by Meghan Quinn
“Pig.”
Breezing past him, I walk to my car and unlock the door. When I go to open it, Racer calls out, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting in my car, isn’t that obvious?”
“We’re taking my truck.” He points to his rusted piece of metal behind him.
I stare it down for a second and then shake my head. “I’m not riding in that thing. It’s a death trap.”
“I’ve had it for years; hasn’t died yet.”
“No, I’ll drive.”
“Yeah? And where do you plan on putting all of the sheets of drywall we need to get in that little BMW of yours? Strapping them to the top is not going to work, Princess.”
Shoot, he’s right. Righting my chin in the air, I say, “Well, we can drive separately.”
“That’s a waste of gas and more pollution than we need. Just get in the truck.”
I shake my head. Stubborn woman that I am.
“Don’t make me come and get you,” he threatens, his chest puffing out and his eyes staring me down.
“You wouldn’t.”
He lowers his head and chuckles while he shakes it. “Have you not learned anything yet, Georgie? I do anything I want, and I follow through on threats.”
“Just meet me there.” I turn to get in my car when heavy booted footsteps come up behind me.
I have no time to move out of the way before he’s flinging me over his shoulder and carrying me like an uncivilized savage to his truck. “Put me down, you ape.”
The loud squeak of his truck door opening shoots through the air right before he plops me down on the seat, onto something crinkly.
“What is that?” I shift to the side and pull out a handful of wrappers, chocolate and cream-covered wrappers. They’re everywhere. On his dashboard, on his seat, on the floor.
Oh my God! It’s a rat’s lair in here.
“Ewww!” I shake the wrappers from my hand and watch them float to the floor. “What are those?”
“Eh, yeah, haven’t had a chance to clean out the old girl. Sorry about that.”
“Why are there so many wrappers?”
He swats away the wrappers to the floor—yeah, much better. “Little Debbie is my sugar mama. I love that bitch hardcore.”
“Little Debbie, as in the fat-filled snacks?”
“The one and only.”
Scanning the compartment of his cab, I look at him and say, “There must be fifty wrappers in here. You’ve eaten all of them? Aren’t you afraid of getting fat?”
Like the cocky ass he is, he lifts his shirt and pats his abs. “Not concerned, Princess. But thanks for checking.”
He slams my door shut and walks around to his side. When he’s settled, he runs his hand over the steering wheel and whispers something to his truck. Eyes closed, almost as if he’s hoping and praying his truck starts, he turns the key in the ignition and a loud, strained rumble follows.
“That a girl.” He pats the truck’s dashboard and puts it in drive. The truck lurches forward, and I have to brace myself. Racer turns to me and says, “Seatbelt, please.”
I reach behind me but come up shorthanded. “There is no seatbelt.”
He looks behind me and snaps his finger. “Oh yeah, I had to cut it off Smalls when he got stuck last time he was in the truck. Fuck, that was funny.”
Appalled, I reply, “I’m not riding with you in this truck without a seatbelt.”
“No problem, Georgie, there is a seatbelt in the middle.” He taps the bitch seat where the stick shift lies and winks at me.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Not even in the slightest. Get that snooty ass over here so I can get this shit over with. I want to get home at a decent hour tonight.”
Huffing my disapproval, I scoot over and buckle up. Racer wraps his arm around me and squeezes me tight to his chest; his cologne dangerously floats in my direction. God, he smells good. Why can’t he smell like rotten cheese? That would be so much better, easier to not want to lick his neck.
“Isn’t this sweet? All cuddled up together.” His voice drips with humor.
“Just drive,” I seethe.
“Not a problem.” His giant man-hand grips the gearshift, which of course, is right between my legs. Nudging my legs, he says, “Spread them for me, Princess, you have to make room for me.”
His voice is low, almost seductive with his request, causing me to catch my breath as I spread my legs wider to accommodate his hand.
“Look at that.” His head tilts toward mine, his breath tickling my neck. “You do know how to follow directions.”
My body ignites, aware of his strong presence surrounding me, enveloping me in some kind of messed-up, chocolate-covered-wrapper haze. There is no way in hell I’m going to allow myself to be attracted to this man.
Nope.
Not going to happen.
Job number one tomorrow? Call Chauncey McAdams. The last thing I want to do is go out with one of my dad’s preferred choices in men, but after being close to Racer, I’ve realized something: I need a penis in my life, and I need it now . . .
Before I do something stupid like throw myself at the disgusting, pigheaded—way too hot—Racer McKay.
***
Racer runs both hands over his face, the veins in his neck popping and the muscles in his forearms straining from our argument.
“We can’t skip drywall, how many times do I have to tell you that?”
I cross my arms over my chest in response. “I’m not saying we skip it, I’m just saying we pick and choose where we put it.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Princess. It’s a wall, it needs the proper materials.”
“Well, it’s not in my budget.” I point at my spreadsheet, which he rips from my hands and pulls the pencil from behind his ear as he starts running over it.
He leans against the shelves that are housing the drywall and scrolls through my list. When he starts scribbling on my paper, I jump in.
“Don’t touch that.” I try to grab the spreadsheet from him, but his hold is too tight. “Stop, you’re going to mess everything up.”
“A thousand dollars for a chandelier? Are you fucking insane? Nope, that’s gone.” He makes a scratch across my sheet.
“I spent hours searching for that chandelier; it stays.”
“Sorry to break it to you, Georgie, but the chandelier goes. Anyway, I have a friend who owns a light shop. I can hook you up with some cheap prices. You don’t need that expensive Tiffany shit.”
Caught off guard by his gesture, I back off, maybe I should let him—
“Five thousand dollars for a chaise? Are you losing your damn mind? No way in hell should you buy that.”
“Hey, this is my shop. Not yours.” With a strong grasp, I’m able to take the sheet from him and put it in my purse so he can’t make any more adjustments.
He places his stupid pencil back behind his ear and says, “With that kind of budget, you’re going to fail miserably.”
“I’ll have you know, my dad and brother both looked over this budget and saw great potential in my shop.”
“Yeah?” Racer’s face grows cocky, and what he’s about to say next, I know I’m not going to like. “Do your dad or brother have any idea what goes into construction? Did they see that you didn’t even account for the cost of nails, primer, or patch for the drywall? Did they see that there is no mention of paint supplies, wiring, or a replacement vanity for the bathroom because the one in there you couldn’t bear to keep?”
“Well—”
“And what about the cost of redoing the floors or the scaffolding we have to rent because the ceilings in the space are ten feet tall?”
“They didn’t—”
“Yeah, they didn’t.” He adjusts his stance, and I hate that I notice every muscle in his chest ripple with his movements. “Here’s the deal, Georgie. You might know about business, but I know construction, and your construction budget is trash. If you
want to do this right, let me do my work. When all is said and done, and I’m painting, adding the final touches, then you can reassess your budget and see if you can buy the fancy shit you want. Until then, hold your little purse strings tight because if anything, construction is unpredictable. You think you have it all figured out until something breaks, leaks, or flat-out surprises you. You should always allow for a fifteen percent variance. Trust me, I’ve seen my fair share of mishaps.”
“That’s reassuring.”
He pinches my chin and smiles. “Don’t worry, Georgie, I haven’t met a mishap I haven’t been able to fix. You’re in good hands.”
Hands . . .
God, now I’m picturing his stupid hand between my legs again.
Chauncey McAdams is getting a phone call. He’s getting a phone call tomorrow.
***
“Yes, can you please tell him Georgiana Westbrook is calling?”
“Of course, please hold.”
Lying on my bed in my parents’ house, I twirl my hair while I wait for Chauncey to come on the line. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I’m more than desperate right about now.
After watching Racer carry sheet upon sheet of drywall into the shop by himself, shirtless because would you know it? He got chocolate all over his shirt while eating a Little Debbie snack on the way back from Home Depot, and I went home dreaming of muscles. So many muscles. So many tightly wound, perfectly placed muscles.
Why can’t he be one of those construction workers with a gut? Why does he have to be so incredibly ripped? And why does he have to eat like a man-child? What grown man smears chocolate all over his shirt while eating a Swiss Roll? According to him, it happens often.
How? How is that possible?
“Georgiana, what a pleasant surprise,” Chauncey answers, his voice smooth, almost a rich tone.
“Chauncey, sorry if I’m calling at a bad time.”
“Not at all. I’m glad to hear from you.” I can just picture him with his feet up on his desk, a smirk across his face. “What can I do for you today?”
God, am I really going to do this? I glance over at my nightstand where my worn-out vibrator rests in peace and swallow hard. Yup, I’m really going to do this.
“I wanted to see if you were up for grabbing a drink some time.”
“Grab a drink with Georgiana Westbrook? I would be an idiot to say no to that. I would be honored. When were you thinking?”
“I’m pretty open.”
“How about tomorrow night? Does that work for you? Or does that make me sound desperate to see you?”
I chuckle. “Desperate would be asking to meet up in an hour.”
“Thank God, I went with option number two then, huh?”
“Good thing.”
“How about I pick you up at six tomorrow. If I make a good impression, maybe you’ll allow me to take you to dinner too, not just drinks.”
“Not making any promises, you better bring you’re A-game, McAdams.” I’m flirting.
“A challenge, I’m intrigued. I’ll have my assistant give you my cell number. Text me where to pick you up.”
“Sounds good.” I flip to my stomach, a little excited about my date. Now how do I go about asking for sex without looking like a horny woman who puts out on the first date?
“I’m glad you called, Georgiana. I was getting nervous I wasn’t going to hear from you.”
Feeling a little guilty and hating my dad for letting Chauncey know about my “possible” phone call, I say, “Sorry I’ve been a little busy lately, but we can talk about that later.”
“I look forward to it. I’ll send you back to Mandi, my assistant. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
“Me too.”
There, that wasn’t too terrible. He actually sounded really nice on the phone. Lying back on my bed, I stare at the ceiling and cross my fingers at my side . . .
Please don’t let him have a pencil dick; please don’t let him have a pencil dick.
I don’t think my vagina could stand the disappointment.
Chapter Ten
RACER
“Think you’ll be done with the ceiling tonight? It doesn’t take that long to wire lights, right?” Princess bounces below me, her impatience has truly grated on my nerves this evening. Electric isn’t my specialty. I can put in the wiring, prepare where the cable lighting rails will go, but the electrician will have to do the final check and ensure everything is to code. But if there is one thing I know from years in building: never rush the electrics. It’s protocol and can’t be rushed. So yeah, I’m slow.
“It’s going to take longer with your yipping. You know you don’t always have to be watching over me while I work. You can go do other shit.”
“I know. I just want to be a part of everything.”
“Staring at me doing all the work is what you consider being a part of it all?” I wipe my brow with my forearm as sweat drips down into my eyes, stinging them. Fuck, it’s hot up here and humid. So damn humid.
“Don’t act like you want me to help you.” She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. “You can’t have it both ways, Racer. You can’t bitch about me not helping and then tell me I can’t help.”
Bringing the hem of my shirt up to my eyes, I press the fabric into the corners. “You must not know me very well, I bitch about everything.”
“You’re right, I don’t know you well. What I do know is you treat your truck like a trash can, you snarl a lot, and you tend to take any chance you can get to show off your stomach.”
“Sounds like you know enough, besides one thing . . .” I reach behind me and pull off my shirt entirely and toss it down at her. When the sweaty fabric hits her, she squeals and tosses it to the side. “I enjoy taking my shirt off around women who can’t seem to stop staring.”
“Gross.” She wipes her legs and then her head snaps up at me, as if she just realized what I said. “I don’t stare at you.”
“All the time, Georgie.” I twist two wires together and cap them off. “All the time.”
“You’re so full of yourself. You’re not even my type.” She crosses her arms and stares down at her perfectly painted pink nails.
“Handsome, rugged, and giant penis isn’t your type? I’d hate to know what kind of man you like to drape yourself on.”
“That’s such a sexist thing to say. I don’t drape myself on men. For your information, I’ve never made decisions in my life based on a man’s suggestions. I’ve done everything in my life for me. I have a master’s degree in business from Northwestern, graduated with honors, and have yet to truly dabble in a serious relationship because I’ve been focused on my goals.”
“Master’s degree, huh, Georgie? Impressive.” More than I can say for myself. High school diploma and a good amount of work experience under my belt, that’s all I have. She can probably guess that, no need to throw my subpar credentials on the table.
“Thank you.” Her acceptance of my compliment is awkward, she doesn’t quite know how to react, which is funny to me. I’m throwing her for a loop, and naturally, I like it.
“Still,” I grunt as I install a canister for the recess lighting we decided on, “if you’re not draping yourself over a man, I want to know what kind of guy is draping himself over you, especially if he’s not handsome, rugged, with a big penis, because as you stated before, that’s not your type.”
“I never said big pe—” She pinches her brow and I chuckle to myself. “I never said that wasn’t my type.”
“You said I wasn’t your type, Georgie, and those are obvious attributes I possess. To each their own. So, what is it? Boring with no sense of humor and a penis you can jack with only your index finger and thumb?” I make a tiny, itty-bitty motion with my finger and thumb to demonstrate.
“I’m glad you like to prove your stupidity on a daily basis.”
“Excuse me?” I look down at her now. “Care to repeat that?”
“You can’t associate the size of a man’s crotch by their personality. Just because they might be boring doesn’t mean they have a small penis. And most of the time, the men with all the muscles like yourself are overcompensating for what is lacking in their briefs.” She smirks up at me. I skip right past her jab.
“You like my muscles, huh?”
She rolls her eyes while I get back to setting up the canister light. “You’re just proving my point.”
“And what point is that?”
“You are unable to hold an intellectual conversation. You love talking about your body, how attractive you think you are, and what you think is a big penis. Pathetic.”
“I don’t think I have a big penis, I know I do, Princess. You’re cute for trying to bring me down a peg, though. As for my intellect, go ahead, ask me a question. I can hold a conversation.”
I would prefer to hold a conversation of substance. It’s more fulfilling to engage on a more personal level, and it’s one of the reasons I try to ease the burdens that sit on my friends’ shoulders. I want to be the guy they can rely on when they’re in need. I take pride in it. Doing up Tucker’s house for Emma and providing her with weekly Tucker-directed loving while he was away was one of the most fulfilling things I’ve ever done. Her face when she turned around and found him at her graduation? One of my proudest moments. I helped put that there.
I might not have all the riches or college degrees, or even the materialistic things that some people my age have, but what I do have is loyalty to the people close to me. I will do pretty much anything for them.
“Anything?” I can see the wheels turning in those questioning eyes of hers.
“Anything,” I respond, hoping in the back of my head that I can hold my own against this woman. Fuck, I hate that she intimidates me, but she’s so worldly compared to me, so much more refined, and one hundred percent out of my league.
“What’s your favorite book? And why?”
“So proper,” I joke.
“Just answer the question without being snarky.”
She doesn’t want snark? Fine, I can do snark free.
