that makes sense to get involved with a sexy, amazing, funny, successful, insanely hot guy…who likes us…and jerked off thinking about us…jerked off his giant, thick, hard cock. His HUGE, enormous cock …and he was thinking about ME…touching himself and imagining ME…and he saw my tits and I didn’t die of embarrassment like I imagined I would if I guy I liked walked in on me. No, I did almost die, but from wishing he would just make a move and touch me, because the fingers I used on myself last night hadn’t done crap to alleviate my need…
My body had a loud, insistent voice, my heart had issues with trust, and my brain was all over the place.
I know I did everything I was supposed to, and I did it all to the best of my ability, but the day just flew by like a flash, what with all the work and all the crazy round-and-round between my head, heart, and body.
It was after seven, almost seven thirty in the evening, before we saw Jeremy again, and he wandered the house, checking things over thoroughly—he opened every cabinet, every drawer, opened and shut every door, every window, turned on and off every light and every faucet. He checked behind doors, looked for forgotten painter’s tape, peeled an errant strip of plastic off a piece of chrome trim around a mirror…he even checked the attic and basement. Turned on the heater and AC, made sure they both kicked on properly. Finally, he met us in the kitchen.
“Great job as always, Rhys,” he said. “You never miss a thing do you, buddy?”
Jeremy was a huge guy, six feet four with broad shoulders and a beer belly, salt-and-blond hair, huge hairy hands, with Oakleys permanently affixed to the top of his buzzed scalp.
Rhys grinned, shrugged. “I do my best.”
“Well, you do good work. The place looks great, and I get to turn over the keys a day early.” He glanced at me, then. “You too, Torie. Not sure a place has ever sparkled this nice. You ever need work, you call me, I’ll have something for you.”
He handed me his card, and shook my hand. Withdrawing a white envelope from his back pocket, he glanced at Rhys. “You guys got here at, what, one, and it’s just about seven thirty?” He glanced at the ceiling, counting, then pulled out a battered cell phone from a hip pocket and did some quick math—counted out two piles of cash with the rapid, practiced movements of someone who counts out cash regularly, and handed one stack to me, and one to Rhys.
I was just as quick with cash, being a server, and noted that he paid Rhys an even hundred and fifty—which came out to just under twenty-five an hour. I got an even hundred, which meant he’d actually overpaid me by three dollars.
The nights I made a hundred as a server were golden days, and it was far more stressful work than this had been. I was definitely in the wrong business.
Rhys and Jeremy discussed the next job and shot the shit as guys do, and then Jeremy’s phone rang and he waved at us as he vanished to do whatever guys like him do.
Rhys stretched, yawned, and glanced at me. “Well. That was a day’s work, huh?”
“You do this every day? Work on cars and then build houses?”
He nodded. “And usually I go home and work on my realtor classes while I eat dinner, and then do some work on my restoration project.”
“You work yourself to the bone.”
He shrugged. “Used to it. It’s how life has always been. I’d be up by six and at school by seven to do homework, go to school till three, work till at least nine most nights, sometimes even ten. Been my schedule since I was twelve years old.”
I flapped my stack of twenties. “Thank you for this.”
He snorted. “You did the work, you earned it.”
“I mean the opportunity.”
“Nah.” Another wave of his hand, and then he eyed me with a grin. “You hungry?” My stomach growled in response, and he waved for me to follow. “Come on. I know a place that makes killer burgers. And I know the owner, so he may even accidentally give me an extra beer and then have work to do in the back, if you know what I mean.”
And so we ended up in a tiny little dive bar, a hole-in-the-wall with unironic decor from the seventies. The owner, a