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Gunnar Scott:Stonemason.
It’s written on the side of his vintage black truck, so his name checks out, at least.
This is a hot fucking ride. Chevy. From the fifties, I’d say. Not lowered and pimped-out all douche-y, either. Just all-original flair, as it’s meant to be. Sleek and well-kept.
Ruggedly handsome and gruff-speaking Gunnar clearly puts some time and care into maintenance, and that excites my insides in a way I wasn’t expecting. Will he rub and polish me with the same attention until I shine too?
God, I hope so. Shelby’s dress has done wonders to hook a man first try, and it’s boosted my confidence to a potentially dangerous state. I feel wild and invincible, like I could do anything.
I should probably message someone, to tell them who I’m with, like he said. I pull out my phone and scroll down my very short list of dependable contacts, but the only person I could tell who’d give a shit, is Shelby, and I can’t tell her, because I stole her ID when I borrowed her dress. She’ll have questions, and while she’d totally let me using her identity to buy a drink or two, she won’t approve of me borrowing it to seduce a man.
I hesitate for the first time all night.
Gunnar takes a few more steps, but turns back when I don’t take them with him. “I had two,” he says after a while.
The wind picks up, and I tame the skirt of my dress as it starts to rise, trying to keep my focus. “Huh?”
“Drinks,” he clarifies. “Not even two. One and a bit. I’m safe to drive; I promise.”
I nod and put my phone away. “I believe you. I was just letting my people know who I’m with.” As long as he thinks I have people in the know, the safety system works. Right?
He smiles. “Good. So what line of work are you in, Shelby?”
“Oh. Um… retail,” I say, not wanting to admit that I’m burning through the family savings and babysitting for extra cash like a fourteen-year-old girl, to keep us afloat while I figure out how to earn a decent living while helping Dad get back on his feet.
“What kind of retail?” Gunnar asks, probing for more information from the vague responses I’ve given him about where I work. He opens the passenger side door for me.
Guys still do that old-school shit?
I look him over. Tall and sturdy, with fair hair and a flannel shirt over his band Tee that brings out the vibrant blue in his eyes, he’s an enticing mix of semi-cultured, outdoor type, and I feel strangely at home in his presence. His darker-blond, mature beard bears no excessive-manscaping hipster vibes. He has playful smile-lines around his eyes, and his skin looks warmly weathered by actual sunshine, instead of giving off the cool and pasty gamer-glow my classmates tended to have.
Heisold-school. The real deal. When he looks at me, he’s actually looking. And thinking things about what he’s seeing. He hasn’t looked at his phone once, since I noticed him — I don’t even know if hehasa cellphone. His attention has been solely on me, even when it’s obvious he’s trying not to look at me. All ofthese things make him wildly interesting and appealing… I think helikesme.
I’ve slicked my thighs just from looking at him, and yeah, maybe I should have worn underwear, but what would be the point in putting up barriers, when my intention is to lose my virginity?
Gunnar Scott intends to take me home and lick my slit until I scream, and then he’s going to fuck me hard with his big dick.
A shiver runs through me. I fucking believe him on all counts, and I want it.
When he pulled me in close and rumbled that I’d feel him for days, I’m sure it was meant to sound like a warning to run away, but after months of unshakeable numbness, the promise of feeling anything had only sweetened the deal. Iwantto have a lasting memory of this rite of passage. Good or bad, it will be the yardstick by which all future sexual encounters are measured, and I’d rather have strong feelings about it, than no feelings at all. I’m so fucking sick of having to feel nothing.
Can’t be happy. Can’t be sad. I have to live in the fucking middle and just get shit done, because nobody else is going to do it.
Shelby was right to suggest cutting my teeth on an older guy. A capable, practiced hand. I’m tired of being the strong one. I want someone to take care of me, for a change.
“Like, what store?” I climb into his truck, and decide on another vague response to adhere to the no-strings ideal. “Nothing cool,” I say when he gets in the other door and takes his place on the far side of the tan leather bench seat. “One of the clothing places in a department-store downtown. It’s a living. I don’t love it. What about what you do?”
I cringe and shake my head. “I mean, I can read. Your truck says,Stonemason. That’s pretty fucking cool. Do you enjoy it? It’s what you love?”
He stares at me a moment. “Why do you ask?”
I squint back. “Why don’t you answer?”
He snorts softly and puts the truck in gear. “You first.”
I shrug and look both ways with him, as we wait to pull out of the parking lot. “My job pays the bills, but I’d rather get paid for something I’m passionate about. I guess I’m asking for research purposes? I’m curious if anyone actually enjoys their work, because I want to believe it’s possible. Consider me an ignorant youth, wondering if there’s something to look forward to.”
Gunnar pulls on the handbrake, shifts into neutral, and stares at me again. “I like what I do, or I wouldn’t do it. Life’s too short, to waste it on things you don’t believe in. If I’m not working toward the dream, then what the fuck am I doing? What are any of us doing?”
