Twisted Twosome

by Meghan Quinn

  “Racer,” Tucker starts to say but I shake my head.

  “Don’t bother trying to talk me up. Just drop it, man.” It doesn’t matter.

  They are silent for a second, their gazes drawn down. They get me. Enough said.

  “You’re so much more than how you describe yourself,” Smalls says, breaking the silence. “You’re the first to tell us it’s not about the possessions in our lives, but the experiences.”

  That’s true, I am. I’m all about living life because it’s way too damn short to fixate on menial things, but with Georgie, it’s different. It feels different. She deserves more.

  “I agree, but not everyone does.” Especially if Georgie goes out with a dickweed like Chauncey Rose Giver.

  “So I take it you won’t be sharing Debbie with her,” Tucker says, adding some light to the conversation.

  “Not anytime soon.” I nod at the grill. “Are you paying attention to that?”

  “Stop questioning my grilling abilities.” Tucker puts down his beer and opens the lid; smoke billows out, filling the air around us. Tucker waves the thick smoke out of the way only to reveal charred and blackened hot dogs.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I yell while standing. “I told you, you were going to burn the hell out of my wiener.” I snag the tongs from Tucker and pick up my hot dog. I shove it in his face and say, “It looks like a shriveled-up dead dick.” I toss it back on the grill and return the tongs. “Grill master, my ass.” I turn toward the house with one mission on my mind. “I’m raiding your cabinets. I know you have some Swiss Rolls around here somewhere.”

  “You’ll never find them.”

  “Challenge accepted!”

  ***

  Another long-ass day on the job, and another long-ass night in front of me. Sore and tired, I pull my haggard body out of my truck, snag my tools, and head to Limerence. The lights are on, shining brightly through the front windows that Georgie covered with purple paper yesterday so people couldn’t see the changes. She wants to have a grand reveal when it’s all finished.

  I don’t know if it’s the conversation I had with my boys the other day or how tired I am, but I have no energy for tonight. The project is moving along quickly. We have the walls and floors done. I still have to work on that godforsaken bathroom, install shelves, build her consulting office and front desk, but for the most part, things are starting to come together.

  But today, today is going to be hard. Not physically hard, but mentally.

  I have to ask for money.

  I got this month’s round of bills and once again, I’m fucking scraping by. I need a reprieve from the stress, and there is only one way to get it.

  I pull on my baseball cap and then quickly spin it around on my head so it’s backward. Might as well get this humiliation over with.

  The door to Limerence is unlocked, which I don’t like. I’ve told her many times to keep it locked up when she’s here alone. Not that she’s in a bad area, but you never know what kind of creep will walk by and try to pull something.

  When I walk in, I’m greeted by Georgie—no Madison today—lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, her trusty iPad next to her. But for once, her eyes aren’t fixed on it.

  “I thought I told you to keep that door locked,” I say while setting my tools down and locking the door.

  “I just unlocked it because I knew you were coming and thought I’d make it easier on you.”

  “Thanks, but keep it locked.” I scan her up and down and notice she’s not wearing her “construction clothes.” Instead, she’s in a pair of tight-fitting skinny jeans, some kind of black fitted top that hangs off her shoulders with her heels resting next to her. “What’s up, Georgie?”

  “I don’t want to work today.” Her voice sounds distant, sad, not the Georgie with sass and spice I know.

  “You don’t have to. You can go home if you want. I can handle it.” There is no way I can go home today. Despite the pain in my body, I’ll be working. I need to be paid.

  Ignoring my suggestion, she squeezes her eyes shut and sighs. When she opens them, they shine with sadness. “Supine,” she softly says.

  Drawing closer, I ask, “What?”

  “Supine. To lie facing upward. It’s how I used to think over major life changes. It’s the seventeenth word in my book. At the time, I had no idea there was such a beautiful word to describe something I did daily, but there it was, sitting, waiting for me to write it down.” Quietly she whispers, “Supine.”

  A little worried, I squat down to her level, ignoring all the creaks and cracks my body makes as I edge closer to where she rests. I’m tempted to push a stray hair behind her ear but I resist. That’s an intimate move and right now, that would be inappropriate. “Georgie, you seem tired. Go home, take a long bath or something, and relax. I’ve got this.”

  She shakes her head from side to side. “I can’t go home.”

  I know I shouldn’t ask. I know I need to keep this relationship as professional as possible, especially if I’m going to ask what I need to ask today, but the look in her eyes—the emptiness, a look I know well—I just need to find out why it’s there. What’s stopping her from snapping at me, from using that sassy mouth of hers?

  “Why can’t you go home?”

  She closes her eyes and a tear falls down her cheek.

  Oh hell . . .

  “I don’t have one. My dad had the maid pack up my stuff today and put it in storage. I was left with two suitcases and a note attached to them saying that if I were to go against his wishes and disrespect him, then I’m not welcome to live under his roof.”

  “He kicked you out?” Georgie nods her head, more tears falling from her eyes. Shit, I don’t know what to do.

  Scratch that, I know what to do. I know how to console a friend. But a client, someone I’m trying to keep at a distance? What do I do in this instance? Do I pat her shoulder and say, “There, there, everything will be okay”? Do I try to show her the bright side? At least he didn’t go psycho ex-girlfriend and burn all her things. Or do I just ignore her and get to work? Technically my job is to redo the shop and nothing else. I’m not required to sit around and work out her problems with her. That’s what Madison is for. I had a good dad. There would never have been a time where I would have feared being kicked out. Even when I was a tool at times.

  And yet . . .

  Fuck, my heart reaches out to her.

  “Shit, I’m sorry, Princess,” I say softly. Not knowing what else to do, I join her on the floor and lie face up, our shoulders bumping, our hands inches from one another.

  Don’t grab her hand. For the love of God, don’t grab her hand.

  My pinky brushes against hers and ever so slightly I hook mine around hers. She doesn’t pull away so I leave it at that. Just a little bit of comfort, that’s it.

  Swallowing hard, I ask, “Do you need a place to stay?” Please say no, please say no.

  Tucker did that, offered a girl a place to live and ended up proposing to her later on down the road. It worked out for him but pretty sure that was a rarity.

  Luckily, Georgie shakes her head. “No, my brother, Abe, is taking me in.”

  “Well, there you go. No need to be upset.” Hell, my empathy needs a little help. I’m struggling here, trying to walk this fine line, and I’m doing a shitty job at it. I can feel it.

  “It’s not about my living arrangements, it’s about my dad’s belief in me, about—” She sighs. “You don’t need to know about the drama that is my family.” Before I can answer, she says, “I need to get out of here. I need to breathe.” She sits up and brushes the hair out of her face. Glancing down at me, her eyes full of need, she asks, “I don’t know how to do that though.”

  “To breathe?”

  “To let loose. To throw caution to the wind. To run without shoes. To enjoy life.” She bites her bottom lip as I sit up to join her. “Show me, Racer. Show me what it’s like to spend one night without a worry or care.”
r />   “What makes you think I know how to do that?”

  She studies me, her gaze traveling all over my body until they settle on my eyes. “Because, you have adventure written all over you.” She places her hand on my forearm, hope in her eyes. “Show me, Racer. Please.”

  Fuck.

  Fuck me.

  “What about the shop?”

  She shakes her head. “Not tonight. Just give me this, please. Tomorrow we can go back to bickering, but tonight, please help me see happiness, help me know what it’s like to be free.” I just wish I knew what that was like as well.

  No doubt in my mind, this is crossing the line. Going out with her, showing her a good time, that’s not even blurring the line, that’s taking an epic long jump over the line into dangerous territory. But when she pleads with me, those sad, yet beautiful eyes of hers begging, fuck it’s hard to say no.

  I take off my cap and run my hand through my hair. When I secure my hat back on my head, I ask, “Do you think you can keep up?”

  A beautiful sense of ease crosses over her features. “I’ll do my best.”

  Looks like my request for money is going to be put on hold for the night. I’ll survive another day, I always do. I always make it work. If anything, I’ll take yet another loan out from the bank of Smalls and Tucker. Fuck, not Tucker, he’s saving for a wedding. I really hope Smalls doesn’t mind.

  Resigning to what my night has become, I point my finger at her, making sure she understands me completely. “No arguing? You do as I say?”

  Slyly she says, “Within reason. I refuse to go streaking or show my naked bits.”

  A lazy smile stretches across my lips. “Where’s the fun in that, Princess?”

  “No naked bits.” She points at me, determination set in her jaw.

  I stand and bring her with me. “We’ll see about that.”

  ***

  “You’re not doing it right.”

  “Clearly. If I was, it would be skipping.” Her frustration is getting the best of her. There is no way she’s relaxed, not even in the slightest.

  “You have to loosen up, stop being so stiff.”

  “This is your idea of fun? Skipping rocks? How is this supposed to be enjoyable?”

  Turning toward her, I slowly invade her space so she has to tilt her head back to look me in the eyes. I pinch her chin with my index finger and thumb and say, “Letting loose starts with the simplest of things. Breathing, smelling the air around you, experiencing a moment rather than trying to overpower it. Skipping rocks is for the lazy, the young at heart, the people who have not a worry or care in the world. The people who get great joy out of soaking in nature around them while using the raw materials of this earth to have fun. Keep it simple at first, relax your shoulders, and soak it in.”

  Letting out a long puff of air, she closes her eyes for a second and then pops them open, showing me those mossy-green pools that have stunned me from the very first day I saw them.

  “Show me. Show me how to do it right.”

  The determination vibrating off her is contagious, so once again, I take charge.

  “First, you need to take off those heels. They’re not suitable for skipping rocks.”

  “I thought men like heels.” She bends over and slips them off, revealing perfectly painted toes. I don’t know why that’s hot to me, but it is.

  “We do, but we like them best when you’re wearing them while wrapped around our waist.”

  “Such childish fantasies,” she scoffs and stands tall once again after she sets her heels on a large rock.

  I take her chin in my hand again and with a deep, sultry voice, I say, “It’s not childish when I envision my cock driving into a woman wearing heels. Where her heels pierce my back with such force that I know I’m doing everything right to see wild abandonment cross her face.”

  Swallowing hard, Georgie holds my stare for longer than I expected and then steps to the side. Clearing her throat, she asks, “So how do we do this?”

  Needing a second myself—visions of her wrapped around my fucking waist clogging my mind—I bend down to the ground and start picking up rocks. I choose a variety so I can teach her the good from the bad.

  “This is what you’ve been throwing.”

  “Yeah, what’s wrong with it? Looks like a perfectly fine rock to me.”

  “It looks like a miniature boulder. It’s going to sink immediately, because there is no way it will skip across water. You need a smooth surface.” I show her the perfect kind of rock to skip and let her hold it. “See how smooth that is on both sides?”

  Her fingers glide across the smooth surface, drawing my attention. She works the rock in her hand, really taking it in, and all I can think about are those hands, those perfectly polished and soft hands fondling me all the right ways. Fuck, it’s been longer than usual since I’ve had sex, and it’s showing.

  Fuck is it showing.

  Starting to grow hard, I will myself to calm the eff down. She’s off limits. Completely and utterly off limits. Focus on the damn rocks and that’s it.

  “Okay, so it needs to be smooth. Makes sense for better gliding.”

  Christ. I swallow hard.

  And here I thought skipping rocks was going to be innocent fun. Somehow my convoluted mind turned it into something dirty. Really, really dirty.

  “Yeah, uh, so it’s all about the angle,” I continue, trying to rid the image of me gliding smoothly into Georgie. Not a good idea to focus on that. Focus on the task, teach her how to skip a damn rock, and get this night over with. “You want to make your arm parallel with the lake and grip the rock like this.” I take the rock and wrap my index finger along the edge. “When you go to throw it, keep even with the surface and let her rip like this.” Smoothly, like I’ve been doing this for years—which I have—I let the rock go, and we both watch it skip across the lake with precision until it loses momentum and falls into the lake.

  Georgie turns to me and says, “That was kind of hot.”

  My brow pinches together. “Skipping rocks? That’s hot to you?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. It just was. Don’t make fun of me, I’m trying to loosen up.”

  “You’re right.” I hold my hands. “I apologize. I shall take the compliment. Fuck yeah, it was hot. Want me to flex now?” I hold up both my arms and flex my biceps, then with one hand, arm still flexed, I point at the lake and say, “You want to throw the rocks that way.”

  Her laugh filters through the air as she shakes her head. “Oh my God. You’re so lame.”

  I wiggle my eyebrows. “Got you to laugh, so it’s a win in my book. Go ahead, Princess, give it a shot.”

  “Okay.” She places the rock in her hand like I taught her, gets in a wide stance—which I did not tell her to do, but whatever is comfortable is fine with me—and she cocks her arm back. “Ready?” she asks while looking over her shoulder.

  “Let it rip, Georgie.”

  With a deep breath, she winds up and throws her rock . . . right into the sandy mud in front of us with a resounding plop. I can’t help it. I bend at the waist and start laughing hysterically.

  There it rests, the perfect skipping rock, buried in the mud of the shore, never fulfilling its rock-skipping duties. My laugh echoes against the lake and from my peripheral vision, I can see Georgie standing next to me, arms crossed. If I know her like I think I do, I’m going to assume there isn’t a happy look on her face. When I stand, my assumption is correct.

  “It’s not funny.” She looks like she wants to pout.

  “Oh it’s fucking funny, Princess.” I wipe a little tear from my eye and poke at the corner of her mouth. “You were so determined, and man, I’ve never seen anyone shove a rock so hard in the mud.” I start to slow clap. “Hell, you win the award for best rock burier.”

  “You’re an ass.” She pushes my shoulder, and I grab her hand. I spin her into my chest and wrap both arms around her small shoulders.

  Leaning over, speaking in
to her ear, I say, “And you need to remember to lighten up. Look at that rock, Georgie, look at what you did to the poor thing. You fucking showed that thing who’s the boss.”

  I can feel her shoulders ease, so I continue, “So when you go to pick it up, it will know, it will shake in its little rock boots that if it doesn’t skip for you, you’re going to raise hell.”

  She’s quiet for a second and then adds, “So much hell.”

  “That a girl.” I bend down, pick up the rock, rinse it in the lake, and then hand it back to her. “Can you feel him quivering? He knows, this is it, he better fucking skip for you.”

  “Do rocks pee? Because I think he just peed in my hand.”

  I chuckle, loving the life returning to her eyes. Seeing her so upset was weird for me. I’ve seen her angry . . . and sassy. But this? Light? Fun? She’s almost cool.

  “No fucking idea, but I’m going to say yes, that rock is just pissed its stone pants in your hands.”

  “Good.” She winks at me, and fuck if my stomach doesn’t flutter.

  What the hell?

  “Okay, you little pants-peeing rock, are you ready? Show me what you’re made of.” Getting in position again, she angles her arm back and glances in my direction.

  Once again, I repeat, “Let it rip, Georgie.”

  She flings her arm forward, the rock sailing past the mud and straight into the lake where it sinks drastically on the first attempt to skip.

  She stands there staring out at the lake as I hold back my chuckle, trying not to make the situation any worse than it is.

  Shaking her head, she grabs her heels and says, “Eff this. That rock had it out for me from the very beginning. I’m glad he’s drowning in the pits of lake hell.” Laughter erupts out of my chest.

  “I’m going to take your retreat as a sign that rock-skipping is over?”

  “You got that right. Next activity.”