“No volunteering either.” I jump a little as Mom slaps her palm onto the bench top. “School and hockey. That’s it.”
“Um, hello. What about me? Can I quit too?”
“Cherry,” I whine. “I think you’re forgetting the point here. We’re supposed to be chipping in, not mooching even more.”
“Oh, right. Forgot, sorry.” Cherry’s stupidity is enough to have a little light emerge in Mom’s downcast expression.
“I’ve made many mistakes in my time, but you two idiots are the best of them.”
The hint of resignation makes that the best backhanded compliment I’ve ever received. It would be so easy to take that opening, and slap the puck home, but years of experience has taught me the wisdom in holding out for the right time to shoot.
“Can this idiot make you some breakfast?” Until now she’s been avoiding my gaze, but she looks at me then, really takes me in for the first time since we ambushed her, and every speck of color in her face drains. “Cory, what in the hell are you wearing? God help me our Lord and Savior, is this what you’re doing now? Is this your job? You’re some kind of male gigolo?”
“Ma!” Caught somewhere between horror and hilarity, Cherry gasps but crosses her legs like she might pee her PJ’s. Personally I find it too funny to be insulted … maybe a bit of a compliment too. So once I stop laughing and regain the ability to breathe, I run my hands over my stomach and give my tight, exposed abs a slap.
“Hot right? The team car wash is today and we’re slutting it up to bring in the male attracted gals, gays, and theys.” And the gaze of a certain team physio I’m not sure will even be there.
If the curled lip is anything to go by, Mom’s still not impressed. “And Coach Harris knows about this?”
“About the car wash, yes. That was his idea. The skin show? That’s all me.”
“I massively underestimated howmany people have dirty cars. Do you think they’re just here for us?”
“They are, I think I like it. I mean I feel cheap, but in a good way.”
“I never expected the filth in the driver’s minds would be far more disgusting than the grime stuck to their tires.”
“I fucking love this!”
Lucas. Evan. Elliot. Sam. Me.
Five young men in their prime. Five grossly different attitudes to life.
The sun is shining. The birds are chirping. And there’s a line of cars two blocks long waiting to be washed. Most cleaning equipment was dispensed within the first twenty minutes, with all customers choosing the top priced Man-wash over the regular sponge variety.
“If we do this every weekend, we’ll get three grand in no time. Hell, we might even make it today.” Lucas and Sam’s eyes widen as they both give me a high five. I think it’s because of my brilliant off the cuff math, but it’s not.
“Cubby, look who’s here.” The jubilation spreading on Sam’s face has me spinning as though I’m on ice. It’s going to be Cherry. I know it.
But it’s not. It’s another of my favorite fruits. James Plum in a navy tee that stretches delectably across his broad chest, and shorts that would cover my knees, but on him sit sinfully high on his tanned, muscular thighs. And not just any shorts, they’re pale blue, almost white velvet shorts for what’s essentially a water sport. He’s either feeling very brave, stupid or flirtatious. A million scenarios and positions I would like to see those legs in are playing in my mind when Sam and Lucas’ reactions block them out.
“Hey, why did you point James out to me like that?”
“Like what?” Lucas replies coyly.
“Like he was the last empty life raft on the Titanic and?—”
“And you wanna ride him?” Sam finishes. This time, I dodge their gleeful high fives, becausewhat the fuck?
Deciding to say just that, I do. “What the fuck?” I hiss, teeth gritted. “What are you even talking about? I do not want to ride?—”
“He’s behind you.”
“—James, hey. So glad you could make it.”Yeah, ‘cause you’re running the show, you dick.I nervously attempt to push up glasses I’m not wearing, and change to running my hands through my hair at the last second. This man has me twisted.
“Looks like you’ve stirred quite the hornets nest.” He slides his sunglasses down his nose, critically eyeing Sam whose abs are currently scrubbing over the front window of a Volkswagen Beetle.
“Traffic’s backed up for miles.” Those eyes then turn to me, and I can practically feel the heat singeing the hair from my body. My shorts are wet, really wet and possibly a little see-through. I’m wearing black boxer briefs beneath them, but still. Not a lot is left to the imagination. When his gaze makes its way back to my face, it lingers on the lips I just happen to be biting. “And I think I know why.”
