Bankers' Hours(52)

He shook his head. "He died about five years ago. Shot in the thigh, and  the bullet hit his femoral artery. He bled out in under three minutes."

I gasped and covered my mouth. "I'm so sorry."

He shrugged. "It happens, Grant. People die. I try to remember all the  good times we had. If I only fixate on the negative, then I let  bitterness take over and I chance losing all the laughter we shared." He  took my hand and squeezed it.

I sniffled, and Tristan reached up and wiped away my tears. I never  remembered crying as much as I had since I'd met him. He leaned in and  kissed me. "I'm jealous because I want that same connection with you. I  want to know you so well I'll be able to finish your sentences and tell  stories to our friends about the time you caught a hummingbird."

I chuckled through my tears.

"I'll call Mel tomorrow and apologize for being so grumpy at dinner, okay?"

I nodded. "I'm sorry too."

Tristan turned his body into mine and kissed me again. I felt his hand  sliding up my inner thigh as he deepened the kiss. His fingers ran over  the hairs of my bare leg, and it tickled. When he rubbed my dick through  my boxers, I gasped and pulled back.

I shook my head and whined, "I can't. My ass really hurts, Tristan."

He chuckled, moving his hand to my knee. "Okay. Fair enough. But what if I offered to blow you?" He waggled his eyebrows.

My dick pulsed and I lifted one corner of my mouth. "Um, okay." It was hard refusing a blowjob.





TRISTAN UNDERSTOOD my dilemma. I wanted more sex, but my ass ached for  days after Tuesday. He'd fucked me so damn good, but the aftereffects  were difficult to ignore. I needed time to recuperate.

When I wasn't working at the bank, I was cleaning out his mess. As he'd  suggested, I also cut back my hours in order to get the house cleaned. I  brought most of my dishes over to his house so we could use them  whenever we were there, but my clothes remained at my house because his  bedroom was still untouched. The upstairs bedrooms had taken way too  much of my time. By Saturday, Tristan was home with papers spread across  the dining room table.

The upside: the engine was gone. The downside: more clutter.

He seemed very frustrated, more so than usual, so I stopped on my way  back from taking out a bag full of trash. "Are you all right?" I asked,  squeezing his shoulders and kissing his cheek as I leaned over him from  behind his chair.

"I'm fine," he sighed. "This is more tedious than I thought it would be."

"What are you doing?" I asked, peering at the bank statements and copies  of checks he had stacked in front of him. Bank statements were  something I was familiar with.

"I'm looking for evidence of a cashed check." He picked up a piece of  paper and handed it to me. "This bill was sent to collections, and I  swear I paid it. I might be slightly behind, but I haven't forgotten to  pay a bill since I took over this business. I'm normally very  responsible." He huffed and leaned forward on the table, rubbing his  head.

I read the paper and then looked at the papers and stacks of unopened  mail on the table. "This is for fifty-three dollars, dated two years  ago. Are you sure you paid it? It seems strange they would wait two  years to try and collect it. Are you sure it isn't fake?" I had seen my  share of scams trying to get personal information out of me.

"No. I remember that one. We had to return three different parts, and I  never used them again after that. I know I paid it." He sounded certain.

I pointed to the unopened mail. "Then what is all this?"                       
       
           



       

"I haven't opened a bank statement in a few years."

"What?" I shrieked. Then I cleared my throat and asked again, in a more  controlled tone, "What? How can you not open the bank statements? Don't  you balance your checkbook every month?" The very thought made me  nauseated.

He turned and looked at me. "Don't yell."

"Why would I yell?"

"Grant, you just pierced my ears with your first little shriek."

"I won't do it again."

Tristan took a deep breath and then said, "I've never balanced the checkbook."

My voice went up three octaves involuntarily. "What?" I immediately  covered my mouth and whispered behind my hand, "I'm sorry." I took my  hand away and asked, "But I don't understand how you can do that. What  if checks don't clear or are cashed for the wrong amount? Or if they get  lost and are sent to collections." I stopped talking when he glared.  "Oh. Yeah. That's what happened."

He huffed loudly. "Yeah. It hasn't happened in ten years. I hate math."

I ran my palm over his bald head. I felt stubble for the first time. If  he'd been so caught up in this issue that he forgot to shave, then it  must be serious. Although I rather liked the feel of the hairs growing  back. "Tristan, why don't you let me help you? I'm really good with  numbers."

"Are you? I know you work in a bank, but I didn't want to assume you  knew how to do everything money related." His reply seemed not to make  sense, but I wasn't going to argue about it. He was stressed enough.

"Yes," I answered. "I'm good with all money-related issues. I have a degree in accounting from Loyola University."

"Then why aren't you the manager of the bank or running your own accounting firm?"

I chuckled. "Yeah, because all accountants start off opening their own  businesses right out of college." He didn't react to my sarcasm, so I  let it go and shrugged. There was no easy way to tell him I was lazy. "I  didn't try because those jobs take more effort than I'd like to give.  Being a teller is easy. I really liked working alongside Mel every day.  Things have changed since I moved to this branch, so I guess I should  consider using more of my skills. I always thought moving up would be  too stressful."

"You mean you have all kinds of knowledge and you choose not to use it?"

I felt like a schlub for admitting it. "Yes. I haven't found a reason to."

Tristan looked back to his stack and gestured. "You think you can sort this out?"

How hard could it be? "Most definitely. Go make me some coffee and start  cleaning out your bedroom. I'm tired of looking at those ships on the  walls. The frames never stay straight."

Tristan stood up and offered me his seat. He kissed me before I sat down  and then rubbed the back of my shoulders this time. "You're pretty  awesome."

"I haven't fixed anything yet." I glanced around the table. "Um, where's  your checkbook? I should probably cross-check these numbers and go back  as far as you have records."

"You're going to yell about that too," he said, closing his eyes and sighing.

"Don't tell me you don't keep a checkbook. You have to. How do you know  how much money you have in the bank?" He was right, I was close to  speaking louder than I should, but I contained myself.

Tristan walked over to the counter in the kitchen and returned with a  box. "These are my checkbooks. Number forty-three is the current one. I  do keep a checkbook, but I keep a mental ledger on how much I have in  the bank. I know roughly how much comes in, and the checking account is  linked to a savings account in case of overdraft, although I've never  been overdrawn. I don't write a check for money I don't have." He set  the box in front of me.

I took the top one off the pile inside the box and opened it. All the  figures were for even amounts. No change. I knew some amounts could be  even, but not all of them. I had to question him. "Er, Tristan? Why are  all the numbers even?"

He drew in a long breath, exhaled, and said, "I round everything up."

"What do you mean? You round to the nearest dollar and pay that amount?"  I doubted that was what he meant, but the alternative might give me a  stroke.

"No!" He shook his head. "I pay what I owe, but I round up the number I  write in the checkbook because then I always have more money than I  think."

"But you said you keep a mental ledger. You should know how much you  have anyway." He ran his hand over his face. I could tell this was  getting more frustrating for him the more questions I asked. I let it  go. "Okay, I'll just take this one statement at a time. Bring me that  trash can, and help me open the statements and make a pile according to  the dates. I'll get this sorted, I promise."                       
       
           



       

It was a daunting task, especially when I opened a statement from 2006,  but this was also what I was good at. Helping Tristan would make me feel  good. Cleaning his house made me feel like a maid no matter how many  times he assured me I wasn't, but straightening out his money situation  made me feel important.