Page 19
“We’re closed,” he says.
“I know. So it’s nice and quiet.”
“You’re not on the clock. And if noise bothers you, you’re not going to last through your probation period.”
“You already told me you don’t pay overtime. Do you want me to leave?”
He doesn’t answer, which I’m choosing to interpret as a no. Someone less optimistic may lean in a different direction.
The wood has been cut to size, and the hardware store is closed today, so he bought these things before today and came out here on a Sunday because he thought the office would be empty while he sneakily fixes the window.
I refrain from pointing this out. I’m too happy to have him here.
Then he spots the pages spread over the desk.
“What’s that?”
“Everyone who’s ever come here for a repair. In one place. With a phone number in case you’d like to give them a courtesy call to make sure they’re happy with the work. Or tell them when it’s time for a service or something.”
He looks at me incredulously.
“If someone isn’t happy with the job we do, they’ll let us know without me fishing for compliments. I’m not calling people to give them an excuse to find fault. I don’t see the point.”
He picks up the top sheet. Reads down it, turns it over, checking the back like he expects to find an obscene message printed there. He puts it down exactly where he found it, squared up with the edge of the desk.
“You want to spend your Sunday making lists, that’s your business, but sounds like a waste of a perfectly good Sunday to me.”
“Good customer service isn’t nonsense, it leads to more return business.”
“So does being the best at what we do.”
He’s clearly going to be implacable about this, which comes as no surprise. He’s more set in his ways than his rusted-in-place gate is.
It’s fine, I’ll keep trying to oil him in tiny drips.
He turns his back on me and runs his thumb down the frame. Lifts the sash an inch, lets it drop, makes a noise in his throat about whatever that told him. Then he pulls the paint stirrer out of the gap and holds it up between two fingers, audibly scoffing at my makeshift fix.
“It held,” I point out stiffly.
“It’s a stick.”
“It held two nights and a storm. If it bugs you that much, why didn’t you fix it properly before?”
“Too busy fixing the boats that pay for the stick.” He sets it on the sill. “Move.”
“I’m working.”
He doesn’t ask twice. He takes hold of the back of my chair and moves it a foot and a half to the left with me still sitting in it, my feet coming off the floor on the way over, the whole thing costing him about as much effort as shifting a bucket out of a doorway.
By the time the chair legs touch down he’s turned back to the window.
I sit very still.
There’s a warmth at the backs of my knees, spreading up the insides of my thighs, like warm, tingling liquid running toward my pussy and pooling there heavily.
He wanted the space I was in. So he picked me up and set me down somewhere else, one-handed, without asking, without thinking about it at all, and now the only thought I’ve got is that I want him to do it again.
That’s it. That’s the whole thing. No scenario, no build-up, nothing with a story attached. Just put your hands on me and move me where you want me, again, and again, until I can’t stand up on my own.
