Chapter 11
eleven
One For The Frame
Iget dressed in a flurry. There’s no time for angry trips down memory lane when I have a life to get started.
The jeans button high on my waist over my tank top and I feel better already.
The black sweater hugs the smallest part of my hips but has space in the bust, giving me an alluring figure that makes me smile.
I’m still beautiful.
The rumble of a large truck decelerating comes through the window and I hurry to finish.
I quickly fluff the wet ends of my hair, trying to volumize as much as I can, then let the bun down.
I quickly apply an oil-control moisturizer, foundation to hide a sneaky pimple that popped up, a little blush, and lip stain.
There’s a knock from far away and I know it’s the trash guys at the front. I run from the bathroom and shove my feet into slip-ons as I point at Bastian.
“Stay. Here.”
He huffs. “As if I would want to see more pink flesh.”
I purse my lips because that wasn’t exactly a “Yes, ma’am” but it’ll have to do.
The knock comes again, louder, and I run down the stairs yelling, “Just a moment!”
I dodge debris as I make my way to the stained-glass door. Two silhouettes fill up the other side and I beam; glad they did actually bring hulking guys for this.
The front unlocks with a snick and I throw the door wide. A burst of cold, earthy air swoops in past the two men, bringing with it the smell of strong deodorant trying to hide even more powerful body odor.
I grin past the reactionary wince and turn aside. “Welcome, thanks for being able to come early.”
“No problem,” says the first trash guy with salt and pepper curly hair. His jumpsuit reads “Aaron” over the breast pocket.
He steps past me with a clipboard in hand. The second man in his early twenties, a little taller with similar bone structure and a chiseled jaw, smiles at me broadly.
“If we’d known you needed helping, we would’ve been here sooner,” he says, loaded with blatant flirtation.
Or maybe he’s just being nice, I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I’ve been actively flirted at. Partly my fault, since I haven’t been putting myself out there.
My gaze darts down to his chest to catch his name—Robbie—and when I glance back up, he winks, his grin practically sparkling.
He thinks I’m checking him out…
“Uh, come in,” I say, though I thought the invitation was obvious when I stepped aside.
He walks past me with swagger, then glances over his shoulder to look me up and down.
Definitely a flirt.
“So, what are we hauling?” Aaron asks.
I pump my sweater a little and clear my head. There’s work to be done.
“All the rotted wood lying around on the main floor and a few furniture items that are falling apart in the back office. It would be great if you guys could help me get some of the damaged wood that’s still hanging on that needs to go,” I say, gesturing to the remnants of the spiral staircase.
“I might need multiple visits,” I murmur to myself.
“Most women do,” Robbie remarks.
Aaron gives him a stern look that says he’s already done with his shit for the day and Robbie rolls his eyes.
Aaron checks a few things off on his clipboard, then passes it to me. “Here’s my estimate, if you could just sign. I think we can get the first round taken care of in about two hours. We’ll come back with tools to help clear away the rotted stuff there.”
I look over the information and mentally math out the remainder of my business egg; half a percent out of my available funds. Not too bad at all since it covers the additional removal of still-installed staircase.
I scribble my signature and hand the board back.
Aaron smiles, his mustache flaring out. “We’ll take it from here, if you have something else to do.”
“Oh! Could I take some pictures?” I ask, pulling out my phone.
Robbie hums lasciviously. “Those’ll cost you extra.”
Is he flirting, or is this his default mode?
“For…progress,” I say, my brain getting tripped up on all the testosterone. I clear my throat. “I have a social media page for my shop, and I want to show my followers the transformation.”
“It’s no problem, ma’am,” Aaron says. “Shoot away.”
I nod, turning with my phone raised. Aaron whispers an admonishment at Robbie as I move around, collecting my before pictures. Something about “she’s a customer” and “not again” is loud enough for me to hear. Seems like Robbie is a playboy.
I spin a fantasy of him lifting the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat on his brow, revealing toned abs to all the women around him.
They fan themselves and pant, drooling from the sides of their mouths.
Then he takes a drink of water, spilling it down his front while his throat works.
It all happens in slow motion in the movie theater of my mind.
It’s been a long dry streak. Might be time for me to end it.
The image of me rolling around in luxurious sheets fills my mind’s eye, but it’s not Robbie in bed with me.
It’s Bastian.
His touch is slow and revering, worshipful even. He pulls down the neck of my sweater, and I let his lips trace my collarbone. His tail loops around my thigh and tugs on my panties. I’m writhing beneath him as his hands explore my body. There’s no escaping him and I don’t want to.
His enormity eclipses me. His power owns me. His devotion bathes me in lo—
I’ve stopped taking pictures…
I blink a few times and force the thoughts of a very rude, very controlling dragon from my mind.
Though it’s dim now, I know the lighting here is going to be gorgeous when the windows are cleaned.
The real wood shelving is in relatively good condition on the second floor, and while I’ll have to replicate their style on the first, it’s still only half the amount of work I thought I might be getting into.
I’m so glad I listened to DIY podcasts all the way up here.
“Get one of us, for the Frame,” Robbie says.
I turn around to see him striking a pose next to Aaron. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s flexing while doing duckface. Aaron is glaring at him. I snort laugh and snap a picture of them.
It’s good to have eye candy on my page from time to time, which is why I commission artists to render my favorite heroes…sometimes in salacious poses. Aaron’s not too bad himself with the fatherly crossed-armed stare. Plenty of readers are into that. Me too, sometimes.
My aim on socials has always been to entertain. But now I’ve entered an era of profits and losses, so I need all the help I can get avoiding the latter side of that statement. If that help comes in the form of a trashy trash man flexing duckface, I’m going to seize it.
“I’ve got them all, thanks so much for indulging me,” I say after snapping the last picture.
“Wait, get one of me lifting something,” Robbie insists.
“We have work to do,” Aaron barks.
Robbie goes to one of the downed beams of rotted wood and squats. “I know, I know! She’s getting a picture of me working.”
Aaron sighs in my direction, and I shrug.
Robbie lifts the beam but can’t quite get it all off the ground. It’s long and looks quite heavy. Aaron grabs the back end and starts to lift.
“No wait, I’ve got it,” Robbie grunts out.
“You’re gonna hurt your back, numbskull,” Aaron says, ignoring his request and helping him anyway.
I snap a picture of them hauling out the first piece and my heart beats faster.
It’s starting.
It’s really happening.
I’m going to own a bookshop.
My face hurts from how hard I’m smiling, so I snap one more picture: a selfie.
The post comes together quickly, and I take a few minutes to express my gratitude to all my amazing online friends who encouraged me through the years to keep working on my bindery. All that led me here, and I’m so grateful.
I let the men do their work up front while I clear things out in the office. The old desk can go, and in this digital age, I definitely don’t need the filing cabinets. But maybe I should take a look inside.
I pull on the drawers, but they don’t open. There’s a keyhole at the top left, and I remember that the key ring I got from the lockbox had a small, funny-looking key on it.
I run upstairs and give Oscar a pat, then hunt for my keys. Bastian is noticeably absent, though the towers of books remain. I’m grateful he respected my wishes and hid, but he didn’t need to disappear entirely. I wonder if he’s in lizard form somewhere…
I snatch my keys and run back down to the office. The drawers all click at once when the lock is disengaged, and I start at the bottom. There are a few old sheets of paper there, but they appear to be stocking lists. Might be fun to keep for Instaframe, so I set them aside.
There’s nothing in the middle three drawers but dust and my mind immediately goes back to the monsters that ate my stockings the other day. I hope they’re not everywhere there’s dust, or we’re going to have a problem.
The top drawer is too high for me to see inside.
I get on my tiptoes and stick my arm in to feel around.
My fingers brush the spine of a book and I grin.
It might just be something boring, like accounts—which maybe I should review because the past can inform the future when it comes to business decisions.
But it could also be something amazing. Like a first edition of something old, or a rare print!
I hop a little for leverage and snatch the book out. It’s worn and old, but in good condition for its age. The cover is black leather with wear spots that reveal brown. It’s embossed with a sun and moon at the center, and right in the middle of both is just one word.
Spells.