Page 4 of Hot Mess Express
The cloying stink of alcohol wafts off of him as he passes by—alcohol and an oaky, outdoorsy sweat odor I’m ashamed to say I don’t find as repugnant as I should. It’s full of masculine musk, full of a day’s hard work, and a harder night before, which I might be safe to assume involved partying too hard. This guy is nursing a tough Friday night hangover on this lazy Saturday morning shift when no one’s got any need to gas up.
My eyes drop to his ass as I follow him outside. Part of the back of his clerk vest is tucked into his jeans, which I’m pretty sure isn’t intentional, the guy likely totally unaware. There’s a big red smiley sticker with its tongue sticking out stamped to the left butt cheek of his jeans, too, which is also probably an accident, like he sat on it and didn’t notice. With his every step, the smiley dances along with his ass. I can’t pull my eyes off of it.
Until we reach the pump and he starts cranking a big handle. “See this here?” he explains in a voice not unlike talking to a child. “It builds pressure, squeezes the gas up from the big tanky-tanky underground so it’s ready to go intoyourtanky-tanky. That’s how these old manual pumps work. Now take that nozzle there.”
Honestly, I don’t know whether to see him as a hungover dick, or just some misguided small-town guy having a tough morning. He looks about my age, maybe a few years younger, but I could be wrong. He’s sure acting like an immature man-child right now.
I decide to be petty and play dumb, just to annoy him. Doesn’t he deserve it? “This one?” I ask, going for the wrong nozzle.
“No, the other one.”
“This?”
“That’s not even a nozzle.”
“Oh. This?”
It’s too gratifying, watching the nerves tick up in his neck and face from every wrong word I say, his eyebrows drawing together and squishing up his forehead as he stares me down, appearing to struggle between yelling at me or giving up and quitting his job on the spot. “That,” he states in a patience-depleted tone, pointing, “right the hell in front of you.”
“Ah.” I pull the nozzle off the holster and fidget with it, aimed right at him, flicking some metal piece up. “And then I just—?”
“Don’t—!”
Fuel hurtles out of the nozzle and completely engulfs the guy, soaking his tank, his vest, and the front of his jeans.
“Fuck!” I shout, genuinely horrorstruck, as I hurriedly direct the gushing nozzle to the fuel tank of the car, splashing the side of the vehicle on its way. “Sorry. I … I didn’t mean to—wow,you’rereallysoaked—I didn’t know it’d just—”
“Lick a dick!” he shouts.
Is that just an expression? Or did he just tell me to—? “What’d you just say to me?”
“Fuckin’ soaked!” he cries, shrugging off his vest in disgust.
“Did you just tell me to lick your dick?”
He turns two very angry eyes at me. “You just covered me in gasoline because you don’t know how to operate a fuckin’ pump!”
My heart pounds in my ears. “You kidding me? This pump is from last century. I just needed help to—”
“You want me to hold your hand?” he asks, again adopting his talking-to-a-child voice as he flings his soaked vest over the pump. “Need me to tell you what a great job you’re doing, being able to put a nozzle into your car like a big boy?Oh, look at you go!”
“What the fuck is your problem?”
“You,” he says, putting his face right in front of mine, fearless, no care in the world, no respect, just pure attitude. “You’re my fuckin’ problem, you jack-off wagon.”
“Jack-off what?”
He grabs the bottom of his soaked tank and peels it off over his head, knocking off his hat. My eyes drop to his bare chest, oily and wet, the yellowish, greasy fuel dripping down his long body to the waistband of his underwear. With a guttural growl I think isn’t meant to sound as erotic as it does, he runs a hand through his sweaty hair and scowls down at his drenched, half-naked body.
If there’s such a thing as gas station porn, this is how it starts.
I cannot possibly offer an explanation as to why, in the middle of this heated confrontation where I want to tear this guy a new asshole, my heart just flew into my throat, chokingwhatever I was about to say, and why it’s bouncing around my ribcage trying to find a way out. I haven’t had a reaction like this since an intense training exercise went sideways four and a half years ago, leaving me stranded in the woods for the longest night of my life.
Is that the effect this guy has on me? Igniting my fight or flight response?
“Fuckin’ straight through my pants, too,” he grumbles. “Are you a psychopath?”
I look up from his wet body. It takes an effort. “Psychopath?”
