Page 63 of The Guy in the Alley

I opened my mouth to respond, but two knocks on the door interrupted, and I looked back— Oh, thank fuck, finally! It was Ben. It was Ben, and he… Fuck me sideways, I didn’t know I’d needed to see him this way so badly. Utility pants? Check. Hoodie? Check. Beanie with the logo of the company he now worked for? Check. Stubble that glinted silver in the sun? Oh, fucking check. But those pants… We were talking heavy-duty road worker pants. Dark gray instead of orange, but with neon-yellow reflective stripes.

Straight-up porn.

I opened the door for him, and the day had clearly breathed life into his eyes in a way I hadn’t witnessed before.

“Could you open up in the back?” He nodded toward the alley. “Your entrance, not the kitchen.”

Baby, I can open up any entrance for you.

“Uh, sure…? What’s in the back?” Except for my willing ass.

The corners of his eyes crinkled with a faint grin. “You’ll see.”

So, should I get undressed, or…? I had absolutely nothing against getting fucked by him in the alley.

He pulled out a pair of utility gloves and headed back to the alley, and I had to shake the case of stupid clogging up my brain. After relocking the door, I told Dad I’d be right back, and then I headed for the kitchen. Through said kitchen. Unlocked the door to the stairwell, where Ziggy waited for me, looking like he’d just woken up from a nap.

Maybe Ben could take him to the park. I’d already done that with Chip a few hours ago, and we’d discovered that Ziggy could be incredibly lazy. He was all energy when he was buzzing around someone’s legs, but faced with a park and greenery to run wild, he sat down next to the nearest park bench.

Hearing noises on the other side of the door, I knitted my brows and opened it, only to find Ben not alone. A big-ass truck was parked in the alley, and Ben and another man were hauling out wood that looked like it belonged in a junkyard. The planks were all different colors and types of wood, some long, some short.

There would be no fucking here, not that I’d actually believed it, but I was clearly walking into a scene with its own energy. They had to know each other, and the other man laughed at whatever Ben had just said.

Ben saw me and offered a quick smile before turning to the other guy. “Garrett, this is Trace, the young punk who’s saved my life twice.” That was going a bit far. “Trace, Garrett. We went to high school together, and he’s saved my ass too.”

“He’s exaggerating,” Garrett told me, coming over.

I nodded once and met him halfway down the stoop, and we shook hands. “Good, we’re on the same page. Nice to meet you.”

“You too, kid.”

Kid. Friends. Kid. Young punk. Friends.

Ben grunted as he dragged four wooden planks out of the bed of the truck. “If I’m gonna stay with you for a while, Trace… Ope—fuck.” He almost dropped one. “I’m building you a new bartop.”

My eyebrows crawled all the way up there.

“I called Garrett yesterday and asked if he had anything he wanted to get rid of,” he continued. He proceeded to carry the planks up the steps and into the stairwell. “Hey, Pip. How are ya, boy?” Ziggy ate up the attention.

“And I always do,” Garrett filled in. “We got cherry, hawthorn, oak, walnut, teak…”

I turned back to Ben, too dumbfounded to contribute a single response.

“It’ll take me a few weeks, but I think it’ll look great,” Ben said, coming out again.

I rubbed the back of my neck, and then Ben wiped sweat off his forehead, and I wanted to fucking die. Was everything he did gonna turn me on?

Also, I’d had that priced once, because I was curious what replacing our bartop would set me back, and the answer was roughly four grand from start to finish.

“I’m just happy to get rid of your crap, bud,” Garrett laughed.

Ben flashed a grin and turned to me. “I hope you don’t mind I store some tools upstairs. I left them with Garrett a few years ago and told him to throw me in the lake if I ever tried to sell them.”

Uh-huh.

“Not that they’re worth much,” he added, digging out his phone.

“Still quality shit,” Garrett said.

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