Bass-Ackwards Read online

Christina pushed the credit card signature slip and a pen his way with her clean hand. He signed, she thanked him, and the man was on his way, one drop hitch heavier.

  She stuck her tacky left thumb and forefinger together an experimental couple of times. “Ugh.”

  This needed soap. A glance out the front windows told her there were no other customers parked in the lot. She hopped down from the stool and shouldered her way through the door to the back ha—

  “Jesus Christ, Bill!” Christina stopped short just on the other side of the door and caught all the scattering pieces of her heart. “I didn’t realize you were right there.”

  Her boss, not two feet in front of her, fixed Christina with a look that could pin butterflies to museum boards. With the cool confidence of a pro poker player, she had no trouble meeting his eyes. And stammering. Like an idiot.

  “I, uh …” Her right hand grabbed up her left to fidget before remembering it was sticky. “I thought you were out gassing up that truck.” Where was Travis? Some small throat clearing on her part, but Bill took a step in her direction. “I … guess you’re back, though.”

  Dumbass. You’re in his way. He just wants to get by.

  She made to sidestep, but—omigod—Bill was right there, palm coming to the door, just alongside her ear. Her shoulder blades bumped into wood and—holyshit, closer!—he was coming closer, and Christina was going to have a goddamned heart attack.

  She could have ducked out of the way, but fear, or confusion, or some other stupid shit she didn’t want to think about had her paralyzed there against the door. And against Bill. It was like a cargo ship running into a dock: an excruciating lack of speed, but unstoppable momentum. The space between them shrank and shrank and then was gone; his chest brushing hers, a knee between her thighs.

  Ohfuckohfuck.

  Her mouth had to have come open as she looked up at him. Brown eyes, ever serious, had her swallowing to wet her throat. And then there was a hand on her hip. A thumb playing along the bone there, as they went from zero to more-than-she-could-handle in the blink of an eye. In the new, tight proximity, she could feel the rise and fall of her own chest. The whisper of his breath.

  “This ain’t a skirt,” he said.

  Sonofa ...

  His touch took liberties with the incriminating black fabric.

  Rrrgh! These stupid leggings! You knew it was gonna be a problem!

  There was nowhere to backpedal. Christina spoke to his Adam’s apple while shifting against the thigh between hers, like they were in the middle of a fucking two-step. “I’m sorry, Bill.”

  And was he … getting … fucking hard?

  Goddamn disaster.

  “I know you said no pants,” she rambled on, “but I haven’t had a chance to do laundry this week. Everything’s dirty, and tonight was the first night I could ge—”

  A palm brushed up under her shirt and her words caught. Fingers found her waistband. Slipped past it, wrist turning in reverse so his touch could slide along her belly.

  Oh god.

  Lower to the crease where her thigh met her body, a work-roughened hand slid with its own agenda.

  Ohgodohgod.

  Gentle as a sigh over two soft lips, no panties in the way today. Not under leggings.

  “Yeah?” He issued the tiniest bit of a challenge. Dipped his fingers where she was slick. “Everything’s dirty?”

  Fuuuuuuck.

  At the breath she inhaled, unsteady and telling, Bill Marshall settled in, his weight on the palm supporting him against the door, and began to demonstrate just how dirty he thought she might be.

  This was trouble.

  He wasn’t demanding she stand still for this; hadn’t closed her in a room. And Christina wasn’t going anywhere. Her eyes had ventured up to settle on his mouth while a fingertip traced the seam between her legs. His hand cupped her mound and she didn’t cringe or squirm sideways.

  Real trouble.

  Christina exhaled and shifted into his touch. Did this count toward their hour this week?

  Did it matter?

  There was a nudge and—oh! He was inside her, finger slipping up into an embarrassing amount of wet for someone who thought her boss was a colossal prick. And still, she stood there. Even as he pressed in and out, experimental in his movements, and some weird nostalgia swept her back to high school, where she’d run off to find a hidden spot between two buildings and let an awkward teen boyfriend try and fail at fingering her.

  Only Asshole Bill wasn’t failing.

  “Christina, look at me.”

  Dear god.

  It took all she had. When her lashes lifted, she could see that nothing good was going to come out of this. Nothing good at all.

  Those fucking eyes of his held her in place. That deep, dark brown told her he wanted something, but not what, and she was empty, and then much fuller.

  Two fingers. A firmer push until knuckles pressed up into her body and she couldn’t look anywhere else. The pad of his palm ground down between her lips and over her clit, pressing, circling. Christina almost choked on her own gasp, but let her ankles shuffle ever so slightly wider apart, instead.

  The corner of her boss’s mouth ticked up at this, nearly imperceptible. If not for the matching glitter of heat narrowing dark eyes down at her, Christina never would have recognized it for what it was: a smile. It was Spartan and tightly-controlled, but searing and … and genuine. Everything from her core on out all but vibrated to it like some unfair tuning fork, and she felt more of her shame come weeping around the stretch of his fingers.

  This was ridiculous.

  Her eyelids drifted shut on slow strokes, lazy grinding.

  She wanted this.

  Her throat constricted and made a whiny noise. Throbbing flesh eased into the cup of a hand.

  She. Wanted. Bill. To fucking touch her pussy.

  “I said look at me.”

  Christina’s eyes snapped open to reality.

  She was full and ripe under her boss’s touch. Dripping honey while he teased and tested her sensitive flesh. Scared shitless while he trapped her gaze with his and violated her just out of the sight of customers. Again.

  When Christina had touched herself, she could control every bit of how hot this would be. There was no control over it now. Her palms splayed against the door behind her—she had no idea what else to do with them.

  And where the fuck is Travis? He could come walking in here any minute!

  Fingers slipped from her, only to rise and scrub at the stiff little bead of her clit. Her breath came through her mouth now. Her hips were trying to roll, if they could sneak it past all her rational thinking that screamed what a bad idea this whole mess was.

  The hum was building to a fever pitch, and Bill leaned in, brows coming down in his focus. His jaw shifted past her temple and he pressed close; their eye contact snapped like a steel cable.

  Oh fuck me, he …

  Forearm worked against her belly.

  He smelled good. Why?

  Fingertips refined their movements. Smaller. Faster. More precise. Christina bit off a moan.

  Why did he have to smell good? Probably just deodorant, but it had her wanting to wrap her legs around him an—

  Flutter. A Flash, a rumble of sensation. A threat.

  No!

  A twitch of a hand and the pulse built. Eyes started to roll back. Christina was going to c—

  Stopped. Everything stopped.

  Her breath, her heart.

  Bill.

  He was pushing himself away from the door, hand sliding from her leggings to leave a wet trail over her mound. Cool air curled in between them, and Christina blinked at him, open-mouthed.

  “Bill!” she hissed.

  The fuck is he doing?

  Mini-cowbells clanked from the front office, and Christina swallowed a yelp.

  He dove in like a predator, palm cupping her, unfulfilled, over her leggings, mouth mere inches from hers.

  “Next
time,” he said, tracing the damp of her sex through fabric, “wear a skirt.”

  And then he was herding her away from the door. Slipping past to the customer who’d just set the bells jangling.

  Christina stood there trying to breathe, nerves ready to snap. The front of her shirt disheveled.

  Did he just …

  Had Bill just ... punished her for wearing pants? By denying her an orgasm?

  Was I wanting Asshole Bill to make me come?

  She eyed the bathroom door, slightly ajar. Would it be wrong if she ducked in there and finished this off?

  And there’s your answer, Christina Lee.

  What was this fucked up shit? This was supposed to be a dirty deal with a man she tolerated at best. He was paying her so he could get off. Whatever just happened right now? That hadn’t been for him. That had been her just standing there enjoying herself, and Bill ... making her … feel …

  “Rrrggh!”

  And her hand was still sticky. She’d never made it to the sink.

  Christina scrubbed for the next few minutes, but none of it made her feel clean.

  ✪

  A drop of oil splattered onto Bill’s hairline and he swore beneath his breath. There was almost no way to back one of these oil plugs out of there without getting it all down your hand, but he was going to have it coming down all over everything else if he didn’t start paying attention.

  But after yesterday, who the fuck could pay attention to anything?

  He pushed with his boots to scoot the creeper he was lying on a couple inches further under the truck. The hard little wheels made a gritty sound on the concrete floor.

  He’d wanted to see her come so goddamn bad.

  The common factor, every time so far, had been the sounds. All those little whimpers and gasps she couldn’t keep contained. Didn’t matter if he was using her body or teasing it. Hearing her every time? He wasn’t going to be able to keep it together.

  A final twist and the plug clunked down into the pan, black, spent oil pouring out after it. Bill pulled out the messy, threaded little thing and turned it this way and that, looking for shards. None yet. He nodded to himself and dropped it back in the pan.

  Jonah and Travis were cleaning out a truck in the other bay and he could hear the soles of their shoes chuffing the cement. A vacuum going. The air compressor kicking on.

  Bill slid out from under the sixteen footer, and shoved the creeper out of the way with a distracted kick. A flimsy orange box with the new oil filter already sat on the top of the radiator, under the open hood. He could change it out while this thing drained.

  And now he knew … something, anyway.

  He tossed the old filter and it made a hollow thunk in the trash.

  Christina did not hate him touching her. He’d watched her face, her body language, like a hawk, looking for the slightest wince or trace of awkward stiffness. But no. She’d tilted her hips for him. Spread herself wider. Flushed cheeks … Bill didn’t think that was something people could fake. No fucking panties on. Sweet Jesus.

  You better take it easy or you’re gonna be changing this filter with an erection.

  Clean oil poured in a golden ribbon from the bottle into the new filter. Just enough. There.

  And she’d been pissed—pissed!—when he’d left her hanging. It had been the last thing he’d wanted to do but, well … he’d more or less found out what he wanted to know by that point. Bill had approached her in a way that had excluded himself. There had been nothing in it for him, at least not physically. It had all been about her: her body, her reactions, her pleasure ... No need to pretend to like it for his sake. No, no pretending at all …

  Fuuuck. Bill did a quick recon to make sure neither of the other guys were paying attention and adjusted his prick through his jeans. Go back to sleep, you.

  “Bill,” Jonah said, “What happened to the orange extension cord?”

  “Uhh … that’s a good question.” The filter threaded into place. “If we kept this place clean, we’d probably know where it was.”

  “Fuck.” Jonah went muttering off around the back end of the other truck. “It’s gotta be here somewhere.”

  There was no way Bill could have let her come, though. Not right then and there. He only had control over himself—questionable at best—not Christina, no matter what kind of front he put on to keep her nerves on edge and him with the upper hand. She could be a screamer for fuck’s sakes—who knew she’d even get that far? Travis could have heard. A customer could have heard. It was only his having been slightly more aware than her at the time to have heard the gravel in the parking lot crunching. He’d ended it just before they might’ve been caught.

  Listen to you. Like a fuckin’ teenager.

  Customers, whatever. Jonah or Travis finding out? Bill grimaced. Better not to poke that anthill if he could avoid it. He took a knee again to check on the glossy black thread still drizzling into the oil pan. There was almost nothing left of it.

  And speaking of things he ought not to be poking at work …

  Here came Christina now, squinting into the sun as she made her way from the back of the office over to the shop. His warning to wear a skirt ‘next time’ must have hit home, because today dark blue fabric swung around her knees again. It might even be … yeah, it looked like the same dress she’d worn that very first time. He could see it draped over the edge of the table. Bunched at the small of her back, and he pulled her panti—

  Stop! For the love of—

  “Hey, Travis,” she said, stopping just inside the roll-up door to the other bay.

  “Yeah.” Bill could hear him from the other side of the truck. He was back on the creeper, threading the plug in place.

  “There’s a guy on the phone, says you told him he could keep that car hauler one more day, and we wouldn’t charge him?”

  “Uh, no?” Travis said, sounding like his head was in the cab of the other truck. Bill rolled out again and stood, fetching another bottle of oil.

  “Well he said you told him that. Like, he knew your name. His name is Aaron? Adam? Something?”

  “Oh, that guy?” Jonah chimed in, stepping into sight. He pulled a long swallow off a bottle of water.

  “I did not tell him that,” Travis said, voice clear again. “That guy’s a pain in the ass. I told him there would be an extra charge. He’s trying to pull some shit.”

  Christina made a face. Bill wanted to smooth it out. Nothing should bother her. Ever. Except him.

  “All right,” she said, that weariness oh-so-native to the realms of Customer Service tinting her words. “I’ll tell him again.” The skirt swirled behind her as she headed back to do battle. Bill imagined himself biting a knuckle and leaving teeth marks.

  The back door to the office swung shut and Bill set the first quart to funneling while he looked for a rag.

  “What’s it been? Two, three weeks now?” Jonah said.

  “For what?” The sound of Travis’s voice was headed toward the far side of the shop, now.

  “Dodd, comin’ in here in all those skirts.” Bill’s attention snapped around, a guarded eye following Jonah. “You think she’s talking to someone?”

  Travis snorted, out of sight. “The fuck should I know?”

  Jonah was on a roll, though, male one-upmanship simmering. “I’m about to start dropping tools around here,” he said, “see if she’ll bend over and get ‘em for me.” Bill’s pulse hammered, but Jonah was oblivious, snickering. “I got a ‘tool’ she can bend over for.”

  “Hey.” Two faces whipped toward the bark of his voice. The owner of the Haul Ash rounded the truck, wiping oil off his hands with angry swipes of a red shop rag. “You gonna talk that shit? Talk it about someone else.” Two pairs of eyes blinked at him. “She’s your co-worker. We’re not gonna do that shit here.”

  His employees exchanged uncertain glances. “Um … okay, Bill,” Travis said while Jonah gave Bill the kind of slow nod you’d give a drunk friend—the on
e brandishing a curtain rod like a sword—before backing slowly out of the room.

  “It’s disrespectful,” Bill said, hefting the rest of the case of oil and dropping it on the ground in front of the truck with a thud. He didn’t need to glance their way again to know the guys were looking at him like he’d grown a second head. Hell, he’d probably earned it.

  ‘Disrespectful.’ You’re the biggest hypocrite alive, Bill Marshall.

  But what did any of this have to do with respect? Was she his fucking girlfriend now? No. She’d agreed to this. Agreed to take his money.

  Listen to yourself! So you own her now? Is that it?

  Because there was only one other reason to start getting possessive, and that w—

  “Bill!” Christina hollered, her upper body leaning out the back door to the office.

  He coughed once. Called back: “Yeah.”

  “This guy wants to talk to a manager.”

  Oh, for …

  “All right, I’ll be right there.” He tossed the rag onto the workbench and the empty filter box in the trash. “One of you guys finish putting oil in this truck.”

  You need to cool off for a while. This was supposed to be a transaction.

  Neither Travis nor Jonah said a word as Bill headed back toward the office.

  That was the problem, though. It had never been a transaction. Those were just the lies he kept telling himself, so he could keep letting it happen. He knew the flavor of those lies all too well. They usually sounded like, “I’ll just have one cigarette today. After supper.”

  And he didn’t think there was enough room left on his wallet to write “if you get emotional over christina lee dodd i will fucking kill you.”

  The red dress Christina wore on Monday was a flag in front of a bull. It was the only long one he’d seen her in, and the length of it dropped to skim her ankles in a flowing scarlet dare. Not to mention the fabric falling over the swell of her ass like something that ought to be illegal.

  Bill couldn’t even stay in the front office with her. It was too much, after Saturday. He made sure he had plenty to do in the shop, or chances were, he was going to do something stupid. Whatever the opposite of discreet was, he was going to do that if he stood within arm’s reach.