Trading with the Boys

“Miss?” The voice was high-pitched and annoyed. But not as much as it was annoying. “MISS?”

“Yes?” I said sweetly.

“This fish is raw,” the woman in the baseball cap said. The pony tail protruding out the back and over the snap-strap shook with indignance. “Really raw, as in dangerous to eat!”

I unloaded my drinks first, at the table behind her. That pissed her off even more. By the time I got back to where she was picking apart her meal with her fork, her expression was downright scornful.

“Look at this,” she said. “This fish is white all over!”

“Well it’s a white fish,” I replied calmly. “It’s halibut.”

The woman scoffed at me, snorting a derisive laugh. “Are you saying I’m wrong?” she demanded. “All you have to do is open your eyes. Anyone can tell, this fish isn’t cooked.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!”

“Because it looks like you ate three-quarters of it.”

Under normal circumstances I’d be all smiles and apologies. Replacements and refunds. But today… well, today I was tired. Tired and drained.

But damn, if I wasn’t still in a fantastic mood.

“Well I’m very sorry,” I apologized quickly. “Would it be okay if I took it off the bill for you?”

Her mouth had already been open, ready to admonish me. Instead she closed it and nodded.

“Very good then.”

I walked away, secure in the knowledge I probably saved at least part of my tip. Table seven’s appetizers would be ready soon. Table nine still needed their drink order. My feet hurt and my back was killing me and I really needed to catch up on my sleep.

None of that mattered, though. All thanks to Tate.

I sighed as I disappeared into the kitchen, thinking about the events of the past few nights. Tate had come by every evening, to work on the car. I made him dinner, we made small talk, and we downed a few beers together.

Then, right around midnight…

Jesus Christ, Serena.

Right around midnight he’d emerge from the garage to push me back into the same section of couch. Our eyes would lock, and without a word he’d go down on me, expertly, until I’d come. Three straight nights it happened, and each climax was more life-changing than the last. We never talked about it, before or afterward. Each night he left me breathless and dripping, and each morning I’d wake up and wash his jumpsuit and hang it near the garage door for when he came back again.

It was strange. Crazy. Downright bizarre.

But it was also the hottest thing in the whole fucking world.

There were times when I wanted to bring it up, of course. To see what was going on in his head. And yet I was terrified of screwing our little routine up, of breaking the spell. So I stayed happily silent, and as each day went by we grew more and more comfortable with our arrangement. I dressed more provocatively, and wore tinier panties. Eventually I stopped wearing panties at all.

Since I worked late some nights I began leaving the door open for him, with dinner on the table. By the fifth day, I actually gave him a key. After all, the guy was fixing my car for free… among other things. Besides, if I couldn’t trust someone whose tongue had been inside me, who could I trust?

I noticed Tate had grown bolder and more comfortable in the house, too. He’d started doing our dinner dishes and cleaning up a little before I got home, and once I even found the television on. But it was yesterday, just before the finale of our latest explosive encounter, that he really surprised me.

“What’s up with the basement?”

I’d stood silent for a moment, blinking in surprise before answering. “What about it?”

“There’s a whole apartment down there,” he’d said, “private entrance and everything. Why aren’t you renting it out?”

“Because it’s trashed,” I’d told him. “There was a tenant down there at one point, before we moved in. Eric planned on fixing it one day, but he told me the appliances and fixtures were too far gone. Then he moved all his stuff down there, and—”