Chapter Four – Close But No Cigar
Blake
“Did you get a look at that hottie at the counter?” Gage says with a huge grin on his face as I step back inside from the back lot. I was on the phone with Mattias discussing the latest FUBAR by our heist team. Or should I say, a certain member of the team.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mumble as I get back to work on the Jaguar sedan on the lift.
“The owner of this car. Fuckin’ smokin’ hot! I had a boner the whole time I talked to her,” he says with a laugh, which instantly haggles at my nerves.
“Why didn’t anyone come and get me?” I ask, annoyed that they let Gage speak to a client. That’s my job as Shop Foreman, and the last thing I want is for one of these dumbasses to speak to high-end clients.
“You were on the phone and they said you couldn’t be disturbed. And I personally thank you for your shitty timing because that woman definitely got my dick hard. I’m gonna have to smoke a joint and screw Divine on my lunch break today just to get it down,” he adds grabbing his crotch. Gage was referring to our only female employee. I’m not exactly sure why Divine was hired a few months ago other than to blow the guys and spread her legs. Her filing skills suck unless you’re referring to her nails, and she’s always too busy to get up and greet a customer. All of the guys have had their rounds with her. Everyone except me. But it’s not from a lack of trying on her part. I’m just not interested in a quick office fuck from the shop community pussy.
“When you deliver her car on Friday, I’m definitely going along,” Gage adds before continuing to sand the undercarriage of the Jag. His statement doesn’t warrant a response. The last thing I can think about right now is making sure Gage goes along when I deliver the Jag.
Right now, my mind is focused on my latest phone call from Mattias. Jimmy Mo fucked up the job the other night. Bad. As soon as it went south, I sent the emergency notification to Luke. They stayed back as planned and watched as Jimmy Mo botched the escape route with the Lambo. After entering in the wrong security code, he set off silent alarms to the security house at the front of the property. Before Jimmy Mo could get the car out of the garage, shots were fired. He was hit but able to drive the car through the door and out of the gate at the back of the property. Not only did we have a damaged sports car, but also a gunshot wounded idiot.
The bureau considered stepping in and taking him into custody, but he was picked up by one of Roman’s men before they could intercept. I went to the house last night and tried to get details, but no one has seen or heard from Jimmy Mo since the night of the heist. I spent all day yesterday trying to repair the damage to the front end of the car to prepare it for sale. Mattias was grumbling on the phone earlier about how he had to smooth over ruffled feathers when the client caught wind of the car not being at the rendezvous point the other night. He was able to save the deal, offering the client an upgraded engine package that I’m supposed to install tomorrow.
I lower the lift so that we can get the Jag ready for paint. Blade is the best painter in the area, and I know he’ll take good care of this sweet ride. The bright pink car seat in the back of the sedan throws me for a loop, though. The car screams money, even with the four doors. It’s top of the line in every detail from the added-on safety packages, all the way to the custom leather seats. But the car seat just doesn’t fit. Probably some rich wife to a lawyer or a plastic surgeon with too much money to spend on shopping and days at the spa.
Typical.
* * *
Later that night, I’m nosing around the office of the shop, trying to find any link I can find to the offshore deals, yet knowing damn good and well that I won’t find any here. Why would they keep that information at the shop where any Tom, Dick, or Harry could bust in and steal the info? But according to Luke, the Bureau wants me to cross all of my T’s and dot all of my I’s. No stone is left unturned.
I’ve been poking around for an hour when I hear the backdoor of the office open up. I quickly slide the ledger book back onto the bookshelf just as Divine walks around the corner in stilettos.
“Oh, hey you. What are you doing working so late tonight?” she coos, positioning her Double D’s front and center.
“Workin’ on getting this paperwork ready for Friday’s deliveries.”
“Oh, you could have left that for me, sugar,” she says, walking over to me. Before I can even stand up from the chair I’m sitting in, Divine straddles my lap. “I don’t think it’s much of a coincidence that you’re still here tonight when I came back for my phone,” she coos, pressing her tits directly into my chin.
“Yeah, well, I was just getting ready to leave, Divine,” I reply, ready to drop her on her ass at my feet. Before I can do just that, she plants her bright red lips directly on mine. She grinds her crotch against me, getting only the slightest rise out of me.
“Are you going to show me just how big and bad you really are, Blake?” she purrs like a sex kitten as she slides her hands up my chest, gripping at my hard pecs.
“I don’t think so, Divine.”
“I think you really want to,” she adds, pulling her tight miniskirt the rest of the way up her hips and exposing her naked pussy underneath. As enticing as that smooth, bare skin is, I just don’t want to screw a woman that everyone else in this building has already taken a second and third round with.
“Come on, baby. I’ll show you a really good time,” she purrs as she reaches down and grabs my half-hard erection. Warmth spreads through me as she grips and paws at me, making me completely hard. I wonder if I should just get lost in her, in what she’s offering, for just a little while. Divine reaches for the button of my jeans with her free hand. She almost gets the zipper entirely down when reality slams into me. I don’t want this. I don’t want her.
I grab her hands, halting her progress. With a little too much excessive force, I fling her off my lap and onto the hard, tile floor. I don’t mean to be a complete dick, but my nerves are shot. “Jesus, Blake. You could have just said no,” she whines as she gets up from the floor, tugging and pulling at the skirt around her hips.
“I did tell you no,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Yeah, but I felt just how excited you were to have me on your lap,” she adds with a smile.
“Any man with a bare pussy rubbing against him is going to get hard, Divine. You know that better than most women. I’m not interested. Not now, not ever. Go screw one of the shop boys who’ll share their weed with you,” I tell her before turning and walking out of the office, leaving her standing there, open-mouthed and wide-eyed.
I walk straight out the back door and head towards my Camaro. Let Divine lock up behind her. I turn over the engine and crank up Metallica. This life is slowly sucking me dry. I’m tired of this shit day in and day out. My entire life has been at a standstill since this case started. I’m tired of the lies, of the drugs, of the crime. Though I rarely engage in the drugs, they’re still there–front and center in the lifestyle. Fast cars and even faster women.
I’m done with it all.
I want a life–my life back. I want to get home from work and kiss a wife hello. I want to throw a son over my shoulder as we head out to the backyard to throw a baseball around for a few rounds. I want to play dress-up and read bedtime stories to a daughter who looks just like her mother.
That’s what I want.
This is usually the part in my dream where a certain black-haired beauty works her way in. Her image is so crisp, so pure that it’s as if she’s standing right in front of me. I always considered myself to have a type: blond hair with light-colored eyes. Much like Carly’s friend Tara that I met that night so long ago. But one look at Carly’s dark hair and exotic beauty had me throwing everything I thought about myself right out the damn window. One night with her wasn’t enough. Two years later and it still isn’t. I crave her like an alcoholic craves a sip of whiskey.
I drive towards my shitty little apartment in a shitty part of town, all part of this shitty life I’m living. I pick up the phone and send a quick text message to Luke.
Me: Tell me what I need to do to get this job done.
I slam the gearshift into neutral and head up the crumbling steps. Inside, I don’t even turn on the lights. I head straight to the little cabinet above the fridge and grab the bottle of gold liquid. Jose. When I’m feeling extra shitty, I drown my sorrows in the man who helps calm my mind. I slam back the bottle without even grabbing a tumbler. I don’t want to waste the time or the glass.
The liquid burns my throat, lighting my gut on fire with each gulp. After I’ve chugged several mouthfuls, I finally pull the bottle from my lips. Walking over to the nasty old couch that I found for practically nothing at the Salvation Army, I throw myself down, feet hanging over the armrest. My hand hangs over the edge, firmly gripping the bottle of poison. After several deep breaths, I take one more long pull from the bottle before setting it down on the floor.
I should order a pizza. I’ve just consumed enough liquid to render me legally drunk in every state in the union. Food would help absorb the alcohol and keep my senses from being too impaired. But, I don’t want food. I want solitude. Tonight, I want to get lost in the rest of this bottle and try to forget the eyes that haunt my dreams. Those dark chocolate eyes that I see every damn time I close my eyes.
Tonight, I just want to forget the one I can’t have.
But even after a quarter of a bottle, it’s still not enough to forget.