Checked Out

by Hazel James

  I happily obeyed, snagging my wallet and making a beeline down the hall to the doorway across from her studio. In less than a minute, we were on the bed and I was finally, finally inside her.

  I wanted our first time to be slow so I could worship and memorize every part of her, but that ship sailed the moment she moaned and rocked her hips underneath me. “It’s been ages since I’ve done this and I don’t think I’m going to last very long,” I confessed against her neck.

  “Me neither.”

  “And I have two more condoms in my wallet and the rest of the box in my bathroom.”

  “Hey.” She brought her hands on either side of my face and forced me to look at her. “I promise I’m right there with you. We have all night.”

  Her reassurance did some shit to my heart that I’d need to think about at some point. For now, we matched the movement of our tongues to the rhythm of our bodies as we raced to the edge and tumbled over. For a woman who focused so much on being put together, Tuesday had never looked more beautiful than she did when she was coming undone beneath me. I’d tell her that later when I caught my breath and could form words again.

  After that, we discussed locking the cat out of her bedroom while we had sex, because nothing killed a buzz more than realizing Taylor had apparently watched the whole show from Tuesday’s pillow.

  This was the weirdest threesome I’d ever had.

  Tuesday

  Jack Price knew a thing or two about details. The longer I perused the shelves of the library, the more that statement rang true.

  His wooden sculptures were everywhere, each more beautiful and complex than the last, like he was rewarding patrons for venturing deeper into the library. I took footage to prepare for tonight’s whittling date and my upcoming video blog. So far, I’d gotten a spiral staircase (perfectly balanced of course), a series of balls that were trapped inside a wooden cage (I’d have to ask what those were called later), and a German shepherd that looked deceptively soft. (It even had toenails. Toenails!)

  And while all of his sculptures were breathtaking in their own right, none stopped me in my tracks like the wooden chain running along the waist-high shelf in the science fiction section. Each link had been meticulously carved and sanded so that it moved independently while still being interlocked with the next one. How was that even possible? I examined a handful to see where they’d been cut and glued back together.

  “It’s all one piece,” Jack’s voice said behind me.

  I jumped, laughing as I pressed a palm over my racing heart. “All finished?”

  “Yep.” Tonight was Jack’s last sign language class. I peeked in on him when I got here and he looked like a natural—smiling, answering questions with ease, and looking like an overall badass. “I didn’t even have any Pepto Bismol, so I guess that’s progress.”

  “Definite progress. I’m proud of you.”

  With that, he pulled me into his arms and buried his face in my neck, inhaling like this was the first full breath he’d taken all day. I hadn’t seen him since Sunday morning when we’d woken up together in my bed. That was two and a half excruciating days ago because I was still working part-time at Cleopatra’s on top of finishing up my training at Channel 3.

  I realized on some distant, logical level that missing someone after only two (and a half) days was pretty dang pathetic, but I never claimed to be… whatever the opposite of pathetic was. It was hard to think straight with Jack’s body pressing up against mine.

  As if he could read my thoughts—or maybe it was the way I started pulling him closer—he kissed the side of my head and stepped back, putting some much-needed space between us before I suggested a live-action role play of 50 Shades right here in the sci-fi section. I took a calming breath and did my best to focus on the real reason I was standing here. I pointed at the wooden chain. “So you said this was all one piece?”

  “Yes. It started as a pine tree that my grandpa cut down to extend the front porch. I was sixteen and was pissed off at the world, so he took me out to his house for some therapy, which was another way of saying ‘manual labor.’ He made me chop the tree down by myself with an ax while he cheated with a chainsaw on the other ones.”

  “Why were you mad at the world?” The nostalgia on his face morphed into something darker, making me instantly regret my question. “Never mind, it’s not important.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair as he released a deep breath. “It’s fine. Do you remember me telling you about getting bullied and how I learned sign language?” I nodded. “Well, the kid who bullied me never stopped. He just got better at hiding it. I ended up quitting the baseball team because it was one less place I had to see him and his minions. My mom got angry and said I had to pick a different sport. ‘Teenage boys need a healthy outlet for all those hormones,’” he added in a high-pitched voice.

  We both smiled, which eased the tension. “That sounds like something my mom would’ve said to my brother.”

  “Eh, I think it was more because she liked being a team mom and wasn’t ready to give that up. That’s how I got into swimming. It was the only sport that guaranteed I didn’t have to talk to anyone while doing it.”

  “Smart guy.”

  “It earned me a scholarship and a girlfriend who stalked my videos.” He winked and leaned against the bookshelf while my face caught on fire.

  “You had to bring that up, didn’t you?”

  “Hey, it’s not every day the hottest woman in Idaho admits to checking out my goods.”

  “I did not!” I totally did. Despite my pink cheeks, I regretted nothing. “Aaanyway, how did this go from a tree to a piece of art?”

  “After we finished cutting everything down, Grandpa asked what had me so worked up. Aside from the bullying bullshit, I told him how frustrating it was to feel like I had a chain around my throat that kept me from speaking properly. He showed me the plans for carving a wooden chain and said anytime I started getting mad, to turn it into something productive instead. So I did. The finished product was sixty-eight inches.” Jack pulled the chain from the shelf and held it up. The bottom link brushed the carpet and the top one stopped just below his chin.

  “Your height when you were sixteen.”

  “Exactly.”

  It wasn’t hard to picture teenage-Jack, especially considering how baby-faced he still looked in the swimming videos, but it was much more difficult to imagine someone being deliberately cruel to him over something he couldn’t control. Aunt Alma always said hating people was a waste of energy. I tended to agree, but I was more than willing to make an exception in this case. Jack’s bully could kiss my lily-white butt.

  “First off, I’m beyond impressed at your ability to tell stories with your hands. I’ve never seen anything as simple and powerful and beautiful as this.”

  He smiled as I took the wooden chain and returned it to its place on the shelf. “And second?”

  “Please tell me the guy who bullied you got justice or at least a heaping dose of karma.”

  “Not that I know of, but that’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay at all! He deserves to pay for what he put you through.” My blood simmered and my fingernails pressed tiny crescents into my palms. If I knew where the a-hole lived, I’d empty Taylor’s litter box right outside his front door.

  Jack tipped his head to the side and studied the air over my shoulder. I got the sense he was about to say something important, so I braced myself accordingly when he finally met my eyes. “If it makes you feel any better, I ran into him not long ago and he was as woefully inadequate as ever.”

  “Really? Where?”

  He linked his fingers with mine and started walking toward the front of the library. “He came to trunk-or-treating.”

  He did? I don’t remember seeing Jack argue with anyone. “Did he talk to you?”

  “Yeah,” he said after a beat. “He tried to get under my skin, but I didn’t let him. I had more important things on my mind that nig
ht.” He winked at me. We both knew exactly what was on his mind that night, and with the smirk creeping across his face, I knew we were both thinking the same thing right now.

  “Okay, that’s enough about ugly people. We need to focus on more important things like what we’re whittling tonight.”

  “Ah yes,” he said, holding the library door open for me. “I’ve been looking forward to you playing with my wood all night.”

  It turns out I was learning a few things about details too. When Jack was concentrating, he got an adorable little line between his eyebrows, and the tip of his tongue made frequent appearances between his lips. And oh my gosh, his magical hands… they could tell stories without ever saying a word out loud and transform a block of wood into art right before your eyes.

  Right now, he was whittling a cat out of butternut—the wood, not the vegetable. Who knew there was such a thing? When we got to his apartment, he pulled out a box of scrap wood from beside a small shop vac in the corner of his dining room and gave me a crash course on the most popular types for whittling and carving. We both agreed that white pine, another soft wood, made a good choice for the owl he’ll help me with when he’s done with the cat.

  That one was his idea. He said it would give me a chance to see the basics of whittling before I started my own project, and then I could take the cat to work and put it on my desk. So cute.

  “Are you excited for your first day… or night, technically?”

  “More like a nervous wreck. This morning I woke up having a nightmare that I screwed up every package in the rundown and got fired before my shift ended.”

  “I’m not sure what packages and rundowns are, but I have no doubt that you’ll be amazing,” he said, expertly chipping away at the wood. He’d only been at it for about ten minutes, and I could already make out the head and ears.

  “The rundown is like the roadmap of the show and the packages are the stories that make up the rundown. So many things can go wrong. For starters, they use a different editing system than what I used in college. I shadowed the daytime AP, but I’m still afraid I’ll make a mistake.” I was also afraid I’d fall asleep since I’d only gotten a few hours of sleep this afternoon, but that’s what the two energy drinks in my lunch box were for.

  Jack paused his knife mid-slice and looked up. “Why don’t you make a list of the top mistakes? That way you’ll have a guide to keep you from forgetting stuff or doing the wrong thing.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” I said, already thinking of what I could put on the list—not taking out a tagout, having the volume too high, delivering the wrong package to the wrong spot, forgetting to color correct a video, screwing up the timing on the teleprompter… Jesus, what was I thinking when I took this job? I buried my head in my arm on Jack’s table and stifled a groan.

  “Hey.” Jack nudged my arm until I peeked an eye in his direction.

  “You’re gonna be just fine.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because you’re a miracle worker.”

  “Hardly. More like a lowly college grad with no real-world experience under her belt.”

  He set his project on the table and reached over, sliding my chair up to his. “And yet you made me look like a pro during my interview… or at least a competent amateur, which is a miracle in itself.”

  Inch by inch, my muscles relaxed. “You did look pretty spectacular.”

  “So did you. I get a hard-on every time I think of you in that yellow dress.” His gaze darkened and his mouth curved into a predatory smile. “Kind of like I am right now.”

  My eyes dropped to his suit pants. He hadn’t bothered changing when we got back from the library, which was fine by me. There was something incredibly sexy about watching a man wield a whittling knife while dressed in business attire with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I leaned in, sliding my palms on the tops of his thighs, and brought my mouth to his ear. “You’re making it hard to concentrate on our date.”

  “And you’re making it hard, period,” he said, moving my hand from his thigh to the bulge below his belt. Between that and his gravelly voice just a whisper away from my own ear, I was a goner.

  I swallowed and met his smile with a devilish grin. “We should probably take a raincheck for the whittling portion of our date.”

  “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

  And with that, we were done talking in favor of other activities involving our mouths. We moved down the hall to his bedroom like two magnets of the same pole—him forward, me backward—until the back of my legs hit the mattress. Jack reached over and clicked a lamp on the nightstand. With the room bathed in soft light, I saw we were on the side of the bed. His dresser and mirror were positioned behind him and the door to the bathroom was on the opposite side of the room. There was no TV, but he had a small stack of books on the nightstand.

  When he reached for the buttons on his shirt, I covered his hands with mine so I could do it for him. I’d never undressed a man before. The dog poop fiasco in the bathroom didn’t count, and Jack had taken his shirt off the night we first had sex, so it was my turn now. Could you imagine if I did a blog post about that? Ha!

  Hey everyone, it’s Tuesday Collins back with something new I tried this week—getting a man naked! My advice is to stand in front of a mirror so you can see his chest and his back as you push his shirt over his shoulders and down his arms. Trust me when I say it’s a view you won’t want to miss.

  That much was true. Bare-chested Jack was a sight to behold. “How were you single when we met?”

  He laughed quietly.

  “I’m serious!” I poked him right between those glorious pecs of his. “You’re incredibly smart and nice and very easy on the eyes. You’re literally what ninety-nine percent of women dream about.”

  “And the other one percent?”

  “Nuns.”

  That made him laugh harder. He stopped when I undid his belt, pushed his pants down, and took his length in my mouth. I was already disappointed that I had to leave for work in a few hours. I much preferred last weekend when we could take our time and I got to wake up with him the next morning. Thanks to my new crazy schedule, the only way I’d get to wake up with him tonight was if we took a twenty-minute power nap before eleven. That would mean twenty less minutes of my tongue mapping his dick, so that was a firm no from me.

  “Fuck babe, you’ve gotta stop.” Jack took a step back, removing himself from my mouth.

  My confidence and my smile—because pleasuring Jack was definitely something worth smiling about—fell when his words sank in. “Was I doing it wrong?” I asked the air beside his thigh because I couldn’t bear to see disappointment on his face. Granted I wasn’t terribly experienced in this area, but I kept my teeth away from his skin and even breathed through my gag reflex a few times to deep throat him. That had to count for something, right?

  He took my chin in his hand, lightly brushing my bottom lip with his thumb. “Opposite problem. You were doing it a little too well.”

  “Oh. Uh… I’m sorry?”

  “Trust me, it’s not something you need to apologize for.” He pulled me up and pointed to the bed. “I just happen to believe in a little phrase called ‘ladies first.’”

  Apparently, that meant ladies first, second, and third, courtesy of his fingers, his mouth, and finally his dick. That man made me want to shout things from the rooftop, except this was only a two-story building and that was hardly good enough for what I was feeling. I’d Google “tallest building in Newcastle” if I could get my dang fingers to work. Or my arms. Or if I knew where my phone was.

  “Lying here reminds me of the audience we had at your apartment. So that I’m better prepared for next time, what kind of toys does Taylor like?”

  “Are you planning on bribing her to leave us alone?”

  “Absolutely. If I get my way, she’s gonna fall in love with me. I’ll be the cat whisperer and she’ll listen to everything I say.�
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  I couldn’t help but laugh. Who doesn’t like a man who tries to romance a cat?

  In the two weeks since I started at Channel 3, my calendar has become my new best friend. I’ve quickly discovered it’s the only way to keep my life on track. This week, it looks like this:

  Monday: Gym with Jack, evening shift at Cleopatra’s (and stay up as long as possible)

  Tuesday: Sleep (hopefully), Channel 3

  Wednesday: Gym on my own, Channel 3

  Thursday: Late dinner with Jack, Channel 3

  Friday: Gym with Jack after work, sleep, laundry

  Saturday: Afternoon shift at Cleopatra’s, family time, video blog stuff

  Sunday: Jack time, video blog stuff

  Today, my boss let me adjust my shift so I could go to Marcum Elementary School to watch Jack’s speech at their library’s grand re-opening. Not only had Jack’s library donated two thousand dollars for books, his grandpa donated custom-made shelves. To my delight and Jack’s horror, he was giving a short speech in front of the administration, PTA staff, and two third-grade classes. He practiced it all week and twice this morning and felt confident enough to skip the Pepto again. I considered that a major victory two months out from his big speech. Now that I thought about it, he needed to start writing it so we had plenty of time to practice that one, too.

  “Do I look okay?” he asked, running his hands down the front of his suit coat as he surveyed the room of antsy students.

  “You look great.”

  “How do I know you’re not just saying that?”

  “A handful of teachers are swooning over you right now.” I tipped my head in the direction of the fan club forming in the non-fiction section. One woman looked like she was closer to Cara’s age, but she was still eyeing him all the same. I couldn’t blame her.