Chapter Thirteen
Grady
“Rebel Yell.”
I grumble, half-asleep, as an airhorn tears through the mid-morning silence outside the bedroom window.
I blink my eyes open, the sun so bright it illuminates the vibrant pink handprints seared into Chet’s pretty little ass.
I marvel at them, tempted to trace them one last time but sensing that would only lead to another jizz-soaked rumble atop the already ruined sheets.
He wriggles his tight little tush as if he can feel me watching, mumbling something about “noise complaints” as I stir, sitting up as my cock tears away from where it’s been embedded in a dried smear of jizz on my left thigh for who knows how long. I wince and look for my phone.
Then I realize, I’m not at home. This isn’t my room. It’s not even my house. I haven’t checked my phone in hours, and for that matter, it’s not early in the morning at all!
“Shit!” I grumble, scrubbing my face with my hand and standing abruptly as I stumble around the room, tugging on clothes that I know are going to look ratchet as hell by the time I finally put myself together.
The horn blast blares again, every note a jarring stab to my sleep-starved brain as my heart pounds with the implications of what I might have missed by oversleeping on a Monday morning.
“Shit,” I grumble, finding my boots in the living room and shoving into them with dirty socks, bleary eyes, and wobbly legs. “Shit, shit, shit!”
I glance around the house feverishly for the phone in question, spying only half-empty wine glasses and long since burned to the quick candles, souvenirs from what had arguably been the best night of my life.
I clomp across wooden floorboards down the hall and swing open the front door, Parker’s massive truck idling at the curb as he beams from the driver’s side window.
“Morning, Sunshine!” he teases, big hand hovering over his steering wheel as if to signal the old Pistol Creek Pythons fight song again.
“No, please!” I beg him playfully, hands up in surrender as I realize I’m still holding my belt in one of them, the buckle whacking me on the forehead as it dangles like a pendulum in front of my blurry eyes. “I’m up, I’m up.”
“‘Bout damn time,” Parker grumbles through the open window, glancing at the thick gold watch he insists on wearing despite being glued to his cell phone 24:7. “I been calling your irresponsible little ass since nine.”
“It’s ... after nine?” I shield my eyes from the blinding morning sun, finding it much higher in the sky than I’d first imagined.
Parker rolls his eyes. “Near on eleven, Dipshit!”
“Fuck!” I gasp, mind reeling with today’s schedule, jam-packed full of walk-throughs, meet and greets, and spit-balling the game plan for this Friday’s big Grand Opening festivities. “The walk-through of the Shooting Gallery!”
“Yeah, well, I got them to postpone a bit on account of your little friend there...” Parker waves at something behind me, and I follow the trajectory of his big, sausage fingers to find Chet peering at us through the guest room window.
Our eyes meet, and I glower back at him, giving him my best “get your ass moving” scowl.
He winks merrily and disappears, the slatted blinds wobbling to and fro with his abrupt departure. “But time’s a wasting, so...”
I sigh. “Fine, just...” I scratch my head, doing the mental math of how long it might take for a quick shower, breakfast at the Cracked Egg, and then a quick jaunt around the corner to the new Galloping Galleria project on the north side of town.
“Just nothing, Hot Pants,” Parker teases, thoroughly enjoying himself as he gives me a good once-over while settling back into his driver’s seat as if he’s suddenly got all the time in the world. “I’ll wait.”
“Wait?”
He positively beams at the way my voice cracks in response. “Sure, you know, make sure you two don’t fall back asleep or ... you know, start doing more of what kept your horny little asses up all night?”
“Parker,” I remind him, nodding toward the silver pickup in the only other occupied parking spot in the whole ass development. “My truck’s right there. We can be there in an hour, forty-five minutes if you quit harassing me!”
“I ain’t harassin’ you,” he croons merrily, adjusting his cowboy hat in the rearview mirror as if getting ready for a date.
“I’m chaperoning you until we get through today’s schedule and then?
You’re free to delight in whatever twenty-something debauchery that has you putting your wrinkled ass shirt on backward the next morning. ”
I glance down to find the tag sticking out along my chin. “Fuck, fine, yes, I overslept a little and—”
“A little?” Parker smacks his steering wheel, and the “Rebel Yell” fight song blares again, echoing throughout the entire valley that surrounds us.
“If I hadn’t done some fast talking with the Galleria’s owners this morning, the whole deal would be off, so .
.. you can stow your excuses and have your little friend in there ready in five minutes. Or else.”
I frown, tugging my shirt off as his eyes widen in reply. “What?” I grumble, glancing down.
After all, it’s not like he hasn’t seen me with my shirt off after all these years, sweating away in the summer sun on this house flipping project or another.
Then I see them: the vivid, fresh, glaringly pink hickeys Chet just had to leave all over my chest, no matter how much I giggled and squirmed and begged him not to.
“Shit,” I hiss, tugging my shirt back on the right way and tucking it into my unbuttoned jeans.
“Damn, boy,” Parker whistles, shaking his head but surprisingly unruffled by the fact that another man left those hickeys and not some trailer park temptress like he seems to favor these days. “No wonder you look a fright.”
“I’m fine, I just need a little coffee and—” I start inching back toward the doorway when he hoists a cardboard holder full of iced coffees from Bertha’s Beans right down from our office.
“Already got you covered, Lover Boy,” he teases, handing one over as I slurp it greedily.
“Thanks, but ... I better freshen up if I’m going to ... unh!” He tosses the dop kit from the bottom drawer of my desk square at my chest, chuckling merrily as I struggle to catch it with my free hand.
“You were saying?” he teases, snatching one of the coffees up for himself and slurping as I hoist the dop kit onto the edge of his truck bed.
“You’re not letting me go back inside, are you?” I grumble, layering on deodorant to cover up the sex sweat before dousing my hickeys with a few quick spurts of cologne under my wrinkled white T-shirt.
“Naw, son, now if you don’t mind covering your ears? I’m about to blast this here horn one more time so your little friend there can get his pretty little ass moving and—”
“I’m ready!” Just then, Chet bounds through the doorway, looking fresh, radiant, and pampered in the same dusky grey outfit he’d worn the day before.
“Sorry about the wait, but...” He hands over my red ball cap and, thankfully, my sleek silver cell phone.
“Mr. Absentminded here had me scouring the house for all his goodies.”
Parker nods and clucks his tongue. “Well then, Chet, if you’ll just hop in the passenger seat...” He leans over with a grunt and swings it open. I start to follow, and he tut-tuts. “Where are you going, partner?”
“Next to Chet, waddya mean?”
“Oh no,” Parker insists as Chet wriggles in beside him. “Cab’s full.”
“Well.” I pout as the sound of the passenger door swinging shut makes it clear Chet’s perfectly fine with this ridiculous arrangement. “Where am I going to sit then?”
Parker wags a thick thumb at the truck bed, gunning the engine as the truck lurches forward like some frisky game of cat and mouse on the playground after school.
“Plenty of room in the back.” He chuckles as I step on the tire and launch myself into the bed just as he peels off for downtown Pistol Creek and our first official obligation leading up to the Grand Opening.