Page 9 of Grant’s Heat

The night foreman quit. Turned in

his two weeks at the end of shift.

I set down the phone on the mattress long enough to hunt for some clothes. I was drawing a blank on remembering where Cybil and I had stripped last night. We’d gotten busy as soon as she’d arrived and had eventually ended up in the bed, but between then and now, I’d banged her downstairs, in the stairway, and against a doorjamb in the hallway. Finding pants anywhere near the bed wasn’t likely.

Instead, I grabbed my phone and went into the bathroom. After shutting the door, I finished my return text to Bas.

It’s a little early for this, man. I’ll see

you at the office, and we’ll come up

with a plan. Be there by seven.

Kick her out and make it six thirty.

I didn’t bother with a reply to his comeback as I turned the shower on full blast and grabbed a towel from the stack in the linen closet.

Luxuriating in one of my massive showers was a daily indulgence that no one got to interrupt. I didn’t pass it over this morning, either. Something about hot water beating down on my skin did things for my body and soul that nothing else could. There were five hundred points of interest there for my therapist to expound upon—half of which I’d already examined myself at one point or another.

Growing up was a shitty experience for me. Much like my best friend, I’d lived in poverty and, on most days, couldn’t count on a meal in my belly or a roof over my head. Bathing was usually at the kitchen tap or, if my mother hadn’t paid the water bill, a public faucet somewhere with the fear of getting caught and chased off. Going to school in dirty clothes or not having bathed for a few days, especially once puberty set in, I was always at risk of being “that kid” who smelled bad. Kids can be real assholes to one another, trust me.

Never again.

I remembered the day I bought my first bottle of salon shampoo like most people remember their first kiss. A defining moment, as those things were called. After that, it was the coordinating conditioner, styling products, and body wash. Now, that regime was expanded to the point that the daily shower lasted thirty minutes while I stood under six showerheads of pelting hot water, and a specialized heat lamp made sure I never got as much as one goose bump of discomfort. I let the water rush over my body until I felt like my skin would peel off my bones, grateful for every…single…drop.

The walk-in closet had a few suits hanging within it, none of which appealed to me today, but I didn’t have much of a choice since I’d come here on a whim. Maybe I’d just grab a different tie from the stash I kept at the office. Problem solved.

Well, the first problem.

Now I had to deal with the woman still sleeping in my bed. I always dreaded the morning-after part of this bullshit. While most of the women I casually slept with, Cybil included, knew I wasn’t interested in anything more, there was always that odd occasion when one of them forgot the rules. It didn’t matter that the damn things weren’t written rules. I was still clear about them. With everyone.

One thing was for certain though… Standing here in a snit about the issue wasn’t accomplishing anything. With a deep inhale, I touched Cybil’s exposed shoulder. “Hey. Time to get up.”

“Mmmm.” She rolled toward the middle of the bed instead.

I walked over to the windows and started flipping open all the shutters, letting in the watery light of early dawn. “Rise and shine.”

“Rise and what?” she moaned into the pillow.

“Time to go,” I replied. “I have to get to work.”

“Now?”

“Now. Come on, you need to go.”

“Ugghh, Grant,” she whined. “Can’t I just let myself out? We just went to bed a couple of hours ago. Baby, you wore me out.” She stretched lazily. “Daaamn…”

“You know how it goes with me. If you don’t like it, don’t answer when I call you.” My tone was flat and firmly in asshole territory. “I’ve got to be out of here in ten minutes. I can call you a car…”

“Ah, such a gentleman.” Cybil sat up, not bothering to cover her naked body. My bite marks covered half her chest. “But don’t worry. I’ve got mine here.”

“Great. I’ll see you downstairs. Do you want a cup of coffee?” I offered. “I’ll make you one to go.”

“That would be great. Cream and two sugars, please.”

In the kitchen, I called for a car to take me into downtown LA and got started on the coffee.

I’d just finished making us each a cup when she appeared in the kitchen, fully dressed, high heels dangling from her fingers.