Working Men 2 Box Set

Blurring the Lines-2

The part of town he lives in is called Windsor Farms. If it sounds upscale, that’s because it is. I inch my battered 1982 Toyota Corolla down the leaf-covered streets of his subdivision and feel like one of the Beverly Hillbillies. These homes are on two- and three-acre lots, sprawling mansions set back off the road with landscaped lawns and cobbled driveways. Not for the first time, I think maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to quote my prices to new clients. I should get their addresses first, look them up on Google Maps, and hike up the rate if they live like kings.

RC’s home is tucked away in a cul-de-sac that is probably considered little in his neighborhood, but my whole city block would fit in his front yard. I pull into his driveway like he instructed in his text—all the way in, easing my car down a narrow lane between his house and a privacy fence, then turning into the paved space behind the house so no one will see me from the street.

When I get out of the car, I lock it out of habit, then chuckle at myself. Who’d steal it? Some of the people who live around here drive vehicles that cost more than what I paid for all four years of college. No one’s going to look twice at my piece of crap.

A long porch leads to a screen door. I can see inside—an island in a kitchen, marble countertops, steel appliances that look brand new. Down a short hall is a flat-screen TV larger than the longest wall in my living room. A leather sofa faces it, and I catch a glimpse of the back of a man’s head. Short-cropped dark hair, and when I knock on the side of the door, he turns and I see a trim beard, a very manly look. He sees me and grins, his eyes sparkling.

He sent a picture in his e-mail so I already know what to expect, but to be honest, I thought he’d used a photo of a sexy model in some luxurious country home. I didn’t think he’d really be so…well, so perfect.

When he stands, I notice he’s bare-chested, and the hair on his muscled pecs is the same brown-black as that on his head and face. He wears a low-hanging pair of sweatpants that leave little to the imagination and nothing on his feet. As he approaches the door, his grin is contagious and I can’t help but return it. “Hey,” I say as he opens the screen door wide. “RC?”

Of course he is. “You must be Mike,” he says.

Up close, his eyes are the palest shade of blue I’ve ever seen. I almost correct him—actually no, it’s Greg—but then I remember my rule about never telling them my real name and I just nod instead. He holds the door for me to step inside. To say I’m impressed would be an understatement. This dude is rich.

Still, I’m pleased I manage not to sound awestruck when I tell him, “Nice place you have here.”

“It’s home,” he says.

Must be nice.

He closes the screen door behind me, then shuts the back door for good measure. For a moment I almost believe I’m just here to visit—we’re friends and he’s invited me over to watch the game, maybe, and we’ll eat pizza on his leather sofa in front of that big-ass TV. Then his smile widens and his eyes heat up as he looks me over, and I remember we’re not friends. The lust I see when he looks at me says as much.

But he’s a gracious host. “Are you hungry?” he asks. That’s a first. “Or do you maybe want something to drink first?”

I shake my head. “I’m good. We can just go in the…I don’t know, the bedroom or something? Unless you want to do it here…”

“What? No, no.” He laughs, a throaty sound that reminds me of summer thunder. One hand runs through his hair, but it’s too short to really muss up. It rises up off his forehead in a sensual sweep. “This is sort of my first time doing this.”

I find that hard to believe. “Come on, really? A hot guy like you—”

“I thought you said you were straight.” His eyes cloud over, suddenly wary.

“Straight but not blind,” I assure him. “You must look in the mirror. You know you’re hot. Don’t tell me you’ve never…”

He laughs again, and his eyes crinkle into half-moons I’m sure women and men alike swoon over. “I’ve never paid for it,” he says. “But it’s hard to meet people, you know? And things always get so damn complicated. I thought hey, this is a one-time thing. You need the money, I just want to fool around. What’s the big deal?”

“Exactly.”

He heads out of the kitchen but takes a left instead of a right, which would put us in the living room. I follow him down a dimly-lit hall, past closed doors that lead to who knows where, to the single open door at the far end. He stands aside, arm outstretched to let me go first.

A perfect gentleman. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I’m liking this.

This is obviously a guest bedroom, and from the looks of things, it hasn’t been used in some time. There’s a loveseat and dresser against one wall, and a full-size bed takes up the bulk of the room. The bed is elaborately made, almost like in a hotel. Downy comforter over the sheets, extra pillows propped up against the headboard—there really is a headboard, and one of those long, funny pillows that looks like a Tootsie Roll. A nightstand beside the bed has a small lamp on it, and a digital alarm clock that blinks 12:00 as it counts the seconds.

“So,” he says, clapping his hands. “Where should we begin?”