See Me .(2)

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 sure 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 just sex 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.