The Fisherman Series : Special Edition

by Jewel E. Ann

  “Coffee’s still hot inside if you want a cup to go.” He opened his door as I opened my side.

  “I’m good. Thanks.”

  As we pulled out of the driveway, he shot me a brief glance. “How was your weekend?”

  I tried and failed to hide my grin. As if he didn’t know …

  “Fine. How was yours?”

  “Not too bad. Mowed the lawn. Went to my brother’s concert. Did a few loads of laundry. Oh … and I got a damn good hand job last night.”

  My head whipped in his direction. “I didn’t give you a hand job.”

  He sipped his coffee while focusing on the road. “Your hand did the job. That’s pretty much the definition of a hand job.”

  My words fell flat before finding an actual voice to go with them. I didn’t give him a hand job. I held his cock while I pleasured myself. I held it to prevent it from going inside of me. I wasn’t …

  Or was I?

  I cleared my throat. “What am I doing today?”

  “What’s your job today? Hmm … let me think on that. What do you want your job to be today?”

  On a nervous laugh, I shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

  “Oh, my choice? I like that.”

  “I think we should stick to construction stuff.”

  “As opposed to?” He spared me another lightning-fast side glance.

  “I think you should teach me something today.”

  “Fine. After we make our morning stops, we’ll grab lunch and go to my workshop.”

  “You have a workshop?”

  Driving with one hand casually draped over the top of the steering wheel and his other hand holding his coffee, he smiled. “Of course. I was there until just before midnight last night working on wardrobe drawers.”

  After we … did what we did, he left. And I had a breakdown on the phone with Christina. Once again, my actions showed my age. Fisher didn’t have time to call a friend and overanalyze what had happened between him and the girl from the basement (it wasn’t a glamorous label, but it wasn’t inaccurate either) because he was a real adult with a job and responsibilities. He didn’t have his virginity to babysit 24-7. Sex was—not a life-changing choice that required copious amounts of prayer, guilt, overthinking, and dramatization.

  We made the morning’s stops. I followed him like a good puppy. He asked Hailey to deliver lunches so we could head to his shop after grabbing lunch for ourselves.

  “Is this a joke?” I asked as he pulled into the McDonald’s drive-thru.

  “Lunch. Not a joke.” He rolled down his window. “Do you want the Hamburger Happy Meal or the Chicken McNuggets Happy Meal?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him.

  “I’m doing the hamburger because I’m not overly trusting of chicken nuggets.”

  I didn’t trust him. So … I softly murmured, “Hamburger.”

  “Drink? I’m splurging on a chocolate milk.”

  “Juice,” I said in the same cautious tone.

  He ordered our Happy Meals and pulled to the window.

  “Use the change to pay for as many orders as you can behind me.” He handed the guy a hundred-dollar bill.

  Fisher was a pay it forward (or in that case backward) kind of guy. Why? Why did he have to be so … extra?

  “That’s kind of you,” the guy at the window said, handing Fisher the bags.

  As we pulled onto the main road, Fisher tapped the bags. “Aren’t you going to see if the toys are something you don't have?”

  I shook my head.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s no longer my hobby. Rory can get them if she wants them.”

  “You got all the current ones when you picked up Happy Meals for my crew, didn’t you?”

  Rubbing my lips together and keeping my gaze locked on the dash, I returned a single nod.

  Fisher chuckled.

  Ten minutes later, we pulled into the driveway.

  “I thought we were going to your shop.”

  “We are.” He grabbed the bags and hopped out of the truck.

  I wasted no time following him. In his garage, he grabbed the side of a gray cabinet and pulled on it.

  “What the heck?”

  He grinned as a light turned on to a stairway leading downstairs, below his garage.

  I slowly made my way down the stairs as he closed the cabinet or door behind us. At the bottom, there was a huge space, a second garage, but this one was filled with piles of wood, partially finished cabinets, saws, and walls of hanging tools.

  “We’re in the basement.”

  He nodded, wiping his hand across a small high-top table in the corner that had two tall barstools.

  “But how do you get here from the basement?”

  “Hidden passage, of course. Sit.” He nodded to the other barstool and set the Happy Meal bags on the table.

  I didn’t sit. Not yet. I milled around the shop, feathering my fingers over pieces of wood and cabinets sanded to perfection.

  “Is there anything you can’t do?” I made my way to the table, and he pulled his burger, fries, and sliced apples out of the sack.

  He grinned, but he didn’t meet my gaze. “You.”

  I climbed onto the stool, eyeing him, begging for him to look at me, to give me more than that one-word answer.

  He didn’t.

  We ate in silence for at least five minutes. In that time, he ate every bite of his lunch, and I ate two bites of my burger and maybe three fries because I was too distracted by him.

  His secret shop.

  His insane talent.

  And that comment.

  Me. He didn’t think he could do me.

  “Do you want to cut, sand, or nail?” He wadded up his wrappers and shoved them back into the bag.

  “Nail,” I said without flinching.

  He rubbed his hand over his mouth as if he could wipe the tiny grin from his lips, but the knowing glint in his eyes couldn’t be missed. “Let’s sand. No sharp blades and no nails. We’ve made one urgent care trip since Rory left town. Let’s not have to make another.”

  I used a french fry to trace my lips slowly.

  Fisher snatched it from my hand and ate it. “Knock that shit off. You’re on the clock.”

  “Okay, Boss.” I hopped off the stool and followed him to the opposite side of his workshop.

  “These are nearly finished, but if you feel a few of the areas, you’ll notice they could use just a light sanding.” He rubbed his hand across the front of a drawer then took my hand and moved it where his had been. “Feel that?”

  I nodded. “Light.” He handed me the sandpaper. “Very lightly. Just until it’s smooth.”

  I sanded it. Felt it. Sanded it more. “Like this?”

  Fisher feathered the pads of his fingers over it. “Perfect.”

  My spine grew two inches with his compliment.

  We spent the afternoon in his workshop. I didn’t graduate past sanding with the finest sandpaper, but that was okay. Just watching Fisher do his thing was a gift. He wore his safety glasses as he cut the pieces of wood, his gaze so focused on the task. He had no idea that his most intent expression involved him wetting and rubbing his lips together. It was nearly too much.

  “Time to call it a day.” He tore off his safety glasses and glanced at his watch.

  “This was fun. Thanks for letting me see you in your element.” I brushed my hands together, removing a light dusting of residue from sanding.

  “Anytime.”

  “Don’t say it unless you mean it.” I smirked. “The last time you said ‘anytime,’ I took you seriously and ended up in your tub when you brought your date home.”

  His lips twisted as he returned a slow nod. “Mmm … yes. You did.”

  “Well …” I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  Fisher kept nodding slowly, his backside leaned against one of the workbenches, his hands slightly tucked into his front pockets.

  Basica
lly … irresistible.

  “Rory comes home this week,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I whispered.

  “I’m sorry if I did anything that made you feel—”

  “No!” I didn’t mean to cut him off so quickly. It was a knee-jerk reaction. “You … you haven’t done anything wrong. You didn’t make me feel anything but … good.”

  Make it feel good.

  “And…” I couldn’t help my grin “…a little crazy.”

  He stared at his feet. “So we’re … good? Friends. What happened, happened and we move on. No big deal?”

  The biggest deal of my eighteen years—well, the good kind of big deal. It was hard to top Rory going to prison and my dad dying for life-changing, catastrophic events.

  “Friends,” I said just above a whisper. “No big deal … we’re … good.” Someone needed to use some sandpaper on my heart because it felt rough and splintered.

  The next morning, I woke up to a text from Fisher.

  You’re with Hailey today, drive your mom’s car.

  He’d sent the text an hour before my alarm went off.

  Hailey had me enter bids into the computer and deliver lunches. Then she had me file—my least favorite job.

  “Can I ask you something personal?” I asked her.

  “Sure,” she said slowly without a glance up from her computer screen.

  “Did you like sex the first time you had it?”

  Her fingers stilled, and her gaze lifted to meet mine. “Did you just have sex for the first time?”

  “No.”

  “Have you had sex?”

  “Not really.”

  Hailey laughed. “Oh my god, ‘not really’ is not an answer.” Her smile faded when she realized I wasn’t finding anything that amusing. “Sorry. My first time … god … I don’t remember much. Isn’t that pathetic? I don’t recall it being great. But I didn’t have the most considerate man—boy actually—exerting any effort to make it great. He didn’t know it was my first time until it was over.”

  “Was he mad?”

  “Mad? What do you mean?”

  “That it was your first time and you didn’t tell him?”

  “No.” She chuckled. “Why?”

  I shrugged and shook my head.

  “You know you can tell me anything. Right? If you have guy problems, I’m your girl. I’ve had every guy problem imaginable. Cheaters. Married men. Assholes. Narcissists. Stalkers.”

  My eyebrows peaked as I stopped filing. “Seriously?”

  “Oh yes. You name it. I’ve probably experienced it or have a friend who did.”

  “Have you been with older men?”

  “Yes. Well … how old? I don’t date grandpas, even if they are rich.”

  “I don’t know … five … ten years older?”

  “Sure. You like an older man?”

  “Maybe.”

  The office door opened and Fisher stepped inside, again sipping one of his big red drinks from a straw. “Hey,” he said to Hailey or me. Maybe both of us. “How’s it going today?”

  “We’re about to clock out, Bossman. After I get done giving Reese some dating advice.”

  I ducked my head and focused hard on the papers in front of me. Why did she say that?

  “Oh yeah? What advice is that?” He slid behind me and opened the desk drawer to my right, dropping a set of keys into it.

  His proximity raised the temperature in the room a good ten degrees.

  “I’m not sure yet; you walked in and interrupted us.”

  “Sorry.” He chuckled. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No. Just do your thing and ignore us. As you were saying, Reese …”

  I shook my head as Fisher lifted some of the papers around me like he was searching for something on his desk. “It’s not a big deal. We can talk later.”

  “Don’t let me stop you. Maybe I can be of help. I’m a guy. So I know a lot about them.” Fisher found a folder and turned, resting his butt on the edge of the desk.

  I felt his gaze on me, but there was no way I could look at him.

  “Yeah, ask Bossman. He’s a walking example of failed relationships.” Hailey giggled.

  “Then he’s definitely not the one I need to ask,” I murmured.

  “Reese was asking me about dating older men. You’ve dated plenty of women younger than you. What’s your take on it?” Hailey asked Fisher.

  I didn’t want in on the conversation. I didn’t even want to be in the same state as they talked about me or my dating life.

  “I think Reese needs to find herself a nice Christian who can make her feel good about herself and her decisions.”

  “No.” Hailey drummed her fingernails on the desk. “That’s a terrible idea. You’re eighteen. You have to live. Don’t settle for safe and boring.”

  “I think Rory would love for Reese to settle for that,” Fisher added.

  “No. Just … no. Reese, listen to me. You won’t regret the bad decisions you make now. You’ll only regret the missed opportunities to make mistakes and live. You don’t need a good guy to give you a home and needy kids. You need a string of bad guys to give you experience. You’ll never know what you do want in life until you experience everything you don’t want in life.”

  “Said no mother ever.” Fisher shook his head.

  “Mothers are hardwired to protect their offspring. If you want advice on canning or ironing, ask your mom. If you want advice on being a woman ... a free-spirited woman … then don’t ever ask your mom. Well …” Hailey tapped her chin with her finger. “Come to think of it, you could probably ask Rory. She’s cooler than most moms.”

  I glance up at her. “Why do you say that?”

  “Just because.”

  Fisher cleared his throat. “Clock out, Hailey. Have a good night.”

  “Are you dismissing me? I feel dismissed. Are you shooing me out of here so you can give Reese some lame advice on dating because Rory’s made you feel protective of her?”

  “Yes. Leave so I can give her some lame advice.” Fisher closed the folder and tossed it onto the desk next to my piles of papers.

  “Don’t listen to him, Reese. Call me later.” Hailey hiked her purse onto her shoulder.

  I nodded, giving her a tight grin.

  After the door closed behind her, Fisher used his leg to swivel the desk chair so I was facing him. “Who are you dating?”

  “No one.” I gave him two full seconds of my gaze before averting it to the side.

  “So why are you talking to Hailey about it?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Am I the guy?”

  “There is no guy.”

  “Yet, you’re talking to Hailey about a guy.”

  “Oh my gosh!” I skittered to my feet to wheel the chair backward a good six feet, hitting the front of Hailey’s desk. “I wasn’t asking her about dating. I was asking her about sex. There. Are you happy?”

  “Why not ask me about it?”

  With an incredulous laugh, I shook my head. “Sorry. What was I thinking? I’m sure you’re experienced with how it feels to have a penis in your vagina. Does it hurt the first time?”

  Fisher excelled at masking his reactions to things, but I had him. I didn’t miss his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow. He didn’t see that question coming. A month earlier, he didn’t see me coming.

  “I’m not talking—”

  “Full. Of. Yourself!” I cut him off, shooting straight up from the chair and planting my fists onto my hips. “You are so full of yourself. What makes you think I’m talking about you? We’re over. Remember? And you didn’t want my virginity. It was too inconvenient for you. So stop assuming you’re some bright star that I orbit.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What are you so angry about?”

  HIM!

  Life.

  My dad dying.

  My mom missing out on my high school years.

  Church school.

  The c
loak of guilt I wore because of church.

  God.

  Yeah, I was angry at God too because I didn’t understand what kind of god would give me so many emotions, desires, and uncontrolled feelings, then tell me I had to suppress them until I was married.

  What if I didn’t want to get married yet? Did “good” Christians get married just to remove the sin from sex?

  There wasn’t anything Fisher could say to make me feel less agitated. His silence showed his maturity and understanding of that, yet it also infuriated me. I wanted him to at least try to make a case for himself.

  “Why me? And I don’t mean it like I have no sense of self-esteem. It’s not that. I’m not ugly. I’m not stupid. I’m fun. I have a decent list of quality traits. But you’re not ugly either. Or stupid. And you can be fun. But you’re also ten years older than me. With so many options. I just don’t get it. Was I a game? A toy? Were you bored? I know I’ve asked you this before, but I just don’t get it. Why engage with an eighteen-year-old who has no solid direction in her life yet, can’t drink legally, and who’s a virgin. I just don’t get it.”

  He let my words settle, dissipate, and vanish, replaced with silence. “What did you like about the mountains?”

  I shrugged. “What didn’t I like? The air. The tranquility. The vastness. Just … I don’t know. When we stopped at that overlook, I just liked how I felt. There. In the moment. It’s hard to describe.”

  “Because you can’t.”

  “Maybe.” I tried to think of the right words, but they fell short.

  “Well, neither can I.”

  “It …” I shook my head. “It still doesn’t make sense.”

  “To whom? How you feel about … everything—people, places, things, events, good times, tragedies, the past, the future—it only has to make sense to you. In this life, we don't owe anyone anything. No explanation. Feelings are the most personal part of who we are. You’re not accountable for your feelings any more than you’re accountable for the amount of oxygen you consume. Think for yourself. And don’t ever let anyone tell you how to feel.”

  I frowned. “I think you tried to make me feel bad when I told you I was taught that homosexuality was wrong.”