BAKER (Devil's Disciples Book 1)(9)

“It is. Is Mort yours?”

“Everybody asks. Sure is. Weird, huh?”

“Your name?”

“Yeah.”

“I like it,” I said.

He scoffed. “Makes one of us.”

I was quickly coming to like him. His personality did what his features never would. It made me smile. I decided to categorize him with the father from A Christmas Story, and Clint Eastwood’s character, Walt Kowalski, from Gran Torino. He was funny without trying to be, and I really liked him so far.

We spent the next two hours talking about my duties, what to expect, and how to resolve any issue that might come about.

When we were finished talking, he gave me an old-school Rolodex that he’d listed all the important phone numbers in, and then brushed his hands against his faded jeans. “I’ll see you next Wednesday,” he said. “Won’t bother coming day after tomorrow, you’ll be fine. Call me if you need anything.”

I was pleased that he seemed to trust me, and that he didn’t make me feel stupid for being a woman. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure you will, too.” He yanked on the door twice before it opened. “See you Wednesday.”

I took a seat in my new office chair. In no time, a chairgasm set in, and my eyes fell closed. I got up and looked it over. It was an awesome looking piece of furniture as far as chairs were concerned, but it didn’t appear to be as magical in appearance as it was in performance.

I lowered myself into the cloud-like mesh, and swept my hand over the thick wood of my new desk. Irregular, yet smooth, the surface was cool to the touch. I glanced around the office. One wall was painted white, two were vintage brick, and one was nothing but windows. I wondered if decorating was allowed, and got lost in the possibilities.

After deciding that black and white prints would look best, I walked to the glass wall and peered over the stone ledge. Across the street, a few people were walking in each direction. I watched them until they escaped my view, and wondered if they were fixtures in the neighborhood.

A dull thud against the door caused me to turn away from the window. Then, it flew open and hit the brick wall with a whack!

Just like Mort, I about shit myself.

Not because of the door. Because of who stood there staring at me.

Sex. On. A. Stick.





FIVE - Baker





When I’d seen her in the bank, it was through the eyeholes of a rubber Donald Trump mask. Having an unobstructed view from ten feet away shed a much different light on her appearance.

She was attractive, no doubt. But her body was built for one thing, and one thing only.

Fucking.

We stood facing one another with our mouths agape. I swallowed a lump of sexual tension and blindly reached for the door.

“The sign says manager’s office.” I pushed the door closed. “Are you the manager?”

“I uhhm. Yes. I’m the manager. How can I help you?”

Despite my desire to pull her pants down around her ankles and bend her over the desk, I maintained a somewhat professional posture. I raised my index finger. “I’ve got a few questions.”

She was wearing wide-legged black dress pants, conservative heels, and a flowing white top. She wasn’t a tall woman, but the high-waisted pants made her legs seem unreasonably long. They also drew attention to her shapely hips. My eyes scanned the length of her body. From her dark gray toenails to her remarkably attractive face, she was very well put together. Her sun-streaked hair was off her neck and clipped into a bun.

A bun that wasn’t quite centered.

The hair bothered me, but her shapely body forced me to make note of every curve. My eyes shifted from the askew sprout of hair to her perfectly shaped hips and then back.

Repeatedly.

I had faults. Many of them, to be honest. Most I could conceal, leaving those who encountered me to be of the opinion that I was relatively normal.

I wasn’t.

I was somewhat of a perfectionist. There were many things in my life that could be out of order, but her bun didn’t appear to be one of them. Despite my attempts to dismiss it, I simply couldn’t keep my mind focused on anything else.

She reached for it. “Is there something wrong?”

“Wrong? No.” I tore my eyes from the disaster that sat atop her head and met her gaze. “I had a few questions about the availability of property.”

She lowered her hands.

My eyes shot to the bun.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

I needed to have a conversation with her. I knew myself well enough to realize doing so would be impossible if she didn’t fix her hair. I gestured toward the unsightly mess. “It’s not…” I waved my finger to the side. “It’s crooked.”

“My hair?” She shrugged dismissively. “These things are impossible to get perfect, so I just wing it…”

There was no way I could carry on any facsimile of a meaningful conversation with her hair in its cock-eyed state. I took a few steps toward her and raised my hands between us. “May I?”

“Awk-ward,” she said jokingly.

I raised my eyebrows.

She let out a playful sigh. “Sure.”

I opened the clip that held her hair in place, moved the mound over two inches, and clipped it in place. A quick inspection satisfied me that it was as perfect as it could be. As I stepped away, a wisp of her perfume caused me to falter.