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Chapter Two
Linkin
Lately, it’s rare that I find a moment’s peace. Between working two jobs and catching a little bit of sleep, I barely have time to eat, let alone sit on the couch and catch up on some grease monkey show on television. But that’s what I find myself doing this Sunday afternoon.
My apartment is a mess–like always–but that’s just because of the pair of yahoo visitors I had over last night. Two days’ worth of dishes are stacked in the sink, there’s crumbled cereal on the floor in front of the couch, and my laundry pile is big enough that I wonder if I even have a pair of clean jeans to wear to work tonight. But there’s a smile on my face.
There’s always a smile on my face when Jack and Jeff are here.
Ignoring the mess, I choose to relax a few minutes before heading to Lucky’s to work my shift. I’m a mechanic and restorer at Stapleton Auto, a small family owned auto business who restores classic and antique cars to their original state. The Stapletons have been in business two generations, from servicing cars and trucks of all makes and models, to specializing in the classics. One job restoring a souped-up a ’69 Shelby Mustang, that won fucking car shows all over the state of Virginia, changed the business. Sure, we still get the occasional standard repair job, but for the most part, we just refer them to the shop down the street.
Most nights, after the shop closes, you can find me slinging drinks at Lucky’s up town. I’m there four nights a week, including weekends. I get one Saturday night off a month and I use it to take my little brothers off my mom’s hands. At eight, they’re a handful, and without any help from the asshole who fathered them, I do everything I can to lend a hand.
And then some.
I grew up in another small town in Virginia called Westville, where I lived until about six months ago. Things happened between my mom and the asshole sperm donor of my little brothers that caused us to have to relocate. Staying in Westville wasn’t much of an option; not when everywhere she looked, everyone was watching with their fucking judgmental eyes.
Life hasn’t been easy for her and the boys, and I’m doing everything I can to make it simpler on them. That means working two jobs and living on little sleep so that I can be available when she needs some assistance.
A loud knock echoes from the hall. Glancing at the clock, I realize it’s getting close for me to head to the bar. I almost make it to the bathroom when the banging rings out once more, followed quickly by a voice. And he sounds pissed.
The voice doesn’t belong to Levi, the guy cattycorner to me. His voice is deeper and more masculine. This voice has a higher pitch to it, which instantly grates on my nerves. After the third round of pounding, I decide to find out what in the hell is going on.
The hallway is empty except for a guy standing in front of Abby’s door. My neighbor is quiet, never causes a problem, and is sleeping with the dude across the hall. I’ve talked to Levi more in the last month than I did total the five before it. He’s an all right guy, comes into Lucky’s every once in a while. I helped him carry some groceries and shit up to his apartment one day. We chatted for a bit about music and cars before I headed back to my place.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize the man standing before her door isn’t Levi. This guy is much shorter than my six-four frame, with barely an ounce of muscle to him. His Dockers are pressed and his polo spotless. He screams trust fund douche from a mile away, and I instantly don’t fucking like him.
And I haven’t even seen him from the front side.
“Hey, man, if you’re looking for Abby, she’s probably across the hall,” I holler from my doorway, eager to get the guy out of here.
“I’m not looking for Abby,” he says, turning and facing me. His lighter colored hair is styled with more product than I’ve used in my lifetime, and his eyes are a mix of blue and green. But what really catches my attention is the disdain dripping from his lips when he says, “I’m looking for my wife.”
“Wife?” I ask more to myself than the asshole in front of me.
“Alexis. Abby’s sister,” he says, walking towards me.
“You mean Firecracker?” I ask, instantly perking up a bit more as I recall the gorgeous spitfire I had a run-in with in the hallway a while back.
The jerk’s eyebrow rises to his hairline. “You know my wife?” he asks, skeptically.
“Uhhh, just met her once in the hallway with Levi. She was eating his ass for something.”
“My wife can be…difficult at times.”
“You don’t say,” I quip, fighting the grin that threatens to take over when I think about the way those hypnotic green eyes turned on me that morning several weeks back. I had never been so damn turned on by a woman threatening to cut off my balls before in my life. Hell, I thought about her for weeks after I left her standing in the hall with Levi, a look that can only come from Satan himself reflecting in those gorgeous eyes.
I was hooked from that moment on.
“I’m Chris Jacobson,” he says, extending his hand towards me.
My gut tells me he’s more trouble than meets the eye, but I’m not about to cause a scene in the hallway of my building. This guy’s obviously married to the woman I jerked off to more times than I can count, which probably puts me safely in the same douchebag category that I’ve got Chris safety tucked into. “Linkin Stone,” I say as I shake his hand, squeezing a little tighter than necessary.
“So you live next door?” he asks after pulling his hand from mine and giving it a slight shake. Probably to get circulation back in his fingers. Fucker.
“Yep.” Dumbass.
“You haven’t seen Alexis lately, have you?”
