MICAH
Holy.Fucking. Hell.
Hot water sprays down my spine, but the temperature isn’t what heats my skin. The scalding spray is the excuse my mind created so I could bury the guilt. The guilt that ensues as I grip my thick, angry cock in my palm and tug with too much aggression. Stroke and squeeze with eyes pinched tightly as I slap my free hand on the tile.
No matter how long I stroke myself, no matter how firm or soft my technique, satisfaction never comes.
My cock doesn’t want my hand. What it needs is a feisty blonde who I can silence with my dick.
Fuck.
I finish jacking off, feeling no relief in the end, then wash up double time.
Peyton wants me to think. She wants me to dig deep to find the answers. Well, I did plenty of that last night while I had lain awake in bed, staring at a cobweb on the ceiling for hours. I scavenged the corners of my mind and came up blank. Not a goddamn explanation. Hell, a hint would be helpful at this point.
The way she spoke… as if I know her. Or I did, once upon a time.
But I would remember Peyton. Her sexy as hell curves. Champagne locks and addictive eyes. Her unparalleled spunk and vicious banter. No chance I would forget any of those qualities.
Question is, if I did know her, was she not who she is now? Quite possible. If so, then yeah, I have no idea who Peyton is—or was—and rewinding time, week by week, is the only way to find answers.
That takes a lot of time and effort. Neither of which I will expend today.
Today, I suit up and prepare for battle. Give Peyton a taste of what she is missing. Give her a taste of what I have to offer.
“Game on, hellcat.”
Stepping out of the shower, I towel off. I add product to my hair and comb my fingers through to give it that just-fucked look. The look women seem to ogle and beg to touch. Sliding open the closet, I yank a navy button-down and charcoal slacks off the hangers. After I zip up my pants and latch the last button, I add a splash of cologne, then slip on socks and dress shoes.
One last glance in the mirror—because looks need to kill tonight—and I smile at my reflection.
Before leaving for work, I cook a quick dinner, packaging half of it to eat during break later.
The drive from Clearwater to Tampa isn’t clogged this time of day. Driving over the causeway allows me time to clear my head and take in the scenery. Sunny, blue skies with the occasional cotton-puff clouds. Salty breeze off the Bay. The occasional boom of music as I pass beachgoers. And the obvious jubilance of people as they enjoy the weather. The energy here invigorates me.
I park behind Roar forty minutes later. No one else has arrived yet. I don’t expect to bump into staff for at least another hour.
In the office, I go through my normal routine before the crew trickles in. Reset the register tills. Count and verify the cash from the previous night. Log the sales numbers. Prepare the bank deposit for Ani or Sean. And do a once-over of the interior while the space is empty.
Ani enters the office just as I seal the deposit bag. “Hey, Micah.”
I peer up from the computer and lean back in the chair. “Ani,” I say with a nod. “How are you?”
Since tension has been slowly building between Peyton and me, I hesitate on what’s safe conversation with Ani. Peyton and Ani have an obvious relationship outside of Roar, but I’m not sure what it entails. Ani hired Peyton without input from Sean, Gina, or me. One thing I have learned working for Ani and Sean, if Ani makes such a snap decision, she has her reasons. Which she keeps to herself.
“Good, good. Sean and I have been drumming up new ideas for the slower nights. If you have suggestions, shoot us an email. Business hasn’t been bad, but I’d love it to be better.”
Slow nights tend to be Monday through Thursday for Roar. Typical with most bars, clubs, and restaurants. When we changed Wednesday to ladies’ night—aka Woman Crush Wednesday, Roar style—our profits doubled the first month. Tonight, Roar does Throw Back Thursday. Hours of ’80s and ’90s music and half-priced beer on tap. This draws more of a male crowd. Thursday sales… they tripled the first month.
Monday and Tuesday are my days off unless Gina goes on vacation. Monday and Tuesday at Roar are worse than sweaty balls stuck to your thigh. I suspect those are the days Ani wants to improve. Can’t say I blame her.
“Sure thing. I’ll think on it and shoot you guys an email later tonight or tomorrow.”
Ani takes the deposit bag from the desk and stows it in her duffel-sized purse. “How’re things otherwise? Any staff issues I need to be aware of?”
A layer of sweat builds in my armpits. Is she searching? Either that or I am reading into her words too much. Paranoid much, Reed? Bound to happen when you have a one-track mind.
“Not off the top of my head,” I tell her. “We may need to hire more staff if you’re plotting new ideas.”
She taps a finger to her lip. “Good point. Let’s see what we come up with and we’ll go from there.” Ani starts for the door. Thank god. I never sweat in front of my boss, but today is an exception. Just as I breathe again, she spins to face me. “Hope you and Peyton are getting along.”
Whiplash. Where did that come from? And why the hell is it important?
Tread lightly, Reed. “We get on fine.”
She nods as her eyes look away from me, thoughtful. “So, she’s doing well?”