Bankers' Hours(15)

Dumbfounded, I stared at the screen. "Ah … ." He tapped the paper, and I glanced down. It said:



I'm sorry. You're not used to my sense of humor. I was making a joke  about doing things to you with my tongue, but I didn't mean to scare  you. I'm not a sadist. I don't own a whip. I came in tonight because I  missed you and I wanted to say hi. That's all. I promise. I might have  some ideas of things I'd like to do to you, but any and all sexual  inclinations are on hold. I want to get to know you first. Sex is not my  priority. I'm not going to use you, and I'm not going to hurt you. I'm  not even sure why you would jump to that conclusion. I'm sorry I freaked  you out.



Well, his note, printed in perfectly legible sentences, left me  speechless. I knew I had plunged headlong into that assumption, but it  made his interest in me seem more logical in my mind. I glanced up after  reading it and gazed into his eyes. They didn't seem like the eyes of a  serial killer, a con artist, or a whip-wielding sadist. He looked 100  percent sincere, and I was beguiled. Plus, he'd mentioned sex. I might  actually get to have sex.

"The check is for eleven dollars even," I said, continuing with the charade. My voice had no strength.

"What? Oh, um, yes, thank you."

I wrote a reply of my own on a sticky note and stuck it to the counter  in front of Tristan. Very casual, no one would know I wasn't actually  working unless they took the note.

He read it.



I'm sorry. I had a bad date experience in college. I met a guy on  Facebook. We had agreed to meet at the mall since it was a public  setting. He was decent looking, but I couldn't go through with the date  after he handed me a list of things he wanted to do to me.



Tristan looked up with sadness in his eyes. He whispered, "Oh, Grant. I'm sorry."

Jessica moved around the half wall and went into the break room. We were  alone. There were five minutes before closing, so most employees on  Thursday night were ready to leave.

"Do you mean it?" I asked.

"Mean what? Everything in the note is true."

"That you missed me?"

I must have finally said the right thing, because he smiled the softest,  most amazing smile. "Yes, Grant, I missed you. That kiss was …  well …  it  wasn't enough. I want to kiss you again."

"Okay." I melted.

"But I was serious about sex. I'm not taking you to bed, not yet. I've  had way too many relationships that skipped over every pleasantry and  headed straight to sex. Not with you."

"Not even a little sex?" I couldn't help but beg with my tone. I wasn't  keen on him having lots of sexual partners, and we would be discussing  that, but the prospect of no sex was depressing.

He smirked and shook his head. "Not even a little, until I know where  this relationship is heading. I'm thirty-two years old, Grant. I've had a  wild youth. I'm ready to settle down and live my life committed to  someone special. Tomorrow, we can talk about what you want. Okay?"

I nodded. He knew how to say all the romantic things. It sounded to me  like he was seeking a husband type. Did he mean me? Was I really husband  material? I had to admit growing old with someone, one someone, sounded  super wonderful. My mom had told me that was what she and my dad had  planned. It probably would have happened too.                       
       
           



       

Tristan tapped the counter in front of him as if contemplating his next  move. He said, "Good night," and headed to the front door. Tracy locked  it after he left.





Chapter 5: Misconceptions, Misunderstandings, And Getting A Taste Of Full-On Lust For The First Time





WE HAD agreed to meet at his house this time. After I plugged the  address into my GPS, I realized how familiar it sounded. Sure enough, I  passed this street every day on my way to work. We only lived about five  minutes apart. His auto shop was on the corner, but I hadn't read the  sign until now.

"How unobservant am I?" I asked myself as I parked. I checked my hair in the visor mirror and then got out and locked the door.

It was a small farmhouse, but much larger than the one I rented. Half  the flowers in the beds were brown. A tailpipe jutted out from one bed  to obstruct mowing, so the grass growing around it was five inches  taller than the rest of the lawn. "That would drive me nuts if I lived  here," I mumbled, ringing the doorbell.

Tristan opened the door and smiled through the screen. "Hey. Come on in," he offered, opening the screen door for me.

It was an older, two-story farmhouse with creaky wooden floors and decor  from the seventies. I cringed at the duck wallpaper border in the  kitchen and the psychedelic orange-and-brown throw rug in the living  room. "Um, there's an engine on your dining room table," I pointed out,  literally pointing at it.

"Ah, yeah," he said, glancing at the engine and then back to me as if  thinking of a reason but finding none. "I've lived alone for a long  time. Claire and I normally eat at the breakfast bar." He motioned to  the area over by the kitchen, but the "bar" was stacked with magazines.

"There's no room there either."

Tristan walked over and started moving them to the side, but there  wasn't space. He gave up. "Yeah, I was looking for a specific one. They  were my dad's. I found them in the attic when I was clearing out some  old boxes. I got to looking through them and just haven't put them away  yet."

Tristan's house was the exact opposite of mine. His things were in  disarray all over the place. Stacks of books, CDs, DVDs, a few coffee  cups, and … . "There's a muffler under the coffee table," I said,  observing yet another oddity for one's living room.

"I know this looks bad," Tristan said, stepping in front of me and  pressing his hands together as if to pray or beg for forgiveness.

"I guess you aren't worried about grease stains. That carpet looks like it's been soiled for decades."

"Like I said, I've lived alone for a long time. The muffler's been under  there for two years. I'm married to my work, and I tend to carry car  parts home all the time."

"I noticed you live behind the shop. That must be convenient." Tristan  was wearing another beer shirt. This one was gray and said something  about imperial stout.

"It is handy. This was my parents' house. After my dad died, my mom gave  it to me since I was already in charge of the family business. My  sister lives in Baltimore, and my mom lives with my brother in Leesburg,  Virginia. I see Claire every other weekend. You're the first person  outside my family and the guys I work with to step inside this house."

"What about dates?" I asked.

"I don't date, Grant. My life's been on hold ever since my daughter was  born. Look, let's go eat. It's getting late fast, and we can talk more  on the way and over dinner." He gestured to the door, and I nodded.

We walked around the house and to his truck, got in, and started on our way.

I thought about what he'd said in the house, and it was similar to  something he'd mentioned before. "You said something yesterday about  skipping over pleasantries and going straight for sex." I heard him  heave a sigh as I framed my question. "What did you mean? Are you one of  those guys who hooks up in gay bars and strip clubs?" The idea bothered  me. He could have AIDS or another STD. Having no guy almost seemed  better than dating a sex pig. I didn't want to catch a disease. I wanted  sex, but after thinking about his earlier comment I had realized sex  meant something to me. If it hadn't, I could have done exactly what he'd  done. I truly was saving myself for my soul mate, Mr. Right.

"Yes and no." He paused a long time after his ambiguous answer. I'd been  argumentative enough, so I waited this time. He finally continued. "I  have done those types of things. In my twenties, I hooked up much more  often with guys I met in bars. I got out of the service when I was still  young, and I think repressing how I felt all that time got the best of  me, because for several years after that I couldn't get enough. I had a  different guy practically every weekend."                       
       
           



       

I couldn't look at him as he said those things, so I watched the passing  trees out my window. It made me ill to think of him with so many men. I  couldn't understand that lifestyle, even if I was aware it happened all  the time. It wasn't me. I had never wanted meaningless sex just to  satisfy a need to fuck. But he did. I was in a truck, going to dinner,  with a man who had needed to fuck so badly that he'd hooked up with guys  he didn't know just to satisfy his lust …  every weekend.