Page 44 of Exrated
I grab the empty bottle of lube and chuck it in the trash, and just when I’m about to walk out the door, Brandi prances inside the room, stopping in front of me. Her blonde hair is in pigtails, and she’s wearing a pair of cut off denim shorts, a checkered halter top, and cowboy boots.
“Hey, girl!” She sings, popping her gum.
“Uh, hey.”
“You finished for the day?”
“Yep.” I veer around her and start toward the door again. I glance over my shoulder as I make my way down the hall to find she’s following me.
“Benson’s fun to watch, huh?” she asks.
“Yeah, sure.”
“I always enjoy shooting with him.”
I nod because I honestly don’t care who she enjoys shooting with. Instead of heading toward the elevator, I go to the stairwell thinking she’ll go in a different direction, but she doesn’t. She follows me inside and down the stairs.
“So, how do you and Johnny know each other?”
I exhale. This is why she’s following me around. “We grew up together.”
“Oh.” She pauses. “Like friends or something?”
“Yep. Something like that.”
“And you didn’t know he did porn?”
“Nope.” Jesus how long does it take to get down three flights of stairs.
“So you took the job and had no idea?”
“Yep.”
She giggles. “Well, that’s gotta be weird then, huh?”
“Weird doesn’t touch it.”
I push the door open and walk out into the lobby.
“Well,” she says as the doors bangs closed behind her. “I’ve got to go filmThe Dook of Hazard. You know, we should hang out sometime. Do some girl stuff or something.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.”
She smiles before she turns to walk off. I’m not an idiot. I know what she’s doing, and I am most certainly not hanging out with her. I’m not hanging out with anyone from this job. Really, I am more than ready to get home and watch the fuckingThe Golden Girlmarathon with Heather. Something that has nothing to do with dicks and vaginas and assholes. That is what I need.
The second I step outside, I feel like I’m going to burst into flames. Looking across the parking lot, I can see waves of heat rising off the asphalt. Sweat is trickling down my temples by the time I reach my car. The leather seat burns the backs of my legs when I sit down, and I curse, shoving the key into the ignition. I need the air conditioner on before I spontaneously combust. I turn the key, and—nothing happens. “Oh, shit. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” I slam my fist over the steering wheel and groan before I try to crank the engine again. It doesn’t sputter, it doesn’t click. Nothing.
I grab my purse from the floorboard, take out my phone to text Heather, but, of course, my phone is dead. I chuck the phone into the passenger seat and bang my head over the steering wheel, the horn blaring with each pound. What in the hell have I done to deserve the random shit that has happened over the past few weeks? There’s a tap on the window, and before I even glance up, I know, based on the way my life is going at the moment, who it is.
I keep my forehead pressed against the horn as I slowly turn my head and peer through the glass with one eye. Yep, there’s Tyler, and now my back is covered in sweat.
“Won’t start?” he asks through the window.
“No.” I reach for the door, and he backs up a few steps.
“Let me look.”
“It’s dead,” I say, hopping out.
