“Jesus, put that away,” he said, his eyes darting around. “That’s mugging money right there. Here, give me a ten, and I’ll run it in.”
I handed over the money and watched as he jogged off, disappearing into the store. I returned the rest of the cash to my wallet, suddenly very aware of my ‘mugging money’ and the unsavories that might be lurking about.
Iron Maiden came out of the store a minute later, and I relaxed—right up until it occurred to me that I was putting a lot of trust into a guy who could very well be the mugger.
“Okay,” he said. “Start filling up.”
Pulling up on the trigger, I waited. Still nothing.
“My god. What do they teach you rich kids in boarding school?” He flipped the lever on the pump. “Now try.”
Gas started flowing.
“Oh, magic,” I whispered in wonder.
His eyes lit with amusement, and I found myself sneakingglances at him while adding those ten dollars of gas into my tank. After returning the nozzle to the pump, I turned back to find him holding a squeegee tool dripping with soapy suds.
“For your windshield,” he said.
“That’s okay. I don’t need it washed that bad.”
“Sure, you do.” He thrust the wand at me. “Remember what a rad idea it was when you thought I was doing it for you?”
I couldn’t help but smile. This guy flirted without an ounce of fear. Even guys in my own socio-economic bracket didn’t possess his level of fortitude. It was clear he was used to getting the girl. I imagined them falling at his feet with just the flirty rise of an eyebrow. Honestly, if I hung around too long, he might snare me too. Wait. No. He wouldn’t getme. My life had been pre-ordained since birth.
Taking the wand from the metalhead’s hand, I slopped it onto my windshield, giving it a few good smacks on the glass.
“Am I good?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Not even close.”
He reached over, covered my hand with his, and guided it in a slow glide along the glass. The scent of saltwater and sun clung to his skin. “Top to bottom,” he instructed, his chest flat against my back, “so it doesn’t drip over what you’ve already washed.”
I nodded, though nothing he said stuck, not with the heat of his thigh pressed to mine and his breath warm against my neck. My pulse thudded in my ears. It wasn’t mere attraction—it was magnetic, like my body had recognized him before my brain had caught up. He radiated something raw and uncontained, making me wonder what life might be like without the pressures of perfection.
When he dropped the wand back into the bucket, the spell loosened, but only slightly.
“Easy, right?” He dried his hands on his ripped jeans.
“Yes. Easy,” I echoed, shaking off the excess water.
“Feel free,” he said, and offered up his jeans.
No amount of high-society training had prepared me for what I did next. I bent at the waist and wiped my soapy palms down the rough denim of his thighs.
“That’s it,” he teased, voice low and encouraging. “Get ’em nice and dry.”
I laughed, and it was loud and unfiltered, the kind of amusement my mother would’ve side-eyed over the rim of her wineglass. It felt good. Dangerous. A reprieve from the anxiety that had gripped me since returning home after my freshman year in college with news that would surely rile my parents.
“You’re so good at gas station stuff,” I complimented this uncomplicated guy. “You sure you don’t work here?”
“I actually applied last year, but my hair was four inches too long to sell Bubble Yum to stoners.”
“Why didn’t you cut it?”
His expression soured as he leaned against the pump, arms crossed. “For a shitty job? Yeah, I don’t think so.”
“What is your job now, then?”
