Page 3 of The Bigfoot’s Double

I didn’t need telling twice. I grabbed my jacket off the hook, told the last two customers to settle up with Reggie, and practically ran the last few feet to the door, cold air swallowing me whole as it swung shut behind me.

The parking lot was mostly empty, sodium lights buzzing orange overhead, and he was leaning against a black truck that looked like it had never once been cleaned. He’d taken off the jacket at some point, just a tight black shirt now that showed off his shape, all that muscle shifting as he pushed off the truck to meet me halfway.

“You clean up nice,” he said, eyes dragging down over me, taking in the jacket I’d thrown on over my work clothes, my jockstrap waistband still peeking over my low-slung pants.

“I didn’t clean up. This is what I looked like all night.”

“Exactly.” His mouth did that almost-smile thing again, sharp at the edges. “C’mon. Not gonna fuck you in a parking lot. Unless you’re into that.”

“Romantic,” I said, but I was already moving toward the passenger door, my heart going a little too fast, my whole body lit up with that particular kind of nervous heat that came right before doing something you already knew you weren’t going to regret.

He opened the door for me before I could reach for the handle myself, which surprised a short laugh out of me, and I got a look at the inside of his truck. It was a fucking mess. My stomach sank.

“Just push stuff out of the way,” he said, like it was no big deal.

But I stopped, glancing back at him. “Seriously?” I asked, not afraid to show my irritation. “You had two and half hours, and you pick me up in your rolling dumpster?”

That seemed to catch him off guard. “It… It’s just a couple of empty pop bottles.”

“A raccoon could live in here for a month, and you wouldn’t notice,” I shot back. “I don’t get it. You dress well and you smell good, but you just leave your vehicle trashed when you pick guys up?” I put a hand on my hip. “If this is your truck, what does your place look like?”

His brows knitted together and I could see the anger creeping in at the edges of his expression. “You seem awfully picky for some twink looking to get picked up at a bar.”

“I work at that bar,” I corrected. “For tips. That’s how it works. If you show a little skin, you make more money. It’s simple math.” I pointed back at his truck. “Just like it’s simple that you shouldn’t pick up someone you want to fuck in a vehicle filled with trash.”

“You know, you’re a lot cuter when you’re not being a little bitch,” he shot back, his anger winning out.

“Alright,” I nodded, stepping away from the truck. “I’m out. Have a good night.”

“Good,” he snapped, slamming his passenger door shut. “I don’t want no blown-out slut anyway. Go fuck yourself.”

But I was already heading back to the bar, my phone already in my hand as I blocked his number.

“And I want my fuckin’ money back for that terrible drink you made me!”

I just lifted my hand over my head, flipping him off without looking. His engine roared into life as I stepped back into the bar, the horn blaring as he peeled out of the parking lot like a child.

“I’m gonna be in the back for a few minutes,” I called to Reggie, waving as I walked by the bar. “That guy was fuckin’ crazy. Just gonna make sure he’s gone before I leave.”

Reggie waved me off without even looking up from the register, already used to my dramatics by now. I ducked into the little break room behind the bar, more to get a minute to myself than anything else, and pressed my back against the wall, letting out a long breath through my nose.

Asshole. What a complete and total asshole.

I pulled my phone out again, mostly out of habit, and stared at the blank screen where his number used to be. Good riddance. I didn’t need that. I didn’t need some hairy walking red flag who couldn’t be bothered to clean his own truck before trying to fuck me. There was no way his apartment wasn’t a fucking cesspit. I had standards. Low ones, sure, but standards nonetheless.

Except my body hadn’t gotten the memo yet. My skin still felt too tight, my jockstrap uncomfortably snug, and there was a low simmering ache low in my belly that refused to just switch off because the guy attached to it turned out to be garbage. That was the worst part. My cock didn’t care about character flaws.

I splashed some water on my face at the little sink in the corner, and looked at myself in the cracked mirror above it. Tousled brown hair, cheeks a little flushed, and dark eyes full of lust that wasn’t going anywhere anytime fast. I looked like someone who needed to get laid. Which, yeah. Accurate, I guess.

“You good back there?” Reggie’s voice carried through the door.

“Peachy,” I called back, drying my hands on my jeans.

I wasn’t going home. That much I decided standing right there at the sink. Going home meant my own bed, my own hand, and four more hours of lying there wide awake thinking about his shitty gold eyes and a low rasp saying knot like it was a promise instead of a threat. No. Not tonight. I needed to forget, to find something better.

I grabbed my jacket again, poked my head out into the bar. “I’m heading out, Reg. Dickhead should be gone by now.”

“Goin’ home?”