The Pool Boy (Nashville Neighborhood 2)

But hopefully, that wasn’t true.

I had a considerable collection of vibrators that got the job done, but no amount of silicone and mechanics could truly replace the real thing. God, I was so fucking horny.

I reclined back on the lounger, streamed some music I wanted to listen to, and closed my eyes behind my sunglasses to think.

The best fit in my deck of artists was Lauren Kinsell. She was young, had a great look, and we could probably tone down her heavy country sound to broaden her appeal for a single show. Stella’s target audience skewed heavily female, playing best to the 14 to 30-year-old age range.

I hadn’t seen Lauren’s set in several months. She had a regular gig on Thursday nights at a honky-tonk on Broadway Street, and I’d need to go this week to refresh my memory. While I loved her sound, last time I’d watched her perform, her stage presence hadn’t been overly energetic or charismatic. She’d need a lot more for a Stella concert.

Hopefully, it’d just been an off night for her. Plus, she’d likely improved since then. Either way, I was confident I could get her to where she needed to be for the audition. This was such a huge opportunity to come her way.

I believed in my artists with all my heart, and it was my job to get as many doors open for them as possible. Helping them walk through them and into their dreams was immensely satisfying.

Plan of attack plotted out, I raised my arms up over my head and arched my back, stretching contently in the sun like a cat. The warmth felt amazing on my—

A noise rang out as a metal pole clattered loudly against the concrete.

It made my heart stop. I pulled out one of my earbuds, lifted my head, and opened my eyes, only to find the pool boy looking at me with a shocked expression painted across his face.

THREE

Troy

I was sticky with sweat, which meant I was also covered in dust. It was a billion fucking degrees outside, and my stepfather, Bill, was huffing like he couldn’t find any air.

I loved him like he was my biological dad. He was a good guy and made my mom happy. But he was also a lot older than her and in total denial about what kind of physical shape he was in. For example, he was carrying two boxes of tiles into the house, and I was carrying six. They were heavy as fuck too, and I’d done upper body at the gym yesterday, so I was struggling.

But I didn’t let the other guys on the job site know. Most of them saw me as Bill’s punk stepson, and any amount of bitching, even if it were justified, would only make it worse. I hated this job. Didn’t need a reason to hate it more.

“You leaving?” Bill didn’t mask his irritation when he saw me heading for the door.

Was he kidding? I tried not to snap at it. “It’s five after three.”

He glanced at his watch like that couldn’t be right. But sure enough, it was. “I thought it was barely two.” His demeanor changed and softened, and I gritted my teeth. He had that look like he was going to ask for something. “Any chance I can talk you into staying another hour? We could really use the help.”

I shook my head. “I’ve got an appointment.”

It wasn’t a lie. Tuesdays were my standing appointment to clean Ms. Graham’s pool, but I didn’t mention to Bill how the timing was flexible. She hadn’t been home a single time I’d gone over there, so I doubted she cared when I did the service.

He looked disappointed, but I didn’t stick around to watch. I walked out the door and down the lawn to my black Jeep Wrangler parked on the street. The leather wrapped steering wheel seared my hands as I drove home, the top open and the wind whipping through my hair.

I couldn’t wait to take a shower.

Remodeling homes wasn’t just dirty—it was fucking disgusting. Mold and termites and asbestos and mouse droppings . . . I didn’t want to think about what I was subjecting my body to every time I helped Bill’s company knock down a wall or tear out a bathtub.

As I turned down the street I lived on, a familiar car was parked to the side of my driveway. Preston was here?

My parents’ house had a three-car garage, and after I’d parked in my spot, I went through the kitchen and out the back door. My work shoes clomped on the concrete apron surrounding the pool as I walked toward my place. The exterior of the one-story guest house was the same as the main one, making the guest house look like a miniaturized version of it.