6. Grant
Grant
Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who remembers we’re meant to be running a business, not a charity for homeless strays.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Regan like a brother—anyone who’s been through what we’ve been through together could never feel anything less—but there are times when I have to stop myself from picking him up and shaking him.
He’s so… casual about everything. Sails through life with that irritating smile constantly plastered to his face, as if he’s amused by everything he sees and hears. As if nothing really matters.
But things do matter. We’ve sweated blood and tears to get this far.
We built the entire house and barn from scratch, just the three of us, working long into the night to get everything done before the winter set in.
And then we’ve put the hours in subsequently.
Three years of working six or sometimes even seven days a week to build a reputation for quality and efficiency.
Three years of making sure that every job we did was the very best we could do.
Three years of winning over the locals, who at first treated us as strangers—foreigners, even—and who only now are beginning to think of us as a part of their community. Things move slowly up in the mountains, and people take time to adapt to change.
My concern is that taking these two strays in is going to lead to trouble. There’s something not quite right about their story. Something they’re not telling us. It doesn’t hang together well.
I mean… why run away like that in the first place? If all the problem is, is that she doesn’t want to marry some rich asshole, then surely she can just tell him so. What’s the big deal?
No, there’s something else going on here.
Something they’re aren’t mentioning—maybe to do with the man called Tony, or perhaps Tony’s father.
I get the feeling they might be criminals.
If Louise and her father are doing something they shouldn’t, well…
that could reflect badly on them, and by extension, on us too.
That’s the last thing we need… negative attention.
Being called out. Before we know it, the local cops’ll be knocking on the door wanting to ask questions, and the media will be directly behind them.
And there’s another thing as well. That woman. She’s too attractive. Way too attractive. She’s trouble. Looks like hers attract it.
It’s not her fault, but she’s got the type of presence that stops all conversation in any room she cares to walk into.
The type of figure that men go crazy over.
That hair, those eyes… the texture of her skin.
Oh, sure, I feel it too. I’m not immune.
She passes by and I catch myself drawing my breath in to catch her scent as she walks past.
Regan of course, has it bad. But that’s to be expected. He falls for absolutely any and every woman between the ages of eighteen and fifty-five. He can’t help it, he’s like a dog in heat. Always has been. No one could ever accuse Regan of being subtle when it comes to the women.
What really worries me though, is Abel. Oh, he hasn’t said anything. He never does. But me’n Abe go back more than a decade, and I can read the signs, subtle though they might be.
And me? Yeah, like I said, I can feel it. It’s like gravity. Completely invisible, but constantly there, pulling you towards her, no matter how hard you struggle.
Is that the type of trouble we want between us? Because we can’t all three have her. So if she sticks around and one of us does get lucky, how’s that going to affect his relationship with the other two? It’s not something we’d ever had to consider before now.
We’re in the kitchen, the three of us.
It’s Regan’s cooking day, so now he’s fixing dinner.
Some kind of one-pot stew or something. Potatoes and carrots went in earlier, as did a whole load of chopped up beef, an onion or two, stock, garlic, and goodness knows what else.
Smells good though. To give him his due, he ain’t a bad cook.
Right now, he’s cutting bread as an accompaniment.
We’re all big eaters, so there’s bread to fill up on most meals, though plenty of protein’s what we really like.
Abe’s sitting at the table, cleaning the contacts of an electrical component from one of our customer’s vehicles, contact spray in one hand and a cloth in the other.
Far better to keep out of any potential trouble.
Play the long game.
Now’s as good a time to discuss this issue as any other, I think to myself.
Yes, best nip things in the bud now. before it gets out of hand.
“I’ve been thinking.” I say out loud.
“Well done.” Regan gives me a cynical grin. Abe just grunts.
“About our visitors, I mean.”
“Hot, isn’t she?” Regan sucks in his lips and let’s out another smile. “Those legs!”
“Shut up, Regan, I’m being serious.”
“So am I!”
“If you could raise your thinking higher than your groin for just a minute, that would be helpful, you asshole.”
“Well, I’ll try.”
“Thank you. Here’s what I’ve been thinking,” I continue. “First off, I don’t trust their story. It don’t stack up. Not as it is. I ain’t saying it’s a lie. I’m just saying it’s not the whole truth, that’s all.”
Abe looks up and nods at this, then carries on his cleaning work. I continue talking.
“It might not matter, of course, but here’s the thing. It might. And the reason why it might is that we don’t know what we don’t know.”
“Well, d’uh. Obviously.” This from Regan.
“Yes, but don’t you see?” I pressed home my point. “If we don’t know what kind of trouble they’re really in, we don’t know what impact it might have on us. I mean… it could be anything.”
“Oh, come on, Grant. Get a grip.” Regan puts the basket of sliced bread down in the middle of the table and starts laying out mats and cutlery for five.
“We’re talking about an innocent young woman, and an old timer, for fuck’s sake.
Not a pair of Nazi war criminals, or Chinese Tongs, or something.
They’re hardly gonna be on Page One of America’s Most Wanted list.”
“How do you know?” I retort, at which he simply grins and rolls his eyes at me.
“Anyway, that’s not my point.”
“Go on then, what is your point.”
“My point is that they could be trouble. They’re on the run. That much is plain.”
“So?”
“So, Einstein… who do people go on the run from?”
“Well… baddies.”
“Yeah, ‘baddies’.. exactly. Bad guys like mobsters, or gun runners, or worse, perhaps the cops. Perhaps it’s the law they’re running from. But whoever it is, it’s bad news.”
“Yeah, so, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying, we’ve got enough on our plate already. We should ask them to leave. In the morning. Soon as their car’s fixed.”
“But what if they need our help?”
“Our help be damned. We’ve got to think of our business. We’ve got to think of ourselves.”
“Now look here, Grant.” Regan’s waving his spoon at me between using it to stir the stew.
“There’s precious little happens around here, as it is.
Then an attractive—a very attractive—girl and her papa come calling and suddenly life gets interesting for the first time in three years.
And you just want to send them away with a flea in their ears, is that it? ”
“In essence, yes.”
“Well, I vote they stay.”
“And I say they have to go.”
We stare hard at each other, each trying to eyeball the other into submission. But that ain’t hardly gonna work. So, I say “How about you Abe?”
Abe clears his throat and sets down the electrical component, leaning back in his chair, making it creak ominously under his weight.
He pauses a moment or two, reflecting. He’s never been one to rush to a decision. Then he leans forward again.
“Remember when we were in that firefight outside Mosul in 2017? We were fucked. Trapped on three sides with ISIS closing in, and fully exposed on the fourth. If we stayed, we’d have been torn to shreds.
If we ran for it, we’d have been cut down in seconds.
Then that British unit risked their lives to take the high ground behind us, giving us a way out. ”
He stops talking, heads for the door.
“That’s what I think. I’m going to fit this rocker switch. Call me when dinner’s ready.”
The door shuts with a click, and Regan and I hear Abe’s heavy footsteps receding along the corridor, then the slam of the front door as he heads out to the workshop.
Regan puts down his stirring spoon, flops into a chair, and props his boots up on the kitchen table, eliciting a frown from me—it’s a habit of his that happens to annoy me, but now isn’t the time, so I let it pass.
“What do you think, Boss?”
I sigh deeply.
“He’s right, isn’t he?”
“Ever known him to be wrong?”
“On matters of conscience? No.”
“So, that’s agreed then.”
“Yesss….” I say, “But…”
“But, what, Boss?”
“But they have to come clean.” I pour myself a glass of iced tea from the jug that was made earlier for lunch. “I mean—they gotta tell us the whole story. No lies. No omissions.”
“Is that strictly our business, partner?”
“Yes, I think it is. Or at least, it will be, if we’re going to help them.
And if we are going to help them, then we need to know the true situation.
We can’t go into battle with missing or—worse still—wrong data.
We need to be fully briefed. We need to know who the enemy is, how powerful they are, what their tactics are, what weapons they might be able to deploy…
there’s a huge difference between her being on the run from a wealthy businessman to being on the run from the Feds, for example. ”
Regan grins. “You think she’s on the run from the FBI?”
“Of course not. I was just using them as an example.”
“Oh, okay, Boss. And yeah, I do see your point. So… when are we gonna talk to them?”
“No point in wasting time. Tonight, right after dinner.”
I head to my room to get out of my sweaty overalls and put on something clean, though we don’t as a rule get changed just for dinner. We normally just grab a bite to eat around the table in the kitchen in our work clothes, and then watch a football match or something and head for bed.
What I ought to be doing is finishing off the books. God, I hate record-keeping. Thankfully, Regan does the majority of it these days, now I’ve shown him the ropes, and he’s not too bad at it either. As senior partner, though, I feel it’s my responsibility to at least keep my hand in.
Not this afternoon though. Not after that conversation. And not after…
After what?
Honestly? I’m not sure. But something’s happened to me. A feeling. Something I’ve not felt in a long, long time. Not since high school maybe even. Certainly not since being here, anyways.
It’s her.
Maria.
Not Louise Smith. I wonder what her real last name is.
They look Italian, which fits ‘Maria’ of course.
But it’s not her name that has affected me.
It’s not even those long, smooth, tanned legs under her white cotton dress, nor the lustrous olive glow of her skin, the raven-black hair that falls in soft, luxurious curls around her shoulders, or the shining depths of her hazel eyes that stare at me like they can see right through my skin and deep into my very soul.
No, it’s deeper than looks. It’s something else. A connection?
“This is ridiculous, you’ve only juts met the woman.” I tell myself as I stand, naked, in front of the mirror. The man staring back at me is older than her. Admittedly not old enough to be her father or anything like that, but still.
She might not be into older men.
I mean… why should she be?
But on the other hand, maybe she is.
Maybe.
Somehow, I hope she is though. Because no matter what I was doing this afternoon, if I’m really honest with myself, all I was really thinking about was her.
What’s wrong with me? I’m 37, for fuck’s sake. Far too old for this childish shit.
I head into the shower, a fresh towel over my shoulder.
But that makes things worse. The hot water, playing on my skin feels stimulating… arousing even.
I let the powerful jet play over my chest and shoulders, soaping down my body, getting rid of the sweat and dust and oil and gasoline stains that an honest day’s work in the workshop can bring.
What if she was here right now?
My mind whispers to me.
What if she was the one holding the flannel? What if it was her who was soaping you down?
I feel a tingle between my legs, closing my eyes, remembering the healthy glow of her skin, the swell of her breasts around the bodice of her thin summer dress, the soft richness of her voice as she spoke.
What if she was whispering your name into your ear? Maybe gently pulling at the earlobe, teasing it with her teeth.
I sigh, my left hand reaching for my hardening cock, as my right hand directs the jet of bubbling, hot water downwards to my groin.
My cock is growing larger now as I gently stroke it, and I pull back my foreskin, the glans exposed for the first time to the full heat of the water, making me jerk and cry out in half pain, half ecstasy as the jet plays across it.
I close my eyes, imagining her there. Holding me.
Surrounding me. Caressing and kissing me.
Playing with me, just like this and by now I am tense and rigid in my left hand.
I work myself up and down, up and down, my eyes closed, imaging the scent of her body, the taste of her skin, how her torso would push back against my own.
The slimness of her waist, and the fullness of her buttocks.
I imagine how her breast would feel, pressed against me, her diamond-hard nipples scraping against my skin as she writhes and moans…
I let out a moan of my own, and nothing can stop me now. I am so close to finishing. So close, so close and then…
“Aagh!” I let out a cry as I shudder to an orgasm, my seed pumping from my cock, spattering on the cubicle floor, where its washed away into the drain.
Where a moment ago my every muscle had been tense with straining, I am left spent and sagging with exhaustion.
Slowly, my breathing returns to normal, my muscles unstiffen, and I quickly—almost guiltily—finish my shower.
Twenty minutes. All it took was twenty minutes. And now I am once again dressed and to all intents and purposes, ready to go into the kitchen. Ready to face my two business partners and this siren and her father.
But am I ready? Could I ever be ready?
I do not know.