Authors: Pauline Allan
Tags: #BBW, #erotic romance, #Contemporary
Copyright © March 2012 by Pauline Allan
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Editor: Larke Butler
Cover Artist: Mina Carter
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This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Sean watched another raindrop slide down the cracked windshield of the 1987 extended cab. “Get your shit together, Drennan,” he said while opening the last stick of gum from the green package. “You’re such a pussy.”
Before shoving the minty piece in his mouth, he pulled on the visor. The last thing he really wanted to do was look in a mirror, knowing the reflection was going to reveal he’d landed on his ass. Rock bottom. Under the rock. Below the slugs and facedown in the goddamn mud.
Yep, sure as shit, the face staring back knew the truth. The cleanly shaven cheeks and newly buzzed cut couldn’t hide the fact he’d been in bed the last three days, thinking about nothing. Okay, thinking about every-fucking-thing. Sean ran his fingertips through the short spikes on his head. The cut wasn’t the greatest. It’d have to do. He looked down at his hands, studying the scars on his knuckles. Too many memories. Ms. Evelyn, his first foster mom, had showed him how to buzz his hair. At least his fucked-up head was able to hold on to one good memory.
Sean’s stomach growled. The thought of Ms. Evelyn’s mac n’ cheese made his gut ache. When Sean was eleven, every Thursday a bowl of the cheesy goodness would be waiting for him at the table. The two other boys Ms. Evelyn kept always wanted Chef Boyardee, but not Sean. She’d make a small batch of homemade pasta with cheese just for him. And after only six months, the special Thursday lunches stopped. So did Ms. Evelyn’s heart. At twelve, he didn’t understand what a heart attack meant. It meant another move, another foster home.
Fuck that memory.
Sean scrubbed his palm over his face. Jesus, he just wanted to scrub the shit out of his head—all of it. A new start to bury the bad one. The cell in his pocket vibrated. He pressed the flashing Talk button. “Hello.”
“Sean?” The guy from the gym was on the other end of the line.
Sean picked up the glossy business card from the passenger seat. The naked man and woman on the front were tangled in a heated embrace. The slender woman was wearing a brightly colored Mardi Gras mask. The man had his hand on her ass with his face buried in her neck. He flipped it over.
Fantasy Emporium… You’re one click away from pleasure
. “Yeah, this is Sean.”
“This is Ron Carlone.” Silence. “From the gym?”
“I was just wondering if you were still interested in coming by for that interview we talked about. I may have misunderstood, but I thought we agreed on two o’clock?”
Sean glanced at the dash. The green numbers on the cassette-radio player read 2:27.
He’d been sitting in the parking lot for over half an hour.
Can you fuck this up any more, dumbass?
“Oh, man. I’m sorry. I’m almost there.” He looked out past the spattering downpour to the three-story warehouse in front of him. “Traffic.”
“Sure, man, understandable. Come by whenever you can. Abigail’s waiting. I’ll keep her occupied until you get here.”
“Thanks.” Sean stuffed the phone into the back pocket of his dress slacks and shoved the piece of gum in his mouth. He could do this. He could fuck for money, on camera, for the whole world to see. It wasn’t like he had that one particular person in his life who would accuse him of cheating or being a disappointment or a huge goddamn letdown. Worst case scenario, yet another suit sitting behind a desk wouldn’t want to hire him.
Then an opportunity like no other came crashing down on him courtesy of Ron, the big guy who’d asked him to spar at the gym. He’d been so charismatic Sean had a hard time turning him down when he’d asked to throw a few punches. Sean hadn’t been in the ring for years. Oh, he’d fought. For his food, his privacy. For his life. Part of his probation prohibited him from stepping behind the ropes, but that was finished. He’d done his time, both in and out of the system.
He’d taken only a second to think it through. He wanted to step behind the ropes, feel that adrenaline of taking a punch, dealing it back. Other guys at the gym asked him to spar all the time. He figured he just looked like a hardcore type of guy, like he could take a hit. They were fucking right, but he had always turned them down. He had a hard fist, never lost a fight. Not even the one that landed his ass in the pen.
He took Ron up on his offer and, to this moment, still didn’t regret it. Sean didn’t throw a punch. Took it to the face and ribs with equal parts laughs and grunts. After, they both sat on the bench in the locker room talking shop about working out and boxing while they’d unlaced their gloves.
Ron was tall, muscular, probably Italian, and definitely gay. The glances hadn’t gone unnoticed in the shower. Sean couldn’t care less about the long stares, the slight smiles. He got it from the women too. Whether he was at the gym or the grocery store, they all stared.
Sean didn’t care if they looked. The skinny women came up to flirt; the not-so-skinny women gave him a sly glance and ran the other way.
Why did they always do that?
He’d stand there like an idiot watching their swaying asses hightail it away from him. God, he loved those round asses more than anything.
Once, he even got up enough nerve to ask a woman in the coffee shop near his apartment for her number. The woman tugged her purse over her huge tits and looked nervously to the friend standing beside her. The friend told her to go ahead, but she didn’t. She just asked if he was
it was her number he wanted and not her friend’s. After he tried to convince her it was her number he wanted, she told him to stop making fun of her, snatched her mocha latte, and left him standing by the counter. After that, he never asked for another number—from any woman.
Sean folded the cuffs on his dress shirt and straightened his tie—again. Savannah was a balmy eighty-seven degrees, and he was sporting long sleeves. He fussed with the cuffs again, trying to cover the black marks on his forearms. He didn’t want to have the tattoo removed. Point was he liked it. The business world might not, but it was him, a part of his past and a reminder for his future. There was no way he would’ve been able to wear a suit jacket on a day as hot as this one. Trade-off was he had to roll the cuffs just so, hoping the edges of the tat weren’t too noticeable.
The interview was for a porn studio, for Christ’s sake, he thought. He wasn’t going into another résumé-laden, old-boy’s-club interview for assistant financial advisor. Or chief of accounts. Or CPA. Nope, not even a bachelor’s degree in business could get his foot in the door with his record.
The creak of the driver’s side door made him smile. Cracked windshield, rusty door hinges, something he finally owned—priceless. The rain had slowed to a constant mist of spattering drops. He stood next to the door for far too long. Thank God he wore a wifebeater under the white dress shirt. By the time he grew balls, he’d be soaked through.
“Get up you fucking deadbeat! Get your ass off the fucking mat! Afraid of a little blood, pussy? Get your fucking ass up!”
He could turn around and go back to his apartment, call Stan, and see when he was going to be able to use another construction crew member. He could go back on unemployment and search for yet another, “We appreciate you coming by. You’ll be hearing from us.” The phone never rang.
He glanced in the back of the truck bed. The tools he’d bought off Stan, the foreman, were still locked in the long silver box. He was grateful for the job, a job that required no references, no credit checks, and no questions about his past. Stan was a good guy. One of the only ones Sean had met so far in his twenty-seven years. The way he saw it, there were bastards and assholes—oh, and con men. Stan was none of the above. He couldn’t help it when the business went under. Stan felt awful letting all the guys go. The economy sucked, and the small construction firm couldn’t handle the housing crisis.
He ran his hand through the short tips of his dark hair—again. Who was he kidding? If he was going to have any shot in hell of doing anything other than construction, he was going to have to beg for this job and hope the cash flow would be enough to pay for the MBA program he’d already been accepted into. He only had to hate himself more than usual for a few months while he saved up to pay for school. Sure, the grant he received paid for a part of the tuition, but it wasn’t enough to cover the entire program. Forget about coming up with living expenses while he tried to juggle working with a full class load. Women threw themselves at him all the time. Now he’d get paid for it. No big deal. It was just sex. He’d been having
for the last three years.
No big deal.
He slammed the truck door as he looked for a place to throw his gum away. Not spotting a trash can, he opened the door again and crumpled it in a piece of paper in the door pocket. One quick glance over the property left him no real clues as to where he was, if this was even the right building. There was no sign. No flag to designate this as an establishment of sin. It looked more like something out of a Nine Inch Nails video. More like a fight-club spot.
He tucked the tails of his shirt into the waistband of his slacks. God, it was fucking hot out. The drizzle did nothing to cool the sticky air. Ron had said three-story warehouse, new windows, old, brick building. The ancient industrial structure towering over him fit the description. He scanned the building, his gaze landing on a door at the far right. A simple metal door was all that separated him from spinning in his past or selling his soul for a shot at a decent future.
He wiped the mist from his face, toed a strayed rock, and turned back toward his truck. Stopped, turned again.
Fuck it! No soul left anyways.
* * * *
Abigail poured a steady stream of water into the potted violet on the windowsill. “What is he doing out there? He’s been sitting in that truck for like twenty minutes.”
Ron, Abigail’s assistant slash one and only friend, gathered the appointment calendar and headed toward the window. “It’s a big decision, Abs. Give him a minute. It’s not every day someone hits you up at the gym and asks you to star in a porn film.”
She tipped her head toward the book in his arms. “You gave him my card, right? Check it again. Are you sure he said two o’clock? I mean, if he decides to bolt, I’m up shit creek without a paddle. You said he was skittish. Hell’s fire, you said you’ve never even seen him talk to anyone at the gym. I need him. I trust your judgment, and if he’s anything like you say, we have to do anything to get him. It’s hard enough finding guys in this area. I’m tired of flying them in. This order has been open for three weeks because we don’t have the right guy for the part. You sure he’s tattooed all the way up his arm? I mean, it has to be all the way up and over the shoulder. And he’s hung, right?” She motioned to the crotch of her jeans. “I mean like really well-endowed down there.”
“Yup, here it is. He said two o’clock.” Ron pointed to the box dated June 2. “And yes, worrywart. I’ve seen the guy buck naked, and he’s tatted with some kind of black tribal stuff. I told you he fits the client’s request perfectly…even down there.”