Personal Assistant.4

Living up to the title of this blog, I tell you what. This thing almost has a trajectory.

My boss still touched me too much. We were working a lot—I had notes and files and emails to prove that my presence wasn’t completely unnecessary—but he’d massage my shoulders or the back of my neck while he looked over my notes. Even at dinner, when his wife and two children were there, Mr. Baker would touch my foot with his or rest his hand on my thigh under the table. His hand went to the small of my back whenever he passed behind me in the kitchen.

It wasn't as though we went entirely unnoticed. "Ken just follows you around everywhere," I overheard Regina tell Mr. Baker when they were relaxing in the living room. She sounded amused. "He's like a puppy."

Personal Assistant.3

 Still not exactly sure where this is going, but here's more one it.

"We're heading to the lake next weekend," Stuart told me not long after, "my family and I. I want you to come along."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," I replied honestly, giving a quick smile to my coworkers passing the open door.

He clapped me on the shoulder, but as usual let it rest a little too long. “It’ll be a working trip,” he offered. “You’ll get time and a half.”

I marked myself as out of office. After all, what could he do with four children and a wife running amok?

***

Like a family in a black-and-white film, the Baker clan waited for us on the steps of the lake house. Some of the clan, I corrected myself. The children I had met at the chili cookoff weren’t there.

Stuart kissed his wife before turning to me.

"You've met Regina," he said, squeezing her waist, "and this is my oldest boy, Graham. Graham is going to be a junior this year."

Personal Assistant.1

 This is part of the Commencement collection—the secondary character in the prom story shows up here as well. I'm giving myself a C grade on this one, even if there are huge gaps that need to be filled. (Living up to the blog title, here).

If you’re going to be the side piece, don’t meet the family.

I can’t even claim that it started innocently. When the temp agency sent me to Envision IT I was doing data entry and scanning old records into the system. Mr. Baker was his own division, something with marketing or sales. He was very friendly with me and touched me a lot, though being a fairly touchy-feely person myself I didn’t mind. It was never inappropriate, just pats on the back or shoulder, or grabbing my arm to get my attention, or thumping my chest when I said something funny. However, he also flirted with me to an extent that I found embarrassingly obvious.

So when Mr. Call-Me-Stuart Baker and I were alone in the office that night, a mere one month after I had been hired on, I was prepared for his proposition.

Windshield Incident 3 eBook Available

On the anniversary of Part 2, the 3rd installment of The Windshield Incident is now published and available for download. It's here on Smashwords, and will eventually show up on Apple, Kindle, Nook, and other partnered eBook retail sites. It's like buying me a quarter cup of coffee to keep me alert and typing.

Fun fact: The background colors correspond to Grant's mental and emotional state.
Guess what color Part 4 will be.

Strange Bedfellows in Progress

This is a preview of the new fourth section in Strange Bedfellows. The sections get longer as the relationship between the characters develops, but the early appeal of the first two chapters was in their "quick wank" nature—it was sex with a little bit of plot and character around the edges. Later sections were full of exposition and yammering and trying to avoid giving the hot neighbor a name. If I wrote this chapter right, this is a happy medium between the sexy sexy and the talkie talkie.

Lance Oliver Jordan 2

"I don't think I'm gay, sir" says my chickenshit secretary as he places coffee on my desk.

Sandalwood Ch. 3

The last time I'd seen that expression I had put my hands on the sides of his ribcage and pressed him against the wall. I remembered how I'd kissed him until we were breathless. I remember he had sighed with resignation and how his arms crept around my back to pull me close. Moreover, I remembered how much I had liked it.

My right hand moved before I could order it otherwise. I felt Gary’s shocked inhale through his stomach. We stared at each other for a moment—it was the first time that I had really looked at Gary, studied him, noticed how dark his brown eyes were in comparison to his pale lashes and strawberry brows. His narrow shoulders made him look scrawnier than he felt through his sweater. He must have grown into his looks; he had a fierce chin and sharp nose that would have been awkward on a boy.

Gary broke the charged silence. “What are you doing?” he asked in a whisper.

“I don’t know,” I responded just as quietly. “I’m trying not to analyze it.”

Read the rest at https://books2read.com/u/3L7K50

Sandalwood

I realize that this scenario is completely nonsensical, but the idea popped into my head one day and didn't leave. Enjoy.

"I'm gonna throw up," I moaned, rubbing my temples.

David set a cup of coffee in front of me. "Yet another night of debauchery?"
I
I nodded and pull the mug close. Sweet life-giving brew. "I had to take a fucking bus downtown to get my car. Again. And my shirt smells like sandalwood."

"Ah, so the mystery masseuse is back," David joked. "Got oil on your dick?"

"No, dumbass. And I told you that I don't remember anything." These blackout nights didn't happen every weekend; more like a monthly occurrence. It wouldn't be weird given how much and often I drank, but I always woke up at home, showered and in my pajamas, and I always smelled of incense. I didn't burn incense and I never wore pajamas any other day of the year. Weirder and better still, I woke up feeling like my balls had been completely drained. It was as though I'd had amazing sex in my sleep.

"Maybe if you quit getting stoned every time you drink you'd start recalling shit. Like a massage hooker." David tapped my desk. "I need that concert review today, junior."

"You're a fucking idiot. And I only had the one joint. I think." Staring at the screen was going to make this hangover worse. Thinking about the previous night could make me hurl.

"G'morning Gary," David addressed an approaching figure. "Nicky here is attempting to reconstruct the events of last night to prove that he does get laid on the occasion."

Gary, ever the awkward soul, blushed to nearly the color of his hair.

"Don't believe him, Gary. I got pussy aplenty last night. I can feel it in my bones," I declared between sips of coffee. Gary looked tired. "Did you go out?"

He paused. "You don't remember seeing me?"

"Nope, sorry."

"Oh, um..." Gary scratched his head. "I guess you were pretty wasted."

"Don't remember a thing past the beginning of the after party."

"Oh, uh, of course. Right."

David and I watched as Gary turned tail and scurried off to his IT annex. So weird.

"You know," David commented, "I think you make him nervous."

"No, your ugly face makes him nervous," I grumbled.

David kicked my chair before settling at his desk. "I'm serious, bro. He doesn't act like that around me. He's all chatty until you walk in the room, and then he clams up like a dry twat."

Read the rest at https://books2read.com/u/3L7K50

Lance Oliver Jordan

My current secretary is afraid of me.

I call him a secretary because I know it chafes and he’s too much of a chickenshit to correct his boss. His name is Lance Oliver Jordan—three first names. I call him “hey,” or “kid,” and take note when he complains to everyone that I don’t even know his name.

Lance Oliver Jordan graduated a year ago with a degree in Creative Writing. Lance Oliver Jordan is too pretty to be taken seriously, but takes himself too seriously to get over it. He calls me “sir” even though he can’t be more than five years my junior.

Lance Oliver Jordan wants me to fuck him, and he doesn’t even know it yet. Some might call me a cocky bastard for thinking so, but I can tell. Like the other day, when I ate in my office because I was busy. Jordan came in to give me a fax. I took it, but he didn’t leave.

“What is it?” I asked, noting how he wiped his hands on his trousers. The kid had sweaty palms from handing me a fax.

“Ah, erm,” he stuttered, “you, ah, well.”

“Spit it out.”