I keep my mouth shut because I’ve never done this kind of shit before and I don’t want to look like a total fucking idiot for getting it wrong. I’ve never hammered in fence posts and strung wire fencing, and trimmed back overgrown hedgerows and measured out planks before. I check out videos on my phone through Jack’s Wi-Fi whenever I’m grabbing a quick sandwich for lunch, and I may not have any swanky grades from school, but by the end of the first week of sorting out Jack’s neglected grounds, I think I might be okay at doing this stuff.
I think I might even be good at it.
My fences don’t look half bad, and they’re strong, too. I’ve tested them out by vaulting them and clambering over them and trying to wiggle them in the ground. My muscles are aching and I feel like I’ve run a marathon by the time Friday afternoon comes around, but there’s a weird glow in my belly.
I did something good.
Something I’m actually proud of.
And although I’m nervous about showing them, just in case I’m wrong and they tell me I’ve made a right mess of it all, I’m excited about surprising them. I’m excited about proving to them I’m not just some loser who’s watching daytime TV in Jack’s house every day.
It still hurts that Michael doesn’t want me. It still hurts that he blew me out when I thought there was really something between us.
It’s been days now since he told me he’s not interested. He’s still kind but he’s guarded, and when he’s trying to talk me through whatever crappy agency he’s working out my fate with next, all I can think about is the way he’s so tense. It’s like he thinks I’m going to jump him any second. Like I don’t know what I’m not interested means and stand a chance of making more of a tit out of myself than I already did with him.
No fear there.
And then there’s Jack. Jack who I first thought was nothing but a douche with a load of money. Jack who I thought for sure would chuck me onto the street and never want to see me again.
Jack who now gives me a beer every evening and talks straight, no bullshit and no dicking about. He says what he thinks, and what he thinks is that I’m being a bitch to Michael without good reason.
He doesn’t know how much it stings to want someone who doesn’t want you back.
But now things are getting complicated, because a few weeks ago I thought all I ever wanted was Michael. The way his eyes are firm but kind. The way he doesn’t want to let me down. The way I know his calmness would disappear the minute his suit came off and I got my mouth around that big dick I know he’s packing. I’ve seen the promise of it when he’s hard but tries to hide it.
I’ve been checking him out for months and liked every single thing I’ve seen.
But here, in Jack’s place, with a whole other proper man to scope out every evening, I realise that it’s not just being grateful that has me feeling butterflies every time I hear his car in the driveway after work. It’s not just wanting some company that has my heart racing every time he grabs me a beer out of the fridge.
Jack’s eyes aren’t kind, not like Michael’s. They’re tough and raw and brutal. His words are blunt but fair. And the way he wears his suit is different to the way Michael wears his. Michael has an almost scholarly look about him, like he’s some kind of boffin professor or something. Jack’s looks like he was born to wear it.
I don’t like suits but I like them on Jack.
I like them on Michael, too.
I like the way both of these guys are put together, and in bed at night I think of both of them.
It breaks my heart to think I might not get either, but I’m not done yet.
Michael doesn’t want me and he’s made sure I know it, but Jack…
Jack looks at me. Not just like Bill and Eli and Eddie Stevens looked at me. He doesn’t try to sneak a peek every time I’m sitting opposite him in a low cut top. He doesn’t try to check me out in the shower when I leave the bathroom door slightly open – and I do.
Jack looks at me like I’m a proper woman, even if he isn’t about to make a move on me. He looks at me as though he could tear my clothes off and fuck me hard and know what the fuck he was doing, even if he isn’t going to. And I am a proper woman. I’m eighteen and I’m not sorry for the fact that I want to get fucked by a guy who can’t keep his hands off me.
But Jack hasn’t made a single move. Doesn’t even hint that he wants to.
I wish he would, but he doesn’t.
I’ve almost finished up a fresh section of fencing when the sky turns grey. I work quickly, because I planned to take pictures of this bit all finished up. I’m panting and sweating by the time the rain starts, and when it starts it starts hard.