Page 21 of Down Bad

In my ear.

With all his throat and all his chest.

Is he fucking that car? Or is that car fucking him?

Then he slides out from underneath, revealing himself. White drenched tank top. Smears of black grease over his chest and up his arms like war paint. And when he lifts the back of his wrist to wipe off sweat, he draws another streak right over his forehead. He doesn’t even know. It’d be almost cute if it weren’t for the dark, ferocious hunger in his eyes. Or is that just me projecting?

He turns to the street. Squints in my direction, sun in his eyes.

Diego squinting.

At me.

Fuck.

I’m already back to walking like I never stopped, saw nothing, pleading the fifth. Trip over something in the pavement. Correct myself before eating it. Walk along like that didn’t happen either.

I’m so fidgety at the bank, it’s like I just stuck my finger in a light socket. “I’m totally fine,” I assure the sweet-eyed teller. They didn’t ask me anything.

I take a different route back from the bank to my store.

For obvious reasons.

Why were his legs spread apart so much like that?

Who does that?

Now it’s all I’m thinking about.

While absentmindedly squirting water at a bushel of pansies. Way too much water. Staring right through these poor, innocent, overwatered pansies like there’s another set of hunky human legs protruding from between them.

Taking my mind to places it’s not gone in way too long.

Then him sitting up. Greasy tank top. Sweat.

Wiping his forehead.

Eyes finding mine through all that sexiness.

Smoldering me.

My computer dings, causing my next spray to go right at my face. Blinking it away, I hurry behind the counter.

Mr. Bellamy’s response: “Thanks. But I think we can work out something better. Let’s talk. Grant.”

In other words: screw your options, I’ll still get my way.

But with a smile.

I reach for the phone, deciding I do indeed have words for Mr. Grant Bellamy.

Then I retract my hand.

Then reach again.

Stop again.

“Nope, absolutely not,” I say to the empty shop.