by Lindsey Hart
I know if I get into a confined space with John right now, I’ll spend the entire time blushing, drinking in his manly scent, checking out his muscle bulges under his clothes—you know—and losing my mind. I don’t want to be a danger on the road, so he needs to find his own ride back to the office.
“Drive safe,” he says as I slide into the car. I lock the doors behind me.
God. Of course, he’d tell me to be safe in that obnoxious, genuine way he has about him. Isn’t that just the teat on the log. Okay. Maybe Bill’s saying only goes so far. That’s definitely not the right application for it.
I pull away, leaving John standing there. It’s rush hour, so I don’t get far. I can still see him there on the sidewalk when I glance in my rear-view mirror. He hasn’t even taken out his phone yet. I hope he has a phone. If not, the Smyths will let him use theirs, I’m sure. Finally, the traffic eases up, and I’m able to make my way back to my house. It’s a pretty new construction, but simple enough, which I bought more as an investment than anything else. Not because I needed to live in something brand new. Aria and Rin have over the top places, but not me. I like my bungalow.
I pull into the garage and press the button to shut the door behind me. Light streams in through the window at the side.
I battle with myself for a few more minutes, gripping the wheel tightly. A few minutes is all I can manage. I lose whatever internal battle of wills I’m fighting. If there was a corny little devil and angel on my shoulder pleading their cases into my ears, I think the devil would be doing backflips and fist pumps right about now.
I reach for my phone. It only takes me a minute to find the name of the place. I’ve heard Aria mention it often enough, and one time, we even did a business meeting of sorts while she was erm…spread-eagle on the table. To be clear, I’ve known Rin and Aria since I was twelve. We went to the same all-girls’ boarding school. I’ve seen my friend’s lady bits in passing so many times that it stopped being shocking after like, age fifteen.
“Yes, hello,” I say after I dial the number and raise my phone to my ear. “I’d like to book a waxing appointment. Um—uh—for my…crotch.”
CHAPTER 4
Cassie
Thank goodness for weekends. I need the few days off to recover from the trauma I put my lady bits through on Saturday morning. Let’s just say that waxing hurts. Sure it’s clean, and you don’t have to do it every day. It makes you feel all smooth and tingly, and not just on the inside, but it also hurts. Like really freaking hurts. Someone ripping hair off your sensitive areas with sticky substances is bound to hurt.
I didn’t think about how much it would sting afterwards. Or that it would literally hurt to walk. Or that it kind of would feel like I’d just given birth. Twice.
Thank goodness, by Monday morning, I’m back to normal. I don’t need to hobble around or walk like I’ve been riding a horse for three days straight. I still feel a little like I got kicked in the lady bits with like, a jackhammer or something, but hey. It’s supposed to be easier the next time.
I sat down in my desk chair, ready to tackle some of the shitty accounting problems I left behind on Friday to go to that terrible meeting with John. Not that the Smyths were awful. They were great. It was John. It was all John.
It turns out I just have to think of the devil to summon him. A very handsome face with tousled dark hair and burning blue eyes pops around the corner and peers into my office. I curse myself silently for not shutting and locking the door.
“Do you have a minute?”
I wish I could say I didn’t, but I haven’t even opened my laptop yet, and it’s pretty obvious I’m not doing anything except trying to figure out how to arrange my legs, so my who-ha doesn’t start complaining about the torturous treatment I forced it to endure. I can only imagine what my va-jay would say to me if it could talk.
How could you do this to me again? We’ve been friends for thirty-one years now. I’ve been your most loyal, trusted companion. We’ve literally done everything together since birth. And this is how you treat an old friend? It would have hurt less if you’d thrown me under a lawnmower…
I shake my head, but I’m sure I’m scarlet because now I’m thinking about lawnmowers and how the heck it would actually be physically possible, and I don’t freaking want to know or think about horrible things like that. It’s no less embarrassing that I just sat here and imagined my box having a conversation with me.
I think I might be very close to losing it. My mind. Not my box.
John angles his whole body around the doorframe. He fills it up nicely, which makes me all hot and gooey inside, and in turn, it makes my face burn harder and hotter. He’s dressed in all black today—black dress shirt, black pants, black shoes. And he’s like a red sucker. Everyone always likes the red sucker best. It’s the best one and always the most limited kind in the bag. Everyone always fights over who is going to get to lick and savor the red ones…
Good freaking god. I need to stop…
Traitor! If anyone ever gets near me with wax again, you’re going down. We’re going to war. You really want to be at war with your va-jay?
I’m officially a wreck. Yup. Totally done.
Now I’m hearing two voices in my head. My internal conversations keep chugging along while John just stands there, and things are getting more and more awkward by the second.
Thank goodness he takes pity on me and just spits it out. “The Smyths called me over the weekend. It was adorable. They were both on speakerphone together, and they wanted to have a serious talk about getting on board with the company. Isn’t that great?”
I grind my teeth so hard they squeak audibly. I grip the edge of the desk so brutally that my knuckles are instantly white. Probably like my face. It must be some kind of record to go from scarlet to pale as death.
“That’s great,” I squeeze out, dripping sugar and venom.
Of course, I was secretly hoping the Smyths would tell John to take a hike. I know it would be bad for our business, but I also don’t want to see him land this in his first week at the company. I guess, technically, it’s the second week, but I remember how hard Lucas worked to be good at what he did. I guess it’s easier because John is just getting handed this amazingly successful company and the model to succeed, whereas Lucas had to build it from the ground up. This feels too easy. Like he didn’t even have to work for it.
“I actually have another meeting lined up this afternoon.”
“With who?” I take a second to collect my jaw up from somewhere around my belly button.
“I was out driving this weekend, and I spotted a few little stores. They’re not in good areas, but they’re a staple for the people who live there. Some of them are really struggling, but they’re very much loved in their community. And needed. I was hoping to run a few of them past your parents.”
“Uh—that’s not a good idea.”
John’s easy smile falters. I don’t know why I’m acting like such a bitch. This isn’t me. I’m not mean. I don’t want to try and tear people down. I’m never even jealous. Trust me—my two besties are pretty successful. They’re beautiful. They are both living their own lives and are off on their own adventures with men they love. If I had a jealousy radar, it would be going off full tilt by now. I don’t even feel like I’ve been left behind. I’m happy with my life. I’m happy being single.
So, what the heck is going on with me?
Since the first second I spotted John, I haven’t felt normal. I’ve been mean. I’ve been petty. I freaking waxed my va-jay.
“Why not?”
“Oh—er—uh—well, maybe send them past me first. I’ll look them over and tell you if they’re what we’re looking for or not.”
John frowns. “Don’t you have enough of your own work? I don’t want to bother you.” He’s probably thinking about how I frantically ditched him on Friday. I found my company card sitting on my desk this morning, as I instructed.
He probably thinks I
’m going to sabotage him. Tell him they’re stupid ideas. Give them to my parents and claimed I found them. That thought stings. So far, from his standpoint, I’ve acted extra crazy, been super unfriendly, spilled hot coffee all over him—not once, but technically twice—been even more uncivil, and then abandoned him on the sidewalk after I threw my credit card at him. Yeah, not a great track record.
“Did I—did I do something wrong?” John asks cautiously. He follows it up with a twitch of his gorgeous full lips. My eyes are immediately drawn there, and I imagine all sorts of dirty, sinful things with those lips.
Mostly I think about how they’d feel testing out my new wax job. Which makes me think about his tongue…
Fiddle crapple sticks. I am not going there!
“No,” I quickly assure him. I try to catch my breath and nearly snort and choke on the air that I drag into my lungs way too quickly. It burns. Everything burns. South of my belly button is definitely on fire, but I’m no longer sure it has anything to do with the pain of waxing.
“Okay, well…” John reaches out and grips the door frame casually, but every single muscle in his body ripples under his clothing. My mouth dries up. “I just wanted to apologize if there was anything because it seems like you hate me.”
“No!” I nearly fall out of my desk chair. I grip the desk harder to steady myself. “No! I don’t…uh— I’ve just been busy, and I’m—er—shy and uh—”
“I’m not your brother.” John’s grin is more like a smirk. At least to me, it is. “I’m sorry I’m not Lucas. I’m sorry I took his place. If that’s what’s bothering you, I really can’t do anything to change that. I just hope you’ll make your peace with it.”
“W–what?” I choke. “That’s not—that’s not the issue at all! What a—uh—what a thing to say!”
“It’s obvious.” John leans his shoulder against the door frame now and crosses his arms. His shirt strains across his chest and over his muscles.
Good lord. The guy obviously works out a hundred times a week. He probably eats a carton of raw eggs for breakfast every morning and a whole cow for dinner.
“Well, I just wanted to say that I hope we can get along. Clear the air or whatever. I plan on staying for my whole term, and a year is a long time.”
I get his meaning. I’m not someone who needs to have the last word, but I wait until John flashes one more insanely dazzling smile at me and walks off before I mutter something about forgiving him for having a sinful face and a body built to match.
A soft chuckle down the hallway assures me that my words might have met with the wrong set of ears. Any ears would be the wrong set.
I let out a moan as I thump my head down on my desk. I fold my hands over it and shut my eyes. If there was ever a time I wish something crazy would happen, like the building would implode or something—without anyone getting hurt, of course—it’s now. I could use a distraction. From my own thoughts. John was not supposed to hear that. Now that he did, it’s so freaking obvious why I’ve been testy. He’s smart. He’ll figure it out.
“Cassie!” My mom’s frantic voice brings my head up. Maybe the building really is going to implode. I’m now sorry I wished that even for a second.
“What’s wrong, mom?” My breath catches at the look of frantic alarm on her face.
“The toilet! It’s—well—someone—although we haven’t figured out who the culprit is—flushed down a jar of old pickles. They dumped the whole thing out and just flushed. They must have thought it would leak in the garbage and threw it out like a pot of old soup.”
“Who does something like that?” I screech.
“I don’t know.” My mom shakes her head slowly. She’s pissed, but she’s trying very hard to hide it.
She looks a lot like me. Dark hair, dark eyes. She’s tall, around five-eight. I guess the term most people would use for my mom is MILF. Yeah, she’s actually really pretty and still has a killer body, even in her late fifties.
“We only have two bathrooms. Having one out of commission is really going to cause a problem.”
“I tried to get a plumber in, but they’re busy until tomorrow. That’s way too long! I—I just can’t do it! Bill doesn’t have a strong stomach, either. I love that man, but one whiff of a foul smell, and he’s gagging and getting ready to toss his cookies. I don’t need that mess added to the mess we already have going on.”
“No!” I protest, seeing where this is going already. “No! Mom! No way!”
“I can’t do it. I went in there just to see the damage since Sarah pointed out there was a problem and came running to find me, but I just can’t do it. It’s horrible. There’s stuff running out onto the floor. And pickles!”
“Pickles. Effing pickles. Who pours old pickles down the drain? Were they moldy? Do pickles even go bad? Pickles don’t go bad! What the heck were they thinking?!”
“I don’t know.” My mom shakes her head in bewilderment. “I’m going to make some signs and post them all over the bathrooms, stating that nothing is to be flushed down there except toilet paper and the necessary items.”
“Mom! Necessary items? Just write toilet paper. Everyone knows that number one and number two get automatically flushed. That’s just asking for another disaster. Just write a sign that says, don’t be a dumb booger bonnet and flush frickin' kitchen items down the pooper! Or how about this: poopers are for poop. And pee. And toilet paper. ONLY.”
“I like that one.” Mom’s smile wobbles.
“How about making a sign with a picture of a pickle and putting that red circle with the strike through it, just like they do for no smoking signs?”
“I thought people could use common sense.”
“Well, it’s been proven they can’t. First, put a sign on the door that says the bathroom is out of order. Send out a group email stating that it’s out of order, and from now on, nothing may be flushed down there but poop, pee, and toilet paper.”
“I can’t write that in an email!”
My grin feels a little smug. “Ask John to send it out. He’s very eager to help.”
Mom’s face blanks out at my tone. Before she can say anything or admonish me to be nice or some bullshit, I get up and stalk past her. “Alright, I’ll plunge it. But this is the last time you’re going to use me as a plumber. If you can’t get anyone professional here, and you’re too scared to ask any of the staff to do it because you think it’s a terrible business practice, you guys both need to firm up your stomachs.”
“Thank you, Cassie!” Mom calls out to me.
I make quick work of the hallway, going past the kitchen and reception area and down the hall with the two bathrooms. They’re across the hall from each other. They’re not public looking. They just have a single toilet and sink and a door lock. That kind of thing.
As soon as I open the door, I wish I hadn’t. I’m greeted by water on the floor—brown, murky looking water, and bits of unidentified objects floating in it. The only thing I can actually make out in all the mess is the pickles.
It stinks, but I actually have a pretty strong stomach. I’ve never had a good gag reflex either. Not much grosses me out. Blood won’t do the trick. Apparently, poop won’t either. I’ve held Aria’s hair back a few times over the years while she tossed her cookies after a night out. That never bothered me either. Honestly, I think it’s a gift, but I don’t feel very gifted at the moment.
“F me.” I let out an uncharacteristic oath under my breath, but this certainly calls for it. “Seriously? Pickles?”
I hope whoever did this confesses so they can receive a small amount of shaming. By me. Because I’m the one here, wading through bodily functions and sewer water. I’m the one reaching for the black plunger that’s resting in the corner by the toilet. I’m the one curling my fingers around it and brandishing it like it’s a sword, and I’m a knight hell-bent on chivalry.
Yeah. That’s me.
A knight in stinking armor with my plunger at the ready.
It�
�s such a ridiculous thought, and I laugh to myself. I seriously hope there isn’t anyone out in the hallway to hear me laughing in here. There is absolutely nothing funny about this except how ridiculous it all is.
“Well?” I ask the plunger. I’ve clearly gone all out now. I’m talking to a freaking plunger. “Shall we get the show on the road?”
I imagine the plunger talking back to me. Assuring me that it’s ready to get its hands dirty. I chuckle again. Plungers don’t have hands. Now I know for certain that I need extra serious help.
I don’t take a deep breath. In fact, I try not to breathe at all. I take shallow little gulps of air through my mouth, which isn’t any better than breathing the stench in. I can almost taste it. God, I need to get out of here, and fast. There’s only one option.
“Okay, pickles, you’re going down. Literally.”
I place the plunger into the center of the overflowing mess. I brace myself with both hands. I spread my feet into a sturdy stance over the offending throne. And I press down with all my weight behind it. The plunger goes down. There’s a violent gurgle.
And a violent splash.
All I can do is gasp as a large bubble bursts from somewhere deep below. The splash rises up like a mighty tidal wave of brown poopy wrath. It gurgles over the toilet edge, gains momentum, and flies through the air.
Straight into my face.
I don’t scream. I don’t inhale. I don’t dare open my eyes. I sure as heck don’t open my mouth. I don’t know what to do. I’m frozen. Frozen while covered in poop water and spattered with pickle juice. I can smell the vinegar and pickling spices. And the poop. I can smell that too. I’m entirely coated.
The door creaks open. I whirl, opening my eyes, and hoping against hope that it’s my mom or Bill coming to check in on my progress.
No. Of course it’s not. It’s John.
John freaking Thatcher meets Drowned Sewer Rat Dawson.
Turns out, the wax was a complete waste of time, money, and pain. There is no way in bloated pickle hell I’m ever going to get laid now. Not that it was my intention to get laid. It wasn’t. I was just sprucing up my lady bits. Doing something for me. Changing things up. Even if I did want to, though, that opportunity just went down the drain, right along with the pickles and poop, since the toilet lets out a dying groan and miraculously flushes.