Fine. Yes, I do. Because Arlo’s become my best friend and I’d literally die for that bitch. Especially after everything he and Tiernan have done for me.
Which is why I am driving around in my craptastic old Chevy looking for Diesel’s house because this paperwork has to be signed right now. Why is this so hard? It’s like they decided house numbers should be as small as possible. I need a magnifying glass to find them.
My car, in its dilapidated state, is limping along. It’s in desperate need of a mechanic, but that would require funds. Something I don’t have in abundance right now. Especially since my dickhead landlord just raised the rent. Again.
I’ve named my car Corkus from my favorite manga, Berserk. Not out of any thought that the name might inspire it to be loyal, but more as a taunt. I’m effectively daring it to be loyal. It won’t work, I’m sure. What I really need is a new lucrative client whoappreciates my work. One that will actually pay on time. Both would be excellent, even if they aren’t probable.
I finally see it. A red brick, one-story house with white siding and a black door and shutters. The yard is impeccable, neatly trimmed with flowers lining the sides of the driveway and the front porch. It looks like a real home. One that you’re happy to come home to at the end of the day. And doesn’t that just fit Diesel to a T.
It’s at the end of the street, because of course it is. No matter that the GPS has it about five houses back. Technology out there improving our lives on the daily.
I pull up to the curb. Corkus is so relieved to stop, he makes a kind of choking sound before he just shuts off. Wonderful. With my luck, he won’t even start again.
The folder Arlo gave me is lying on the back seat where I threw it when I got in the car. I hate to say it, but I might have been a little irritated about doing this favor, at least at first. Not because I don’t love Arlo. More because I’m not a big fan of people.
Even though Diesel’s a co-worker, and a fairly nice guy, as far as I know, I don’t like going to strangers’ homes. It’s always awkward.
My body’s already bracing for impact. I try to remind myself this isn’t another foster home, but that muscle memory is pretty deep whenever I pull up to a new house. Yeah, it’s fucked up. I know. I’ll get around to therapy someday. Maybe when I finally have a livable income.
I force myself to grab the folder and step out of the car. Let’s just get this over with. Then I can go home and spend all night working on my art while not dealing with other people’s terrible marketing ideas. Sunday night is for me. That’s my me-time, and it’s non-negotiable. It’s the one thing I give myself that no one gets to take away.
I scan the street on instinct. This neighborhood is middle-class suburbs at their finest. Sedate with neatly mowed lawns and sturdy American cars in the driveway. People who take care of their homes.
There’s an old guy in greasy coveralls working on a car in the garage next door. Hell, maybe I should ask him to recommend a cheap mechanic. I know basically nothing about cars. I won’t do it because I don’t approach people I don’t know, but it’s a nice thought.
The old man looks up with a smile and waves at me when I ring the doorbell. I sort of half-wave back out of obligation, not sure what the protocol is since the suburbs aren’t really my kind of place. You don’t wave at people where I live. That’s like asking for all the creepy randos to come talk to you. Nope.
“Well, hello there. You’re here to see Troy, I bet. Come on in.”
The sweet smell of newly baked cookies catches me off guard. I’m bustled into the house before I can even protest, much less get a look at my welcome committee. Once inside, I look up to find a sweet older lady in a blue flowered dress pulling me in for a hug. Something I usually try to avoid. This one isn’t terrible, though, so I don’t pull away immediately.
“I’m Gloria. Troy’s mom.”
Gloria looks exactly how I pictured Diesel’s mom. Mid-fifties, hair going gray but not quite there yet. Diesel’s a big boy, and I can see where he got at least some of his height. I’m 5’10” but Gloria tops me by at least an inch or two. She’s got a brilliant smile that lights up her entire face as if she couldn’t imagine anything better than me showing up unannounced.
She looks at me expectantly. It takes me a second to realize that I should introduce myself.
“Um, hi, I’m Micah. I work with Diesel, I mean Troy,” is all I’m able to spit out before she pulls me into another hug andsqueezes me tight. Even though I shouldn’t, I kind of melt into it. I have the strangest urge to ask her to do it again, but I shake it off.
“Oh, of course, you do! Well, come on in the kitchen, Micah honey. We’re doing our Sunday meal prep. I’m sure Troy will be thrilled to see you!”
I open my mouth to say I just need a signature, but she’s already leading me into the kitchen. The house smells amazing. Which isn’t surprising because Diesel brings in some banging food.
The kitchen itself smells like onions and garlic cooking in butter, which is better than any dessert in my book. It tells you dinner’s coming soon, and it’s gonna be tasty. It looks modern, as if it was recently remodeled, with stainless steel appliances and an oven with two doors. Wow, I didn’t even know that was a thing you could do. The walls are painted in white and grayish-blue, and the cabinets are a warm honey oak, which looks perfect with the white marble countertops.
There’s light jazz playing in the background, not too loud, just an undertone. It’s nice after the cacophony at the gym, especially when Tank gets a hold of the speakers. I love me some Taylor Swift too, but not all-day long.
I have to stop for a second because there’s Diesel, standing in front of the stove, back to me, wearing what I can only describe as a fifties-era apron, and it’s pink. Hot pink. So much is going on here. I want to laugh so badly, but I hold back. I like Diesel, so I’d hate to offend him. Which is okay because Gloria’s got me covered.
“Troy! Come greet your guest, son. Micah’s come for a visit.”
“Micah?” Diesel, or Troy — not sure which anymore because now that I think about it, Troy fits him much better, drops the mixing spoon into the pot and whirls around while trying to untie his frilly pink apron, which says “Don’t Go Bacon MyHeart.” And that’s it. I can’t hold it in because this is absolutely fantastic. But I’m also me, so what he gets is a genuinely amused smile, but I’m laughing like a loon on the inside.
What we aren’t going to discuss is how my eyes linger on that juicy ass, looking so very nice in those tight gym shorts, or the way the man looks as if he could manhandle me straight into the bedroom.
Jesus, I need to get laid.
Troy’s face is definitely pink, although it’s hard to tell with his dark brown skin, but I can see it on the tips of his ears. I watch his mouth open, then shut, then open again before he gets a resolute look on his face and stops fidgeting with the apron.
