Just My Type

by Tara Sivec

  By sheer force of will, my dick doesn’t try and claw its way out of my jeans and launch itself at Ember when she stops right in front of me.

  “I do believe the word I’m looking for… is loser,” she informs me with a smirk.

  “Fine, so I’m not the best hatchet thrower in the world. Aside from the zombie apocalypse, I don’t know when I would ever utilize this skill anyway,” I complain as Ember laughs and turns around to go to the end of the cage to retrieve the hatchet.

  “So you didn’t mean to throw the hatchet against the wall, like a hotdog smacking into the board and then flopping to the ground?”

  She continues to laugh as she yanks the hatchet out of the middle of the bull’s-eye, and brings it back to me.

  “That was one time, and I told you, it slipped,” I mutter, taking the weapon out of her hand.

  “Do you want me to edit this part out of the transcript, or would you like the public to have solid proof that you are, in fact, a loser?” Ember asks sweetly, pointing to her phone sitting right next to where my elbow rests on the tall wooden table next to me.

  Ember hit Record on her phone and set it down next to our beers as soon as we got here. Picking it up, I bring it to my mouth and speak into it while looking right at her.

  “You’ve been editing out the proof that you’re out-of-your-mind attracted to me, so it’s only fair. Like right now. You’re staring at my mouth. Probably imagining what it would feel like on your skin.”

  Setting the phone back down gently next to our drinks, I start to walk around her, pausing long enough to lean my head down next to her ear.

  “It would feel fucking amazing, Tink. I’m pretty good with my mouth—just saying.”

  Leaving her standing there with a blush spreading across her cheeks, and her chest heaving with every breath she takes, I continue walking around her with a smile on my face, moving up to the chalk line. Bringing my arm up by the side of my head, I take aim.

  “Stop!” Ember suddenly shouts, her small hand wrapping around my bicep. “I cannot continue to let you fling this thing like a limp hotdog. But you need to start talking before I impart my wisdom.”

  Bringing my arm back down to my side, I look over my shoulder at her. For two-point-three seconds, I actually thought she was finally giving in and wanted to take me up on the “my mouth on your skin” suggestion. Sadly, the flush is gone from her face and she’s breathing normally again.

  “Fine. Tell me why you always smell like dessert.”

  She blinks at me in confusion a few times before dropping her hand from my arm. “I mean, you need to start talking about yourself,” she reminds me with a cute little huff.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a little shy. I need to work my way up to talking about myself.”

  Ember snorts at me and rolls her eyes. “You don’t have a shy bone in your body; nice try. And I smell like dessert, because we sell pumpkin pie lotion and body spray at the farm. I actually acquired the contract with the local woman who runs her business out of her house a few towns over. She makes us lotions, candles, and body sprays, and I coordinate scents depending on the time of year. Well, I used to. But pumpkin has always been my favorite. Especially now that I’m living here. It reminds me of home.”

  I don’t like the faraway, sad look that takes over her face when she talks about home. It’s like someone sucker-punched me in the gut, so I quickly think of something to erase all that misery from her face.

  “Did you know the average person walks by a murderer thirty-six times in their life? Blake and Rachel have an obsession with gruesome things, so I know some shit.” Okay, not exactly what I was going for, but I see the corner of her mouth start to twitch, so… progress.

  “You’re thirty-two; you probably didn’t start walking until around one, so we’ll say thirty-one years—twenty-four hours in the day, times 365, divide by six, carry the five, and you probably walked by two murderers just in the last hour alone.”

  Ember is full-on smiling now, and the power of it aimed right at me is just as strong as when she looked on the verge of crying a few seconds ago.

  “So, you suck at math and throwing a hatchet. God, you’re making this way too easy, Baker.” She laughs, as I turn my head back around to face the bull’s-eye twenty feet in front of me, feeling quite satisfied with myself, even though my dick is still pulsing in my fucking jeans just from hearing her say my name.

  All of a sudden, she takes a step closer to my back, brings her arm around the outside of my arm, and wraps her hand around mine that’s currently holding the hatchet down by my thigh. I have to clear my throat like a nervous teenage boy who just saw his first tit.

  “What are you doing? Getting a little frisky there, aren’t you?” I ask, trying to add a little sarcastic laugh to my words, but it just comes out as a choked groan when she steps even closer to me, until she’s pressed up against my back.

  She pushes herself up on her toes a little, the motion forcing those glorious tits to slide up my back until her face is close to my ear.

  “I’m imparting my wisdom while you talk,” she says softly. “You have to grip the handle sort of like a baseball bat. Firm. And choke up on it a little. Now, talk.”

  Her hand squeezes around mine on the handle of the hatchet, and I know I’m supposed to be doing what she says, but all I can hear are the words firm and choke coming out of her mouth in a sexy, breathy voice.

  Talk? What’s that? What are words?

  She lets go of her hold of my hand on the hatchet, and I quickly do as she instructed with the grip.

  “You and your sister seem really close. Why don’t you tell me about that?” Ember asks.

  Her hand is back on me, but this time, it rests against my forearm then slowly runs up until she’s sliding it behind and under my bicep. She gives it a gentle push, indicating I should lift my arm. She’s still pressed up against my back, and that goddamn delicious smell of pumpkin pie wraps around me like a warm blanket. Thank God she brought up my sister. There’s nothing that will kill a boner faster than talking about family.

  “We’re definitely close. We had to be. Our parents are assholes,” I tell Ember as she helps me lift my arm out in front of me, holding the hatchet pointed at the bull’s-eye.

  “You want the edge of the blade to be perpendicular to the target. If it’s off even a fraction, it will fly through the air all wonky, like your last hotdog attempts,” Ember quickly whispers as she pushes her body more firmly against mine so she can reach around me and slide her hand back over mine gripping the hatchet, helping me line it up correctly.

  “When Blake came out at eighteen, they disowned her. We lived in Florida, and she packed up her things and moved to Chicago to live with a friend,” I speak rapidly; thinking about that time in our lives is always a surefire way to keep my dirty thoughts away while Ember is pressed up against me. “I wasn’t even allowed to speak her name in their bullshit, judgmental presences. It was like she didn’t exist to them anymore. A year later, as soon as I graduated high school, I told them to fuck off and I followed her. I lived on her couch until I went into the Army, and after I was discharged, I came back here.”

  Ember’s hands move to my hips, and the anger that started rippling through me, just like it does every time I think about our parents, immediately disappears.

  “Square your hips to the target,” Ember says softly, gripping my hips tighter as she helps turn my upper body the right way.

  “Blake always stood up for me whenever they would get on me about taking over my dad’s insurance business, telling me my lifelong dream of joining the military was ridiculous and a waste of time,” I add. “She’s always been my best friend, even though she’s a pain in my ass. She always encouraged me to follow my dreams and all that shit. I never would have opened The Barracks without her pushing me to do it.”

  “Being a parent is hard. But pushing your child away because of who they love? That’s just disgusting. Your parents rea
lly are assholes. You don’t need them. Fuck those bitches and hos,” Ember states, making me smile, when nothing about this trip down memory lane ever brings me any kind of joy. “Your feet should be shoulder-width apart.”

  When Ember adds that last part, her hands on my hips slide down to the outside of my thighs, and she gives them a pat.

  Christ, this woman.

  My grin is so big right now as I spread my legs a little that my face is starting to hurt. “I don’t recall hatchet-throwing to require such hands-on instruction. I might have to report you to HR.”

  Her hands immediately yank away from my thighs, where she was still resting them long after she needed to.

  “Shut up,” she grumbles. “I’m just making sure you don’t kill anyone when you throw it this time, ensuring that I will, in fact, walk by a murderer this evening.”

  Narrowing my eyes on the center of the target, I take a deep breath.

  “Throw it just like you would a football. When you see the middle of the handle in your top right field of vision, let go, following through with your arm until it’s back down by your side,” Ember coaches.

  I do as she says, letting the hatchet fly. My eyes follow it all the way down, watching it tumble ass over end, until it thwacks onto the board. Nowhere near the center, but at least it’s in one of the fucking circles and not flopped down on the floor.

  “Holy shit, you did it,” Ember states with a shocked voice as I turn around with a satisfied smile on my face.

  I walk right up to where she stands until we’re toe-to-toe. Leaning toward her, I watch her eyes widen in shock the closer and closer I get to her face, pausing when we’re only a few inches apart.

  “I had a good teacher,” I tell her softly, moving in even closer.

  “I should call my son,” she suddenly blurts as my chest presses up against hers, her back arching just slightly as she moves with me. “You know, since I’m a mom and I have a kid and I should probably call him and say goodnight.”

  My arm moves around her as I continue pushing her back while I lean forward, grabbing my beer from the table behind her.

  “Calm down; I’m just getting my drink.” I smirk at her, pulling back from her and holding my beer up in front of us.

  She looks at me in flustered annoyance as I cover up my smile by taking a swig.

  Pulling the beer away from my mouth, I cock my head to the side and look her up and down. “Makes sense you’re a good teacher, being a mom and all. Which, now that you mention it, is just gross. And frankly, makes you super unattractive. I’m honestly getting sick to my stomach just looking at you,” I tease with a straight face.

  “Oh, kiss my ass. Being a mom doesn’t make me any less dateable or desirable. I am a goddamn catch,” she fires back, crossing her arms in front of her in a huff and giving me precisely what I wanted.

  Setting my beer back down on the table, I grin at her.

  “Exactly. Once more for the people in the back.”

  She realizes what she just did and lets out an adorable, annoyed sigh.

  “Ready to turn that page yet?”

  “Not in the slightest,” she lies, lifting her chin in defiance. “We still have work to do.”

  Turning away from her, I start walking away to retrieve the hatchet, yelling over my shoulder as I go. “Fine, but try to keep your hands to yourself! It’s making me feel very uncomfortable and vulnerable. Feel free to keep staring at my ass though.”

  When I quickly glance back as I walk, I watch her eyes dart up from my ass and a blush heat up her cheeks. She whirls around and angrily snatches her bottle of beer from the table, while I start thinking about our next interview and how much fun it’s going to be getting under her skin. Without breaking the pinky swear, of course.

  CHAPTER 15

  I. Am. Shook.

  To: Ember Hastings

  From: Baker Matthews

  Subject: Re: Incomplete Transcription

  Thank you so much for your continued dedication to this transcription job. I was pleasantly surprised to receive The Hatchet House file to read two hours after we parted ways last night, while I was winding down before I retired for the evening. I like to unwind by sipping a scotch on the rocks and smoking a cigar while listening to classic rock, like a bad ass, in case you need that for future reference for this interview.

  Unfortunately, there were large chunks of data missing from this transcription file you typed up. Namely:

  *Your breathy little sighs whenever you looked at my mouth

  *How fast your heart was beating when you had your chest smushed up against my back

  *Your inability to keep your hands off me during the hatchet throwing instruction. Specifically, my hard-earned and well-developed biceps, triceps, and quads. Just so there’s no confusion, quads are the muscles in my thighs. You know, the hard, sinewy, rugged, and manly thighs your hands couldn’t stay away from

  *Number of times you pictured me naked the entire evening

  Very unprofessional that you would leave such pertinent information out of this transcription file. I’m shocked, Ember. SHOCKED. Or maybe it’s shook. Isn’t that what all the cool kids are saying? I. Am. Shook.

  In all seriousness, let me know what day you’re free this week for our next interview. I’m thinking Friday. I know your son is probably in school during the day, and I can try to move some things around so we can meet then. But if that doesn’t work, my offer still stands; I can provide babysitting options.

  Baker “You’re Picturing Me Naked” Matthews

  To: Baker Matthews

  From: Ember Hastings

  Subject: Re: Fuck Right Off

  Once again, I have updated the subject line of this email to better reflect the nature of this communication. Also, was it really necessary to attach a picture of yourself flexing, with arrows pointing to specific muscles? And really, Baker. A bathroom selfie? (SHAKES HEAD SLOWLY WITH JUDGEMENT)

  Funny, I spoke to Blake earlier today, and she told me she called you while you were “winding down” last night. I don’t believe there was any mention of scotch, cigars, or classic rock. There was, however, mention of a bubble bath, a chilled glass of Moscato, and Enya playing in the background. (I. Am. SHOOKETH)

  Friday’s not good for me. I’ve already blocked off the day to get my son a pet. It’s a surprise, and I have no idea what kind of pet I’m getting him, but by the time he gets home from school, there will be another living creature in my home. Preferably, one that is less time-consuming than a puppy, but not as boring as a goldfish. I should probably start googling that.

  Ember “Moscato is for Pussies” Hastings

  To: Ember Hastings

  From: Baker Matthews

  Subject: Re: Fuck Right Off

  Whatever. So I like my “me” time with a little bubbles, some crisp, fruity wine, and soothing music. I’ll have you know, my bubbles are very manly. They smell like worn leather, a pine forest, gunpowder, and sawdust. MANLY SMELLS. Fuck the soft, fluffy loofa. I scrub my body clean with chicken wire.

  I have taken it upon myself to do some googling for you in regards to your pet decision, and have come up with a few excellent options:

  The Golden Poison Frog. He’s cute and yellow, and I really think he gets a bad rap with that whole “poison” thing. He’s just misunderstood. No potty training required. Just a living will.

  Feral Cat. Now, I know what you’re thinking. It’s afraid of people and doesn’t allow anyone to touch it! Exactly, Ember. Exactly. It doesn’t need constant attention like a puppy. And you know what’s more exciting than a goldfish? Not being able to sleep at night because you’re afraid it will chew off your face. Which this antisocial living creature won’t do, as long as you remember to feed it. Which would instill a sense of responsibility and stark terror in your son from now until the end of time. Hashtag, life lessons.

  Friday it is, then. I’ll just go with you to pick out this living creature, since my expertise is clearly needed. I
’ll pick you up at ten.

  Baker “I Smell Like a Man” Matthews

  CHAPTER 16

  Ember

  Fluffy-Wuffy

  “…tell him I’ll call him when I get home tonight. Email me a copy of Eric’s assessment from last week, and I’ll look it over.”

  Baker glances over at me and mouths, I’m sorry, the work call that he got right when I got in his vehicle keeping him on the phone the whole ride to the pet store. I spend entirely too long blatantly staring at his profile after he turns away from me and puts his eyes back on the road. Not wanting to get caught staring at his dark scruff-covered, chiseled jaw, his teeth biting down on that bottom lip as he thinks about something the caller just asked, or drooling over the way his bicep flexes as he holds the phone up to his ear, I quickly look out the passenger window at the passing landscape, and try to think about something else. Anything else, aside from the man sitting next to me, whose delicious scent swirls around me in this small, confined space, making everything south of the border pulse and tingle until I have to cross my legs and squeeze my thighs together.

  I’ve been wracking my brain since the day I met Baker in Starbucks a few weeks ago, trying to figure out what that smell is, and I’ve finally figured it out. He smells like cedar. Motherfucking cedar. Goodbye, any hopes of keeping things professional until this interview is done. I have a weakness for that clean, woodsy scent. And now all I can picture is Baker naked, taking a bubble bath in my cedar chest that I brought from home and currently sits at the foot of my bed, while water droplets and bubbles slowly slide down his bare, rock-hard chest and abs, curling his finger at me to come closer with the hand that isn’t holding a glass of white, vagina wine.

  That image shouldn’t even be a turn-on, Jesus!

  And let’s just talk about the fact that we’re currently weaving in and out of traffic in a Jeep. An old-school, black Jeep Wrangler, with a soft top that can be removed. I should have made fun of him as soon as I walked out my front door and saw it parked at my curb. I should have climbed inside this damn thing and said something like, “When you’re cruising with the top off, do you wink and make that shooting gun motion with your thumb and finger at every hot chick at a red light?” But no. Of course I didn’t say anything like that. I walked toward the Jeep in a daze, picturing Baker doing something all rugged and manly with that Jeep, like driving through plowed corn fields after a summer rain, kicking up mud all over the wheels and side panels, which would then require him to hose the Jeep down in his driveway, and then of course he’d need to turn the hose on himself to get all that… dirty off of him.