by Meghan Quinn
I make sure the canister is firmly in place before I sit on the scaffolding I’m on. I place my hands in my lap and make eye contact with her. I watch as she quickly scans my body, taking in my shirtless chest right before her eyes meet mine. She might think she’s not into me, but it’s obvious I do something to her; it’s in the way her breath hitches with every once-over she takes.
“‘Into Thin Air’ by John Krakauer.” I pause for a minute, remembering the words this broken man spoke of. “It’s a memoir about the author’s journey to conquer Mount Everest. Despite his preparations and knowledge of the goliath of all mountains, he didn’t reach the top. A storm crushed his dreams. An unpredictable storm devastated him and everyone else on that mountain.” I clasp my hands and look down at them. “Storms are a disturbed state in the environment that not only pertain to the weather, but in our personal lives, our personal state of well-being. And it’s the eyes of the storm that are the most tumultuous, the eyes of a human that carry the most turmoil. When you’re caught in a storm, it feels like everything crumbling around you is your fault. Just like John, I weathered an unpredictable storm, which left me bereft, lost, and struggling.” I shrug. “I connected with the book on a personal level. I felt John’s loss as if it was my own, which makes it a great book. If you feel it, feel the emotions of the characters rather than simply told them, you’re living that book, you’re not just reading it.”
Georgiana is silent for a few seconds before she crosses her legs under her. “Weathering the storm, it’s what can make or break you.” I nod, not sure really what to say, not wanting to dive into details about my past. She doesn’t need to know the specifics of my misfortunes, and it’s bad enough I had to drive her around in my rusted-out truck. “I’m weathering—” Her phone rings, snapping us both out of the intimate moment, and without saying a word she answers it. “Hello? Oh yup, I’ll text you the address. See you in a bit.”
When she hangs up, she sighs and then puts on a mask of sophistication. “I have to get ready. If I leave you the keys, think you can lock up when you’re done?”
Caught off guard, I stand and nod. “Yeah, sure. No problem.”
“Thanks.” She takes off toward the bathroom, well, where the walls of the bathroom are. There really is nothing in there besides a toilet and one roll of toilet paper on the back of the seat.
I guess that’s the end of that conversation. And this is exactly why I need to keep my distance, because she’s on a different level than I am. I’m the hired help; she’s the boss with the checkbook. She’s champagne and I’m nickel and dime beer. If we were living in the world of Jane Austen, I wouldn’t even be allowed to talk to Georgiana Westbrook, let alone call her a nickname.
I drill the canister into the ceiling as I recollect our conversation. Did she think my assessment was stupid, my analogy? Did she actually find it interesting? And why do I really care in the first place?
Maybe because I need some sort of validation in my life. Validation for the accomplishments I’ve achieved, despite the major setbacks I’ve faced.
Before her phone rang, she was about to confess something. She started to say she was weathering something, but before she could dive deep, she stopped. What would she have shared? Do I really care?
A part of me fucking does. I run my hand through my hair, hating that I actually care. It’s been a little over two weeks, and she’s already burying herself under my skin. I couldn’t be more annoyed.
I take my phone out of my back pocket and text the one person I know who can snap me out of this funk.
Racer: Drinks tonight. Your place?
I finish up installing the light, insert a bulb, and climb down the scaffolding so I can get a drink. I have one more light to install, which doesn’t seem bad, but it will take me at least another twenty minutes before I can think about packing up.
I crack open the top of a bottle of water and let the cool liquid rush down my throat, clearing all the dust I’ve been breathing day in and day out. I look around the shop and can’t help but count the number of projects we still have left. I’m busting my ass, but when it’s just me, there is only so much I can do in a night. I’m wearing thin, and I think it’s starting to show.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Adalyn: You always pick my place because you can drink my girly drinks without getting caught.
True, but I’ll never admit it. She makes some of the best piña coladas ever and this guy is feeling a little coconutty today.
Racer: I’m taking that as a yes. I would ask if you want me to bring anything but you know it will just lead to me buying five boxes of Little Debbie snacks at the store, so spare me.
Adalyn: Because of your sick obsession with those snacks, I’ve gained five pounds. It’s showing in my scrubs.
Racer: Sporting your very own Swiss Rolls now?
Adalyn: I hate you. You’re no longer invited to my place. Have fun drinking in a ditch by yourself.
I laugh and lean against one of the walls, taking a small break from the wear and tear working like this puts on my body.
Racer: Don’t get sour on me. Remember last time I drank at your place? I fixed your leaky faucet, the one your landlord didn’t care to attend to.
Adalyn: You also felt up my breasts and told me it was for science.
Racer: It was! As a man, it’s recommended to be well versed in all things breastual. It’s nice to have a variety of experience. No one breast is the same, you know? I think we learned that when I noticed your right one having more girth.
Adalyn: Don’t talk about my breasts and them being girthy. God, you’re never coming over again.
Racer: LOL. Fine, what if I promise not to touch your breasts?
Adalyn: I’m not making out with you either.
Racer: What about giving each other tender zone examinations?
Adalyn: Tender zone, what the hell is that?
Racer: And you’re supposed to be the nurse. Eye-roll. It’s where you keep your crotch, that’s your tender zone. We can examine each other’s, you know, to see if we’re doing a good job cleaning. If you tickle my taint, I might very well be okay with that.
Adalyn: Sigh
Racer: What do you say?
Adalyn: Can I use a feather while I tickle you?
Racer: I wouldn’t expect anything less.
I wait a few seconds before she replies.
Adalyn: Fine. But bring Zebra Cakes. We’re going to get wild tonight.
Racer: You’re on, sweetheart.
Satisfied, I pocket my phone. Adalyn is the perfect friend. Yeah, we might fool around on occasion. We’ve never actually had sex, but fuck, just a little human touch never killed anyone. That’s part of the reason we’re such good friends. We get each other. We’re both sexual creatures by nature. She knows how to scratch my itch, without sex, and I know how to scratch hers. Typical? No. Wanted? Absolutely.
I’m about to head back up my scaffolding when there’s a knock on the front door. In the dim lights, I can see an outline of a man standing at the windowed door. Immediately the hairs on the back of my neck go up. What does this dude want? Clearly the shop is closed and under construction, so he can’t be good news.
As I walk toward the door, a million thoughts of what would happen if I wasn’t here and Georgiana was here all alone crowd my mind. Would she answer the door? Would this guy try to pull something on her? Very uneasy, I reach the door and shout through the glass, “We’re not open, dude. Move on.”
I stand tall, filling the space of the door, making sure to let this fucker know I’m not messing around.
“I’m here to pick up Georgiana Westbrook,” the man calls through the door. “She’s expecting me.”
“Is she, now? And who the hell are you?”
“Chauncey McAdams.”
What the fuck kind of name is Chauncey? Christ, his parents hated him at birth. Straight up, there is no love there.
Calling behind me, I yell, “Princess,
you expecting a dickhead by the name of Chauncey?”
“Oh God, is he here?” I’m going to take that as a yes, a strangely unsettling yes. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”
Grinding my teeth together, I unlock the front door and open it wide, still filling the space. I take a moment to assess him. Under the streetlight, I can tell he’s wearing a navy blue blazer with tan khaki pants and a white button-up shirt. His shoes look fucking expensive as shit as well as the watch on his wrist. His hair is slicked to the side and that fucking rich smirk on his face only makes me want to wind my fist back and clock it right off him.
Yeah, this is a simple assessment. I don’t like him.
“Chauncey,” he holds out his hand, which I reluctantly take.
“Racer. Nice to meet you. Uh, Georgie will be right out.”
“Georgie?” Chauncey shakes his head as he steps inside the shop. “What an appalling nickname for such a beautiful woman.”
Christ, she’s not even in the room, and he’s trying to shove his head up her ass. Cool it, Romeo, you’ll have plenty of time to try to woo her.
Giving him another once-over, I decide to size him up, to see if he’s the man I think he is . . . the boring, small dick of a man I spoke of earlier.
“Chaunce, can I call you Chaunce?”
“I prefer—”
“Chaunce it is.” I hold back the smirk that wants to peek out from his indignation. “Tell me, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m in bonds.” He gestures at my shirtless attire, “And you?”
“Stripper. Georgie lends me the space to practice. Want to see some of my moves?” I start to thrust in his direction, which causes his nose to visibly sneer. Fuck this dude.
“I’m good,” he chokes out in distaste.
“Don’t knock it until you try it, man. Girls touch your dick all night and give you money. How can you pass up such a lucky job like that?” I weigh my hands. “Bonds or stripper. Hmm, pretty sure I’ll take stripper any day.”
“You can’t make a living off such a menial job.”
“I beg to differ.” I stretch my hands behind my back, flexing my impressive chest. “Just bought a Beemer the other day for the hell of it. I didn’t need it, but I wanted it. Gregory at the dealership is my man. That dude is solid. Do you know Gregory?”
There is no Gregory . . .
“Oh yeah, sure, great guy.”
Fucking douche nozzle.
I nod. “Next time I see him, I’ll be sure to tell him you said hi.”
“That would be great, thanks.”
I nod at his pocket. “So what do you have in there? Billfold or money clip.” I lean forward and say, “You look like a money clip kind of guy.”
“You got me.” Chauncey winks and pulls out a wad of cash held together by a money clip.
Typical Chauncey—not that I really know, but this tool bag has money clip wrapped in Benjamins written all over him.
“I’m a billfold guy myself, but that’s only because I carry around condoms wherever I go. Never know when you’re going to end up dick deep, you know?” False, but a perfect gentleman in this situation would just nod and change the subject.
Too bad Chauncey isn’t the perfect gentleman. More like a skeeze. “You get a lot of pussy? I guess so since you’re a stripper.”
Cue the biggest eye-roll ever. I could have written down his response without blinking an eye and gotten it right.
“Who’s a stripper?” Georgie asks, pulling both of our attention.
Standing behind me, Georgie walks up wearing a skin-tight red dress that is seared to her frame, defining her body perfectly, reminding me of just how amazing her body is. The top dips low enough to catch a small glimpse of her cleavage. The slit on the side of the dress runs dangerously high, but not indecently, just enough to drive a man like myself to thinking what it would feel like to slip my hand under the fabric, to test to see if she’s wearing anything underneath.
To top off her non-construction clothes outfit, she’s wearing nude-colored heels that turn her legs into fuckable sticks you want wrapped around your body as you drive deep inside her.
Fuck.
Fuck me, she looks good.
Fuck me, she looks too damn good.
“Your friend here, Razor. He was discussing his day job.” Typical. It’s fucking Racer . . . Chandler.
Georgie lifts a brow at me but doesn’t question me. She’s wised up—don’t question me or else I’ll just make it worse and more embarrassing.
From her purse, she pulls out a key and hands it to me. “Thanks for locking up. Will I see you tomorrow?”
I shrug. “Not sure. Pretty beat. I’ll let you know.” Her face falls, and like the asshole I am, I take pleasure in that.
“Oh, okay. Well, let me know.”
“Ready?” Chaunce asks.
Georgie nods and starts to walk by me. That’s when I whisper into her ear while snagging her upper arm. “He’s got a small dick. Guaranteed.”
“Racer,” she whispers through her teeth.
“One tit grab says I’m right.”
“Get a life.” She blows by me but not before she glances at Chauncey’s crotch and nibbles on her bottom lip out of concern. I can’t help but chuckle. God, she’s so easy to read. Although, right now, I hate that she is. She wants to get laid. The dress, the fuck-me heels? She’s a horny girl in heat. And she chose him? Small-dick bonds man?
I turn toward them and watch as they walk out of the shop together. Before they shut the door, I call out, “Be careful, chlamydia’s been making the rounds. Wear protection, kids, and abstinence is always a winner in my book.”
I garner a giant glare from Georgie before the door is shut, causing me to laugh some more. Damn, I can only imagine the cogs spinning in her head right now. How to get Racer back . . .
She can try all she wants, she really doesn’t know who she’s messing with.
***
“Go ahead, smack my ass one more time, see where it gets you.”
“I can smack your ass all I want.”
I take a seat on Adalyn’s couch and drape the hand holding my piña colada over the back. I face Adalyn and smirk. “I know this is going to be hard for you to believe, but you really can’t smack my ass anytime you want.”
For being someone who was very much against being physical tonight, she’s been super touchy. Hell, I wouldn’t mind a little dry-hump session. If it happens, it happens, so be it.
She takes a long sip from her drink and says with lazy eyes, “Best friend privileges.”
“Yeah?” I question her, “How come I’ve never seen these rules?”
“They’re one-sided,” she answers matter-of-factly.
“Seems a little unfair.”
“Please,” she huffs. “If I was licking your dick every time you passed, we would be having a different conversation.”
“If you were licking my dick every time I passed you, I wouldn’t be moving forward to my destination, that’s for damn sure.”
“Too bad for you, I would never lick your dick.”
“Yeah, only snuggle it with your face.”
Adalyn leans back on the couch and stares me down. “I rubbed my cheek against it once, Racer. Once! I was drunk and trying to look through your pee hole like a kaleidoscope. You can’t blame me for being creative.”
“I guess not. I think we have whiskey to blame for that night.”
She takes another sip of her drink. “At least you were still wearing your pants. If I held your urethra up to my eyeball, I don’t think I could ever look at you the same.”
“Yeah, our friendship would be dead at that point.” I tip my drink at her. “Thank God for pants, right?”
She clinks her glass against mine. “Yes, thank God for pants.” She chuckles and then asks, “How’s the new job? Seems like I never see you anymore. I mean, it’s nine at night. Is this the new hour we get to visit? Or is this a booty call?”
�
��Has it ever been a booty call?” I ask seriously. She shakes her head and smiles sweetly at me, knowing I would never treat her like that. “New job is fine. Same old shit, trying to meet an impossible timeline by myself.”
“Sounds normal. How’s the boss? Still showing up in heels?”
I laugh. “No, she bought construction clothes.”
Adalyn shakes her head. “Of course she did. Let me guess: boots, shorts, and a shirt.”
I nod and take a sip of my drink. I press my lips together, savoring the flavor. “Not going to lie, it’s hot on her.”
“Not surprised by that either. If I know you like I think I do, you made some dickhead comment about her not being able to wear those clothes because you wouldn’t get any work done.”
“Pretty much.” I shake my head, thinking back to that first day in her new clothes. “Hate to admit it, Addie, she’s hot. Really fucking hot.”
“Ahhh,” she replies in a knowing way. “You’re crushing on this girl?”
“First,” I hold out one of my fingers, “this isn’t middle school, I don’t crush on people. And second, she’s wicked hot but not my type.”
“Hot is not your type? Huh, what are you looking for now? Snaggle face with burnt hair?”
I chuckle and nod. “Yeah, love that burnt-hair smell, really gets my balls tingling.”
“Yeah, sperm-revving attraction? Never thought you would be a burnt hair kind of man.”
“You learn something new every day.” I wink at her over my drink.
She crosses her legs on the couch and gets serious, I can see it in the way she hunkers down. Damn, here we go.
“Enough with the joking. Why isn’t hot your type?”
“Come on,” I say. “She’s on a completely different level than I am. There is no way she would ever want to date a guy like me, someone who works with their hands. I’m barely blue collar, and she’s in the top tax bracket. Completely different lives. Plus, she annoys the shit out of me. She never does what I tell her, she always has to question everything.”
Adalyn smiles and pokes me in the side. “You liiiiiiike her,” she singsongs, instantly annoying me.
“I really don’t. We couldn’t be more different. But does she have nice tits? Yes.” I nod my head. “Yes, she does.”
