Desperately Seeking Epic

by B. N. Toler

  “I’m sure you do,” I snorted. “Good thing I brought some tablecloths from Texas with me. They’ll fit perfectly on this.”

  He laughed as I spun around and headed inside for the wood stain. When I returned, he was shirtless. Really? Couldn’t he at least keep his clothes on? Perched on the table, his back to me, his arms were crossed and his warm skin glistened with the slightest sheen of sweat. Even from behind, he looked delectable. Shit.

  I chucked a clean rag I’d grabbed from inside at him. “Tables are for glasses, not asses.”

  He slid off the table with ease and turned to me, his dark eyes squinting against the bright and unrelenting sun. At the sight of his front side, I rolled my eyes. Stupid, stupid, muscular sexy chest. And arms. Those were stupid, too. Oh, and the dark hair on his chest that seemed to angle down perfectly until it thinned out, disappearing beneath his shorts. I’d never dated a guy with that much . . . hair. Not that Paul had too much, or that I thought about dating him or his hair, but Kurt had very little and the little he did have, he shaved. I had never developed an opinion on the whole hair thing with men, but on Paul I found it very . . . virile. It was alluring. I wondered what it would be like to run my fingers over it. Then I wondered why in the hell I was thinking about running my fingers over Paul’s chest hair. What was wrong with me?

  “It’s hot as hell out here,” he noted, raising one hand up and running it through his dark hair.

  “Are you staying?” I asked, snapping myself out of it.

  “Thought you might want some help with staining it and getting it inside.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Paul.”

  Beaming a smile at me, he shrugged one shoulder. “Call it a peace offering.”

  I didn’t know how I felt about that. Was a table supposed to buy my forgiveness for him treating me so badly when I’d first arrived? Or rather since I arrived. Either way, I didn’t question it. If he was willing to call for a truce, I’d take it. At that point, I was exhausted in every way. Having one less enemy at the office would be wonderful.

  “So we’re partners, right? No more bullshit?”

  His gaze flicked down and he moved his hands to his hips, before meeting my eyes again. In his deep and husky voice, he said, “No more bullshit.” Then he came to me, stood in front of me, and extended his hand. I took it, and we shook.

  He stayed all day. After we stained the table, he helped with the cabinets. After the cabinets, he helped me remove the toilet from the downstairs bathroom. By the time night fell, I was thoroughly exhausted. We sat outside on a blanket and ate tuna fish sandwiches with Cheetos and Coca Cola.

  Before he left for the night, we stood by his truck awkwardly. Finally, he stunned me with an awkward one-armed hug, before he slid in his truck and drove away.

  Ashley’s mouth twists as she taps her pencil against her notebook. “So . . . nothing really happened?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask with a snicker.

  “No kiss? Not even a hug?” Zane is watching me, his brows raised as if he is waiting for my answer. Apparently he’s finding my story quite intriguing.

  “Well, there was a one-armed hug, like I said,” I point out. “But nothing major yet.”

  Ashley gives a weird smirk, clearly disappointed with my answer, but decides to move on. “Was there peace? Did you two start getting along?”

  Sighing, I say, “With Paul and I, yes. With Marcus . . . no. The others started to warm up to me, but it was slow going, and Marcus’ attitude toward me wasn’t helping.”

  “We’ll get to Marcus in a few minutes,” Ashley insists. “I want to hear more about the budding friendship between Paul and you.”

  We were at the race—Richmond International Raceway. I’d never been to a NASCAR race. Texas Motor Speedway wasn’t an unknown concept to me when I resided in Texas, but racing had never really interested me. But in Virginia, racing was a big deal. And as we walked around, I was definitely feeling like a human dropped on a foreign planet, forced to walk among a different species. Girls walked around in bikinis donning the controversial confederate flag; others wore cutoff jean shorts with their ass cheeks hanging out. Men walked around sporting T-shirts with their favorite racers on them, and with helmets that held beer cans with long straws in their mouths. There was porta potties everywhere and the heat didn’t help to keep the stench down as we passed by them. As if all that wasn’t enough, Marcus decided to wear a T-shirt that had I’m with the shrew on the back of it, just above an arrow pointing to the side. He’d made a point to remain to the left of me all day just so that arrow would point at me.

  My new tactic in dealing with him was to ignore him. I thought if I didn’t react, maybe he would stop. “You’re a dick,” I told him. On that day I failed.

  He shrugged, feigning ignorance. “Whatever do you mean?”

  I ignored him and huffed annoyed that we were waiting on Paul who was taking forever to talk to a group of women. “Is he planning on talking to every woman with huge tits today?”

  “Sex sells,” Marcus pointed out. “He’s good at seducing women into adventure.”

  I stuck my finger in my mouth and pretended to gag.

  “Are you offended, Queen of Prudes? I’m sure those lovely painted walls in our office will sell more dives than an attractive man who actually jumps.”

  I flipped him the bird because I couldn’t come up with a witty comeback.

  “No one is making you do it, Clara, so why do you care?”

  “Because it’s . . . tacky.” How could he not see that?

  “So what if it is? If you’re going to stand around all day with that face, just go back to the RV.”

  “What face?” I asked in offense.

  “Like you need a giant enema. Chill.”

  For a moment, I wondered if I was strong enough to punt him across the track like a football. He really knew how to get under my skin.

  When Paul finally joined us again, he pretended to ignore our spat and focused on trying to earn clientele. Somehow that involved only stopping at groups including attractive women.

  “Uncurl your lip,” Paul ordered as we left one group. “This is big money for us.”

  “I get that,” I griped. “But why do we have to be here all day?”

  Cutting me a look that said, watch this, he turned off the gravel path and walked right over to a group of young men and women, dancing as they blared country music. The women flocked to him, puffing out their chests so their bosoms would stick out more. Paul, in his straw cowboy hat and tight, black T-shirt, flashed his smile, the one I had come to know as the hook, line, and sinker smile. Stupid smile. I hated it. I hated it mostly because it had the same effect on me as it did every other woman.

  For the next twenty minutes I stood to the side while Paul drank beer with his new posse and at the end of it, he handed all of them a brochure and told them to watch for him because he’d be skydiving into the race. I tried not to be annoyed when one of the women wrote her number on the palm of his hand. As we walked away, my aggravation was rolling off of me in waves. Paul sensed this because he said, “What?”

  “You shouldn’t drink before a jump,” I griped. It was the only thing I could come up with. Marcus hadn’t quite finished with the last group and remained behind as we moved on.

  “It was two beers and I’ve been chugging water all day,” he argued as he shook his water bottle in my face. I knew he had been, but he still shouldn’t have drunk anything alcoholic. Period. “What’s really the problem here?”

  “Nothing.” I shrugged. “I just think you’re trying to say flirting is promoting and it’s not.”

  “I flirt to promote,” he argued.

  “Or to get laid,” I quipped.

  He laughed and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, squeezing me to him. My body tensed so I immediately pulled away. He held his hands up as if surrendering. “Sorry.”

  I clenched my jaw and looked away. I didn’t like him touching me because
, actually, I really liked him touching me. It had been happening more and more; his arm resting against my arm as we looked at something on the office computer together; his hand brushing mine as he handed me something. Small touches, yet never really simple. I refused to fall victim to his charm because the truth was it was all bullshit. It had to be. He was handsome and charming and his smile captivated everyone, and all of those things coupled together were lethal. Somehow those things directed at me made me feel . . . special. Which was why it was all bullshit. No one was special to Paul James. He’d share that lethal combo with anyone.

  “You have got to loosen up, Clara,” he chuckled as he adjusted his straw hat.

  “Do I now?” His statement agitated me. I didn’t consider myself an uptight person. Not at that time anyway. Okay, maybe I was guarded. But I had just been through hell in the last few months and guarded was the only way I knew to survive. But I wasn’t stuck-up.

  “I just mean you need to have some fun.”

  “Is your definition of fun walking around a racetrack half naked? You want me to act like all of these women out here; desperate for attention?”

  He let out a long sigh. I guess I was exhausting him as well. “No, not half naked. I just mean, it’s okay to flirt with a guy even if you have no interest in him.”

  “Some men would call that a tease,” I pointed out.

  “Only stupid ones.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “You mean flirt to sell?”

  “And so what if you did? You’re the one always preaching about presentation. It’s not just the jump,” he imitated me, his tone high-pitched, mocking me. Do I really sound like that? “You can flirt without acting like a . . . ya know.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “No. I don’t know.”

  “Like you’re easy or something.”

  “Jesus, Paul. You’re unbelievable.”

  He laughed. “I know,” he said sarcastically.

  “Should I go and flirt with those guys over there?” I pointed to a group near a jacked up Chevy truck.

  “Well, we’ve made changes and tried new things that you’ve wanted to implement. Maybe you should try something of ours?”

  “You want me to try acting like a ho?”

  He took a long swig from his water bottle. “Jeez, Clara,” he groaned. “You’re being extreme. Obviously I don’t think you should go over there and rub your tits in their faces.”

  “Then what do you want me to do?” I snapped.

  “Can’t you just go over there and act like you like them and then slip in the fact that you own a skydiving business and how thrilling it is? Fuck.” Then he took a stab at me. “Not that you would know.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “I don’t have to jump to know it’s thrilling.”

  “Do you know how weird it is that you own a skydiving business but refuse to jump?” The answer to that question was yes. I did know. And even if I didn’t know, or I’d somehow magically made myself forget that fun little fact, Marcus went out of his way to remind me every chance he got how asinine it was.

  “I will jump,” I argued. “One day.”

  “It’s okay, Clara. If you can’t do it, you can’t do it.” He shrugged as if it was no big deal.

  “What? Jump?”

  He cut me a look that said, you’re an idiot. “No, babe. Flirt. It’s okay if you can’t flirt.”

  I stopped on the dusty gravel path we’d been following and stared at him dumbly. Was he serious? It took him passing me a few steps before he realized I was no longer beside him. When he turned around and saw my expression, a wide smile spread across his face. “What’d I say?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said dramatically, throwing my hands up. “Apparently I’m a mutant incapable of seducing a man.”

  He threw his head back and snorted out a loud laugh. “Wow. Got all that out of what I just said, did ya?”

  “Shut up, Paul,” I mumbled as I walked by him, shoving him with my shoulder, which only made him laugh more.

  “Are you saying you can do it?” he yelled after me.

  Spinning around, I crossed my arms. “Of course, I can do it!” And I could. That’s not to say I could do it well, however, I had two things that men liked; ass and tits. Oh, make that three. I was breathing. Those three attributes were my key to success in the art of flirting.

  “Prove it,” he challenged me. If a look could convey hatred, then the one I gave him did. Bastard.

  Looking down at my attire, I twisted my mouth. I didn’t exactly look like the other women walking around. They looked sexy . . . well, some of them did. The ones that were trying too hard looked trashy. I mean, really. They were wearing bikinis for God’s sake. There wasn’t a body of water or pool for miles.

  Modest.

  That’s the word that came to mind when I thought of myself.

  I looked modest.

  And as much as I absolutely hated to admit this, I didn’t want Paul to see me as modest. I didn’t want him to see me as trash either. I held Paul’s gaze as he approached me and I tugged up the front hem of my blue T-shirt and looped it through the collar. I pushed the material up so it was wedged under my bra. My separation from Kurt had a lot of shitty things that came with it, depression for starters. But while depression sucked majorly, the weight I’d lost was the only bright side. My tummy was flat and as I pushed down the waist of my white shorts slightly, I could tell Paul was liking what he was seeing when he widened his eyes and his mouth quirked up on one side into an appreciative smile. I couldn’t see myself, but the whistles coming from men passing by us was all I needed. The slight tweak to my outfit paired with my cowboy boots, and I was prepared to flirt. God, I felt like such a hussy. I mean, who does that? But the way Paul licked his perfect lips, his tongue darting out, wetting them as he stared at me, I kind of forgot to feel bad about being a hussy.

  Tugging the tie from my hair, I shook it out, letting the length of my hair fall down my back and cascade over my shoulders. Paul’s smile faded.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t mean you had to do . . .” he waved his hand, motioning it around my body, “all that.”

  “Do I look bad or something?” I asked, second-guessing myself.

  “No,” he mumbled. “You look fine.”

  Fine?

  He told me I looked fine.

  He might as well have said I looked mediocre.

  Plain.

  Unexciting.

  Maybe pathetic.

  “Gee, thanks, Paul.”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake, Clara.” He clenched his eyes closed. “You know you look hot as fuck.” With a wave of his hand, a frustrated gesture as if he was dismissing me, he passed by me, grumbling to himself. I smiled to myself where he couldn’t see. Moments later, I sashayed over to a small group of men playing cornhole.

  “Can I get in on the next game?” I asked, twirling a lock of my hair between my fingers.

  They welcomed me most enthusiastically. Within a minute, I had a cold beer in my hand and the attention of two decent looking, yet sweaty men. Paul bullshitted with the guys on the other side of the game and from time to time I caught them looking at me or pointing at me. At one point, I puckered my lips at Paul and he rolled his eyes. As we played, I asked the men around me about their jobs, their lives, their girlfriends, and so on. Then came my opening.

  “What do you do?” one of them asked as he stared at my chest. Eyes up here, buddy.

  “Me?” I threw my beanbag, sinking it, and earned a loud groan from the guy standing next to me. His partner and mine were on the other side. “I own a skydiving business.”

  “Are you serious?” he snorted.

  Tilting my head, I looked at him. “Is it so hard to believe?”

  “Why don’t you tell him in detail what it’s like to dive, Clara,” Marcus interrupted. I looked down at him, glaring. Where the hell did he come from? He must’ve just caught up to us. I shot Paul a quick glance, but he didn’t seem to
understand that my look was saying, get your ass over here and take your asshole friend away.

  “Clara is our best diver,” Marcus continued.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I laughed nervously.

  “She’s just being modest. Go on now, tell him all about it.” Marcus’ mouth curled. Asshole.

  I could do this. I didn’t have to know the technical details. I only had to sell the idea of the thrill of diving. Licking my lips, I let out a soft sigh. I was aiming for schoolgirl sultry, but I wasn’t sure I pulled it off. Acting like a slut to sell wasn’t something I really wanted to do, but Marcus needed to be proved wrong. I was fearless. I could do anything. I hoped.

  “How can I describe the rush of diving?” I mused as I trailed my fingers lazily down the collar of my shirt and stopped just before I reached my cleavage. “No matter how prepared you are, you still feel nervous. Kind of like . . . making love to someone for the first time.” I glanced around and realized everyone was watching me, listening, even Paul who had moved over to our side. Marcus was standing with his arms crossed, clearly convinced I wouldn’t pull this off. “As they take you up in the plane, the engine roaring, that pressure building as you get higher and higher . . .” Lifting my hair up, I rolled my cold beer over the back of my neck and then my chest. I could feel everyone’s eyes upon me, burning into me. I really did feel like a slut. “Your heart is beating like a drum, your blood pumping because the anticipation is killing you. Then you’re at the door, the cool air whipping against your face, the earth spread out beneath you. It’s breathtaking.”

  “Then what?” Marcus asked, trying like hell to trip me up.

  “Then . . .” I paused. I had to continue. “Then you’re right there . . . on the precipice of the big finish.” It’s amazing how you could almost describe anything using sexual innuendo. I was nailing this. The men around us were hooked; a few of them had moved closer and closer as I spoke. They seemed to be hooked, anyway. I couldn’t be sure if I was selling to them or if they were just horny bastards acting like dogs panting over me. Or maybe they were both. I let out a soft moan for emphasis.