Page 28 of Petrichor

“For the time being, you’re fine. Until the debt is paid,” I give him in a final tone.

He looks down, his mouth opens but nothing comes out. Then he lifts his bright eyes on me again. “I have a proposition.”

Is a repeat of that encounter what he has in mind? The memory of that BJ hits me again. His mouth sucked so damn eagerly when I filled it with cum, squeezing me tightly afterward, almost as if parting from my cock was painful. It urged me to shoot more.

His next words shake me out of the hot memories. “Hear me out. I owe you 3K, after deducting the money I gave you already. Unfortunately I can’t repay you at the moment, but I can do errands for you, clean your house, take care of small stuff. I can’t cook, but I can place orders, get take-aways. Like a domestic help-slash-assistant. I calculate that depending on the hours you make me work, I’ll be able to repay my debt to you in around three months. Maybe, less.”

A help-slash-assistant,the words echo inside my head for a moment.

I use a cleaning company twice a week and I don’t want any kind of daily assistance. I don’t really need his preposterous proposition. But it surprised me, though. I expected a sob story to try to weasel his way out of the debt, or at least a morespicysuggestion—since my head keeps going back to that BJ.

This guy is a fucking riddle I need to solve.

I look down at my shirt dangling over his shoulder. Nobody has ever worn my clothes before. It suits him, just like that damn lingerie underneath. He brushes his fingers on the white fabric covering his chest, giving me a quick glance of the blue lace through the shirt for a moment.

I suddenly snatch his wrist and squeeze, not liking where my head continues wandering. “If you have any survival instincts, don’t ever touch my stuff again,” I growl, tightening my grasp before letting him go. “Come tomorrow morning to my place at seven-thirty on the dot. I hate lateness.”

I need to keep him close for the time being. Plus, he does owe me money for my suit and shirts. And I don’t do fucking charity.

He nods with a resolute expression covering his face. “I’ll be there, Marco.”

I can see the way he’s trying to stifle a smile. It annoys me. So, I hiss, “I’m sir or Mr. Moretti to you.”

He blinks. His eyes flicker between mine for a second then go back to his ice cream without a word.Good.He finishes it quietly while I get another spoonful of the coffee gelato. After a light comment about my dark brew addiction, he waves at me on the sidewalk as he walks away.

A few days working under me, and he won’t look so candidly at me ever again.

Chapter Four

Fly

Three days later, I’m setting the dish cloth down on the sink as I admire my work. The kitchen is tidy and all shiny.

The penthouse is a fucking dream to look at, but a nightmare to clean since it takes up the whole floor. The living room is L-shaped with high ceilings and gigantic glass walls—I don’t envy the window washer one bit. The modern fireplace has a round gray base and a bold, curved glass, and circular canopy hanging from the ceiling which must give a wonderful all-round vision to the dancing flames, especially if sitting on the big, creamy sofa near it. A six-chaired glass table sits behind it on top of a geometrical-patterned carpet. A huge TV hangs over the wall on the other side near the kitchen and the other brown sofa—where I laid Marco that first night.

But the balcony is my favorite part of the room. It’s wide enough to hold the white, wrought iron table and chairs where I usually eat my lunch, looking at the bustling city streets of Manhattan without hearing a single sound, since the penthouse is high up the building. The wall and part of the stone rail is covered in the beautiful magenta flowers of a prolific vine, I hope they’ll keep blooming during the next months.

The large corridor near the kitchen leads to a bathroom, two bedrooms, an office—which is always locked—and a gym. Cleaning this whole place is a job for two people, but this was my idea, and staying in such a luxurious place all day isn’t that bad. Time passes slowly when I’m not busy and I end up dwelling on my own thoughts.

I gave Diego all the clothes that needed dry cleaning, took care of the bathrooms, and remade the bed. I need to go buy some groceries.Mr. Suitleft his daily list on the counter for me, and it's damn long. I let my fingers move on the piece of paper, enjoying the smooth surface. I move them down on the cold, hard marble underneath and then again over the clear handwriting and angular cursive letters. Even the way he writes reflects his impatient and harsh personality.

It seems like he’s trying to make it hard for me. To get back at me for the precious suit I ruined. I’ve been working since I was thirteen, though—never had much of a choice—so I’m not in the least dispirited by the amount of work. How can I be, when I can smell his orange blossom scent everywhere? I learned it comes from his citrusy body wash mixed with his sweeter cologne.

Cleaning his place helped me get to know him better. The meticulously neat way—organized by shade and fabric—in which he keeps his clothes made me truly understand how much he treasures them. No Dolce&Gabbana or Armani, only custom-madesuits for the somber gangster. I would have been much more careful with that drink if I had known.

My phone vibrates on the coffee table. It’s a text from Art with the name of the café we usually meet at. I haven’t seen him in a while. I should go.

I look at the purple bag I brought with me, thinking I could work on some of my pieces today. Being a seamster wasn’t my childhood dream, I kind of stumbled into it thanks to the woman who took me in when I was a kid. She was old and needed help around the house and sewing was a side job she did for friends and neighbors. I quickly discovered I was good at it and that I enjoyed it greatly. The whole male lingerie idea came much later, when I found out how much I love the feel of lace and velvet on me and how little the selection of pretty things for men was out there. So altering and making custom male lingerie started as an idea which I turned into a business. Still a small one, but it’s slowly growing.

I have some more orders I need to ship this week: three pairs of thongs, two boy shorts, and a babydoll. I can stop by the post office on the way to the café. It’s almost lunch time.

I text Art “fifteen minutes,” and check my reflection on the entrance’s gold-framed mirror—the concealer does a good job at covering the yellow discolorations on my face. Jerry. That fucking piece of shit. If I could go back in time to the night I met him, I’d flip him off and go for another guy.

Dwelling about the past seems to be my favorite sport.

After gathering what I need, I leave the penthouse. It’s raining when I get out on the sidewalk. The streets are drenched in a subdued sheen. The extremely fine rain lightly caresses my body. I didn’t bring an umbrella. I don’t really mind this weather. Rain has a way of making me feel at peace, almost as if it could wash allmy stray thoughts away. When it comes down, the sky doesn’t seem so vast anymore.

I quickly reach the post office, and while I wait for the clerk to weigh my packages, my phone vibrates again. It's Art asking not very politely where I am.Always so restless.I met him at a guy club a couple of months back. We were both drinking at the bar when a big guy hit on both of us simultaneously. I elbowed him while Art stomped on his foot. It was like an encounter between two kindred spirits.

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