Tainted Love (A Lovestruck Novella Book 1) Page 3

  “Thanks,” I reply, smiling back at him, wondering…ugh, stop that you dimwit, I chide myself before turning around to take my seat with the hyenas again.

  The rest of lunch is relatively quiet as we all dig into our food, needing to hurry up and get back to the office because it’ll likely burn down without us workhorses there.

  “Hey, boss,” I say in greeting when I walk back into the office and see John standing in the middle of it. Today he’s wearing his tan, fly-fishing overalls and matching vest that holds all of his supplies, complete with tall, black waterproof waders. “Going fishing?” I ask the obvious question with a smile on my face since that means my afternoon is free.

  “Hey, Jos. Yeah, if I can just find my damn tackle box. Have you seen it around here?”

  Walking over to the seven-foot-tall bookshelves that sit in the corner, I go up on my tiptoes to reach the plastic container and pull it down.

  “Here you go,” I say in offering.

  “Well, fuck,” he says as he lifts it from my hands. “How did it get up there?”

  “You brought it in a few weeks ago so we could reorder a few things online. And then when they came in the mail, you put everything away and sat it up on the shelf so you wouldn’t lose it,” I remind him. At seventy, this is pretty much our everyday conversation. He loses something; I find it.

  “Oh yeah,” he mumbles with a scratch to his thinning white hair. “Well then, unless you can tell me a reason I can’t take the afternoon off, I’m gone.”

  “Nope, you’re free to go,” I gladly respond. “Richardson has his plea tomorrow morning, continued from last month, but the file’s already been prepared from before. And you’ve got an appointment tomorrow afternoon with the Griffins who wanted a face-to-face update on why their piece of shit son is still in jail for his assault inflicting serious injury, but other than that you’re clear.”

  “Got it,” he says with a nod on the way out the door. “You’re the best, kid.”

  “That’s why you pay me the big bucks,” I tease and hear his answering chuckle from down the hallway. Honestly, the man does pay me twice what I’m worth and more than any other paralegal probably in the city. I’m damn good at my job when he gives me actual legal work, which is rare, but happens. If it does, I step up and get things done. Otherwise, I sit back, relax, and hang out in case my boss calls needing something or one of our clients get antsy and I have to talk them down.

  By four o’clock, I’ve read every article on the celebrity news sites, played five games of solitaire and read half a book on the Kindle app. If I had my car, I would consider leaving early, but I don’t. So, I’m stuck here until five when one of the girls can give me a ride home. Which is just awesome.

  …

  The next day, I actually have work to do, because in a rare form of assholerly, the judge denies our plea and demands we get ready for trial in a case that John had negotiated a great deal for our weed dealer with the prosecutor. Which is stupid since they ought to just legalize the damn drug, but whatever. The judge leaves us scrambling to call witnesses, get them to the right courtroom, and copy and label all of our exhibits within an hour. I have to cancel John’s appointment with the pissy parents who are not thrilled with having to reschedule for one measly day, and then I have to listen to them bitch about it for five minutes before they finally concede. Once that’s taken care of, I go over to court to observe and help out with the trial. Also, there’s a part of me, albeit a small, practically miniscule part that was hoping to meet “the one” during my many runs back and forth from the courthouse. No such luck. Guess I’ll be single for nine more long years.

  Later that night, I pass out from exhaustion after Becca gives me a ride home for the second day in a row. Tomorrow, I vow to take my ass over to the auto shop and get my car, fixed or not since I didn’t hear a word from the jerk mechanic today.

  …

  The next day at work, I also earn every penny John pays me. It was one crisis after another with an old, snooty client getting arrested for shoplifting again to get her rich husband’s attention, a client who didn’t show up to court and a federal agent calling, wanting to meet with another one of our extremely guilty clients. It was a lovely day. By the time I got to leave an hour late, I had forgotten about my car being in the shop, until I stepped out into the back parking lot and noticed it missing, along with everyone else’s car.

  Huffing out an annoyed breath because I haven’t gotten any updates on the shop’s progress on my baby, I walk back through the alley and cross the two blocks that take me to Andrews’ Auto Shop, hoping I’m not too late. Outside the brick building, all three garage doors are lowered, but the door knob easily turns in my hand. Opening up, I call out, but get no answer. The front lights in the receptionist and waiting area are out, but the ones in the garage are on. I hear rock music coming from the same direction, so I start that way. I go past a car raised up on the lift, and then I come to an abrupt halt, unable to move another step when I see him.

  Too jaw-dropping gorgeous to be real, his thick, golden hair is mussed and messy, and a hint of stubble runs along his chiseled jaw. From my profile view of his shirtless body several feet away, his smooth bulging muscles, obviously carved from granite, are covered in sweat, shining like a beacon of sexiness as he works underneath the hood of a car. Never before has sweat looked so sweet, nor the sight of a man ever been this absolutely delectable. Maybe it’s all the remnants of car fumes getting to me, but I feel lightheaded when a scorching hot inferno suddenly ignites somewhere deep inside. Unfamiliar liquid heat burns through me, like nothing I’ve never felt before.

  Lord Jesus, there’s a fire…In. My. Panties.

  Chapter Three

  Lawson Andrews

  Fuck me, it’s hot. It’s only the first of May, but the great thing about the state of North Carolina is that it can go from winter to summer and back again within a week. Forget spring and fall. Those comfortable seasons are usually skipped right the fuck over. So, year round I’m either freezing my balls off or my balls are sweating like a dirty whore in church.

  Since the shop’s been closed for an hour and all my guys have gone home for the day, I unzip what used to be navy colored coveralls, but are now mostly black with oil and grease stains, and shrug out of the sleeves to lower the drenched material to my waist. Relieved at the cool air now hitting my chest and back, I pick up my wrench and go back to work. Or I try to, but the unexpected sound of a woman muttering something about a fire over the radio interrupts me.

  “We’re closed,” I huff over my shoulder without even sparing her a glance. “And you’re not supposed to be back here.” Dumbass Todd must have left the door unlocked again when he hurried his ass out of here. That idiot is gonna get me robbed one of these days.

  “But…but I…”

  Slinging my wrench down hard enough to make it clang loudly on the cement, clearly demonstrating my annoyance, I turn around to see who the hell…

  Holy. Fucking. Shitballs.

  It’s a girl. Not just a girl, but a really hot girl with long, sandy blonde hair and big blue eyes. My own eyes are instantly drawn down her bangin’ body that’s covered in a fancy white dress, revealing thin but toned arms and long, lean legs encased in the same color high heels with a sexy, strappy thing around her ankle.

  My first thought is it would be so fucking fun to dirty her up.

  My second thought is I have a girlfriend.

  Wait, I have a girlfriend? And what the fuck? Right now I can’t even remember her name. It starts with a K, and we’ve been seeing each other for over six months, living together for two or three maybe?

  Fuck. I scrub my grubby fingers through my hair to see if there’s a knot where I obviously busted my head on the hood of a car. Not feeling any lumps, I don’t know what the fuck’s going on except I sure as shit need to remind myself, and my overexcited cock, that I have a girlfriend.

  “G-good for you, and, um, her too, I guess, but I’
m looking for my car, not a boyfriend,” the woman says slowly like I’m a dumbass. Shit, I must’ve said that last comment about having a girlfriend aloud. Maybe I am an idiot or going senile at thirty, because I can’t even remember my girlfriend’s name. Kelly? No. Kristina? Uh-uh. And then it finally hits me. Katrina. Whew. I swipe a hand across my forehead to wipe the sweat off before it drips into my eyes, likely leaving an oil streak across my face now that I think about it.

  “Which car?” I eventually ask the woman once I get myself under control. Mostly.

  “The, ah, El Camino,” she responds at the same time her ivory cheeks redden. Laughter erupts from my big mouth before I can help myself. The guys and I have had a helluva good time joking about the classic car with a missing door, especially after we found out it belonged to a chick. Never in a million years would I have guessed that it belongs to this woman. The BMW with a broken AC? Sure. The Mercedes with the oil leak? Yeah. But the nineteen seventy-two El Camino? It’s un-fucking-believable.

  “Is it ready or not?” she huffs, puffing out her chest. Those perfect handfuls of tits are so nice that I start to forget the name I just worked so hard to remember. Katrina. I’m a horrible boyfriend. Thank fuck women can’t read men’s minds or they would never talk to any of us again.

  “Yeah, it’s not ready,” I tell her, and then have to clear the gravel from my throat.

  “It’s not?” she asks, her face falling in a way that makes my chest ache.

  What the everloving fuck?

  Am I having a heart attack or some shit? I try to rub the strange sensation from my left pec, but all I do is end up spreading more filth across my skin since I forgot that my coveralls are still pulled down. This chick is throwing me off my game, making me forget that I’m exhausted, overworked, underpaid and haven’t been laid in over a week by the woman who lives with me and sleeps in my bed every night. Therefore, I’m all out of fucks to give her or anyone else for that matter.

  “Did we call you? Nope, didn’t think so,” I say to be a jackass, because that’s what I am, dammit. I will not have some chick waltz in here and make me go soft. Although, thanks to her, there’s nothing soft about my neglected cock at the moment, and that’s so messed up.

  “Fuck,” she mutters. And hearing the curse, that word in particular fall from her ruby red lips makes the aforementioned cock jerk inside my now too snug boxer briefs.

  “Watch your mouth,” I tell her with a smirk, remembering when she gave me the same line over the phone two days ago. “Or do you want a spanking?” Her gasp of surprise echoes across the big concrete room.

  Motherfucker. Why did I say that shit? Clearly I’ve lost my mind.

  “You wouldn’t,” she says so softly I barely hear it. And, hell, there’s only one way to make me do something, and that’s to tell me not to.

  “Oh, I would,” I warn her, even if I am all talk. “Try me.”

  “You…you’re a jerk. And now I don’t have a car or…or a ride home. What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

  I inwardly cringe at her insult; and when it sounds like she’s about to cry or some shit, my chest does that weird ache thing again. Screw it, I’ll go ahead and call it a night, and then come in early tomorrow morning to finish up on the AC repair. It’ll be nice to go home before dark for once and see my girlfriend. Katrina. Maybe if I beg her, she might even touch my cock. Unless she has a headache, or is on her period, or just painted her fingernails…Yeah, I’m well acquainted with all the excuses.

  “Stop whining. Just give me a second to change, and then I’ll drive you home,” I tell her as I walk toward the employee-only bathroom where I keep a change of clothes. In the sink, I soap up and scrub off the majority of the dirt on my hands, and then throw on an old pair of jeans and a navy blue shirt with Cartman from South Park dressed as a police officer that says, “Respect My Authority.” I can’t read it without pronouncing it au-thor-i-tie or laughing. So what if it’s juvenile? That shit is funny.

  Glancing in the mirror, I see a few streaks of oil or grease on my face and take a second to wipe them off with a wet paper towel as well. Last but not least, from the zipper pockets of my overalls, I dig out my keys, wallet and aviator glasses, necessary to match the ones Cartman’s wearing, and then I’m set.

  “Let’s go, toots,” I call out to the girl as I pass through the garage on the way to the front door.

  “Stop calling me that,” she grumbles from behind me.

  Chuckling to myself, I try to remember her name from the paperwork she filled out and left with the keys two or three days ago. First name starts with a J. Oh yeah. “It’s Josie, right?” I ask as I lock the door behind us, refusing to dwell on the fact that I remembered her name so quickly.

  “How’d you…” she starts, sounding surprised that a nitwit, grease monkey like me could remember a name. The irony is not lost on me.

  “It was on your paperwork,” I tell her as we walk over to my fully restored, nineteen fifty-one Chevy pick-up. “Come on. You’ll have to tell me where you live since I don’t remember those details.”

  “Nice ride,” she remarks when I open the passenger door for her. Why the fuck I did that, I don’t know. I’m not the hold doors for women type of guy, mainly because the first few girls I dated when I was younger bitched and told me it was sexist. “And nice shirt.”

  “Thanks,” I reply automatically before slamming her door. Like she’s ever watched South Park in her life. It’s not a show most chicks can stomach. In fact, my girlfriend bitches every time I turn it on.

  “So, where to?” I ask when I climb up into the driver seat.

  “Battleground to Lake Pointe Apartments. It’s just before – ”

  “Westridge,” I finish. “I know. I live just down the road at Steeplechase.”

  “Oh, okay,” she says, pulling on her seatbelt that was an addition I thought necessary in my classic rebuild.

  Neither of us says a single word on the ride home, content to let the Stone Temple Pilots fill the silence. And when I come to a stop in front of the building she says she lives in, I tell her, “I’ll try to have your car ready tomorrow.”

  “Great. Ah, so, thanks for the ride,” she says as she hops down from the bench seat.

  Of course my dirty mind instantly starts imagining another type of rides, and I can’t wait for her to get out of sight so that I can adjust my cock that’s being squeezed to death underneath my fly. Definitely need to head home to see Katrina. See, I remember her now.

  “No problem,” I tell the girl, and it comes out sounding choked. Finally, the truck door shuts, and I watch as she walks right up the sidewalk to the apartment on the ground floor and unlocks the door. Once she’s inside, I pull away, grabbing the bulge in my pants, anxious to get some relief. I don’t know what my fucking problem is. Maybe I’ve gone too long without busting a nut, and it’s made me insane. It’s been, five, maybe six days? Whatever it is, I’m sure Katrina and her sexy as fuck dancer’s body will make everything better. If she doesn’t blow me off. God, I wish she would just blow me and let me get off.

  I don’t bother calling her since I’m only about two minutes away. It’ll be a surprise since I haven’t been home this early in probably two weeks, working late every damn night.

  Our apartment is on the second floor, so I quickly climb the steps and unlock the door.

  “Hey, babe, I’m home,” I call out from the entryway, tossing my keys and sunglasses on the bar in the kitchen as I make my way down the hall.

  “Oh, hey, Lawson. You’re home early,” Katrina says, sounding out of breath when she comes charging out of our bedroom wearing nothing but a white t-shirt. Her long brown hair is messy, and her face is red and splotchy, just like it gets on those seldom occasions when we…

  Motherfucker!

  Pushing past her, I shove my way right into the bedroom, both of my fists clenching with the urge to pound whoever the bastard is she’s been cheating on me with. So what if I couldn’t rememb
er her name for a few minutes earlier? I would never cheat on her.

  As soon as I come around the corner of the room, he gets in my face, right before I nail him in the jaw and the gut a few times. Asshole goes down with a groan, and that’s when I realize exactly who he is when I see his shaved head.

  Todd.

  That stupid son of a bitch! I give him a swift kick to the face for being a sack of shit. “You’re fired, asshole!” I yell at him, unable to refrain from kicking him again.

  “Lawson, stop!” the bitch yells from behind me. I know I need to get the fuck out of here before I kill this stupid motherfucker or lay a finger on her. And that pisses me off even more, because I have to leave when this is my goddamn apartment, too! She fucked him in our bed!

  Chest still heaving with rage, I storm through the living room, grabbing my keys and sunglasses on the way out.

  “I want you out before I get home tomorrow!” I yell at her. At least the lease is only in my name; otherwise I would be fucked and looking for somewhere else to live. Like tonight. Where the hell am I gonna sleep?

  Getting into my truck, I roll the window down before I pull out of the parking lot, hoping the fresh air will help calm me down. It’s not really working. The longer I drive the more pissed I get. And a few minutes later, when I finally look around and realize where I am, I can’t figure out what the fuck I’m doing back here of all damn places.

  Chapter Four

  Josie

  I’ve just got out of the shower and am drying off when there’s a knock on my front door.

  Who the heck?

  Scrambling around the bathroom, I pull on my white tank top that thankfully has a built in shelf bra, and my black cotton shorts. Smoothing my wet hair up into a top knot with an elastic band, I quickly move through the apartment to the door. I put my eye to the peephole to see who is…Lord Jesus.

  What is he doing here? Did he forget something? Right, like any of his possessions ended up in my panties on the short ride home. Ooh. Maybe he fixed my car already! But that’s doubtful too since it’s only been like ten or fifteen minutes at most since he dropped me off. While I try to figure out what he wants, he turns around, back hunched forward, and starts to walk away. My heart is racing with the urgency to get the damn door unlocked and stop him before he leaves.