it’s hard to dislodge the pole that was stuck up your ass when you were born, but with a little lube, we can shimmy it out.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “I don’t mind taking it out for you and replacing it with my good-time pole.”
Deadpanning, I ask, “Is that what you call your penis? Your good-time pole?”
He shrugs casually, pockets his phone, and stretches his hands over his head, revealing a patch of bronzed, toned skin on his stomach. “Haven’t had a bad time yet.”
