Page 18 of Anger Banger

Hopeless, both of them.

I slept like a rock all night. Whatever this new job has in store for me, not working overnight is a definite bonus. Sleeping in naps is exhausting long term but it was the best way to still manage to do the food deliveries and not miss out on all daylight. That shit gets depressing.

When I wake, two texts wait for me. The one from the Night Brooms cleaning company manager makes me snort.

Jim:

Thanks for the two weeks notice.

Jim is a man in his sixties who leers at all the young women he hires and likes to tell us we’d be prettier if we smiled. He also likes to proclaim loudly that no one wants to work anymore while paying pennies and no benefits. He sure didn’t give Brenda two weeks notice when he fired her for missing work because her kid had his tonsils out. Jim can kiss my ass. I wasn’t scheduled last night, and I left a message right after I accepted Cooper’s offer yesterday. Twenty-four hours is all he’s getting from me.

Ignoring his text, I open the one from my now ex-coworker, Holly.

Holly:

You quit? Nooo.

Me:

Sorry, I found something better. Kind of last minute.

Holly:

Are they looking for anyone else?

Me:

No, but you’ll be my first call if they start. Sorry I won’t be bringing coffee tonight. Meet for one soon?

Holly and I have become pretty good friends and I don’t want to lose touch with her.

Holly:

Fine, but I want a cookie too since you’re abandoning me.

The house is quiet when I get up and get ready for work. Pops isn’t one of those elderly men you see out on the porch or working in the yard at seven in the morning. He’s a night owl. His poker nights with the golden guys can often stretch until two or three a.m.

He’s still asleep when I grab my coffee and bag, then head down to the office. Cooper said he wanted it opened by nine, but he didn’t mention what time he wanted me to start work. I’m assuming it’s eight, like most first shift jobs. I’m not sure why we still refer to jobs as a nine to five.

The office trailer is unlocked and smells of lemon scented cleanser when I enter. Someone has done a cursory clean of the place, wiping down the surfaces and mopping the floors. It’s warm inside and the ceiling fan spins lazily, circulating the air.

The entire time I’ve lived here, the office was never open or staffed. We dropped our rent into the box attached to the door or mailed it in. The drop box is now missing, and a folding table has been added against the far wall, with a few chairs scattered about.

Filing cabinets stand lined up beside a desk that holds an ancient desktop computer and monitor. Behind the desk, a new printer, shredder, and laptop sit stacked up, still in their boxes. Another box holds a random array of office supplies like paper and pens.

“Cooper?” I call out, my voice echoing in the space. The only thing I hear is the sound of the furnace kicking on somewhere in the back. Hmm, maybe he did mean for me to show up at nine. Leaving the office unlocked with that stuff in here was stupid.

There’s no point in going back home, so I explore a little, opening the door behind the desk to see what’s there. Hopefully, there’s a functioning bathroom at least.

It’s even warmer in the hallway where the smell of lemon cleanser is being overpowered by another scent. It smells familiar. Like a pine tree being attacked by mint. There’s a small kitchen off to the right with a mini fridge and microwave taking up most of the short counter space. They both look new.

A few more steps down the hall brings me to a bedroom where only a small table sits, holding a stack of folded clothes. The adjoining door is open a few inches and steam pours into the room, bringing the scent I now recognize with it. Men’s body wash. Or shampoo. No matter what brand they use, it all has that same underlying masculine smell.

Before I can put two and two together, a very wet, very naked man emerges, his face obscured by a towel as he aggressively dries his hair and strides across to the table.

My brain checks out completely at the sight of the appendage swaying between his legs. A single drop of water runs down to drip off the tip and falls to the floor. It’s hypnotized me. The movement stops. My gaze trails back up firm, thick thighs to a tanned stomach that bears the slightest trace of ab muscles and over a broad chest with a light layer of dark hair.

My sex drive roars to attention after months of self-imposed celibacy. The involuntary contraction from below must be from all those Kegels I’ve been doing. Or puss ups, as Lila has dubbed them.

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