Whetting the Appetite

Home Inspection by Lynn Townsend

Home Inspection by Lynn Townsend

“The professor’s back,” Dominick said. He made a show of brushing sawdust off his sleeves. “Bro, you gotta get him out of here.”

Eric sighed. As the foreman, it was his job to tell the client to take a flying f**k through a rolling doughnut…politely. “Ayup,” Eric said. “Take the crew and go kill it for twenty minutes. Here, get me one of those crack brownies at the 7-11.” He dug a tattered fifty out of his cargo pants, unearthing a handful of dirty quarters, a smashed cigarette butt, and his Zippo. “I’ll have a chat with our over-eager homeowner.” He fished his smokes out of his vest and stuck one in the corner of his mouth. He offered the Grant to his lead.

Dom smacked him in the shoulder with one ham-sized fist. “Thought you quit?” Dom pocketed the bill smoothly.

“f**k you,” Eric snapped, “and the horse ya rode in on.”

Laughing, Dom strode away, whistling for the crew. “Snacks on the boss, ya apes! Last one in the van buys the beer!” Eric’s crew scrambled out of the site like their pants were on fire and their asses were catching. Eric shook his head as a skinny roofer with the unlikely name of Butch galloped down the skeleton staircase, swearing a blue streak.

While the crew fought and shoved and bickered over the prime seats, Eric strolled across the construction site, preparing the windy argument he reserved for clients who didn’t listen. It boiled down to “we can’t work while you’re here, jackass,” but it tended to sound nice, polite, and legal.

The client, a dean from one of the local colleges, was standing on what would eventually be his front porch, hands stuffed uncouthly in his sports jacket pockets, gazing out into the empty lot of pasture grasses next door. In another six months, there would be another McMansion built, but for the moment, it was empty save the inevitable cruft of not-yet-discarded construction supplies and crumpled fast food wrappers. He turned as Eric approached, a wide, white smile painting his handsome features.

As always, Eric had to stop, swallow, and draw a deep breath. There was something about Professor Richardson with his impeccable suits with the loose tie and the folded silk handkerchief that just stole all his air. Eric’s belly twisted with a brief road-flare of unrequited lust. Cold shower, he promised himself. Just get through the conversation.

Eric stepped closer. He was taller and a good deal bulkier than the teacher, and most men—in Eric’s experience—were intimidated by his size. He was well inside the client’s personal space. “Hey, Mr. Richardson,” he said, smelling the man’s Italian cologne.

Richardson looked up, met Eric’s gaze while somehow managing to look as if he wasn’t craning his neck, an interesting feat. Eric was used to people taking a step back in order to take in his entire six-foot-four frame.

“Well, Mister Hopkins,” the professor said, “how very pleasant to see you again.” He lifted his phone from his jacket pocket, glanced at the screen, touched it briefly, and smiled.

“Ya know you’re not s’posed to be out here, sir,” Eric said. “It ain’t safe, it makes the boys nervous, and nothin’ gets done with a client pokin’ about. If ya want your house finished, I gotta ask ya to stay away from the site unless we’re doin’ inspections.” Eric did his best to loom over the shorter man, without picturing what he’d rather be doing; stripping off that suit jacket, throwing the tie to one side, running his hands over that gleaming ebony skin, feeling the crisp crinkle of the professor’s close-cut hair, tasting the…

Enough!

“You quite mistake the matter, Eric, if I may call you Eric?” the professor said, his academia accent sending ripples of desire down Eric’s spine. “You believe I wish to see my house constructed, to walk alone, bare feet on my custom-installed slate floors. To stare out at the forest and fields from my bay window, thinking of nothing but the books in my library, or spending an evening soaking in the jetted tub next to the fireplace?”

Oh f**k me, I’m going to die here. Eric envisioned the entirety of the neatly painted scene, wrapped up in the unobtainable bow of being able to share those moments with him.

“Sir?” On his hip, Eric’s phone vibrated. He ignored it. Texts or f*******: or email. It would wait.

“Please, call me Temple,” the professor said, his eyes crinkling in the corners as he grinned.

That shook Eric out of his pleasantly torturous daydream. “Temple? Your name is Temple?”

The wry tip of Temple’s eyebrow was quite fetching, as well as the sarcastic smirk. “It even says so on my business cards.”

“Sorry, just—”

“Never you mind,” Temple said. “One doesn’t have an unusual name without growing a very thick skin about it. If nothing else, one tends to be remarkable and remembered.”

“Ya don’t need a fancy name for that, professor,” Eric said. He relented, took a step back, and a deep breath. “Think you’re pretty memorable without it.”

“Indeed?” Temple’s eyebrow shot up even higher on that smooth, chocolate forehead. “Well, that’s promising, as I have a different reason for wishing, so often, to be over-seeing the construction. Perhaps even, of delaying it.”

“What are ya talkin’ about?” Eric asked. He felt like he was swimming in unfamiliar waters, shapes and bodies moving in the unseen depths below him. He glanced away, looking at the empty road, the quiet construction site.

“You should check your phone, Eric. I believe you have a message waiting for you.”

“Huh?” Eric snatched the phone off his clip—how the hell had?—oh. Oh, God. Damn.

Grindr: MyBodyisUrTemple sent a message.

“I believe you left your locator on, while you were at work. More than once.” Temple lifted both eyebrows, his light brown eyes filled with a question and an invitation.

“Oh.”

“So you see where I might want to delay the construction?”

Eric grinned. “Maybe I should hurry it along…that jetted tub sounds awesome.”