From the first day I met Racer McKay, I knew our interaction was going to be incredibly brief. First impressions really do matter and unfortunately, I didn’t make a very good one.
At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I was never going to see this man again, right?
Wrong! When I’m met with the opportunity of a lifetime, there is only one man in the state of New York who can assist me. And can you guess who it is?
But what I don’t realize is he needs me just as much as I need him. I have money he’s desperate for, and he holds the key to making my dreams come true.
So, we reluctantly join forces.
Our pranks turn from sarcastic banter, to sexual tension and lust-filled glances. Bickering matches quickly morph into slow burn moments. We’re hot, we’re cold. We push and pull. I need him, I don’t want him. We’re on the verge of combusting with an agreement dangling dangerously between us. Neither one of us can afford to lose one another and yet, we’re finding it quite hard to decipher the line that rests between love and hate.
*Twisted Twosome is a stand alone romantic comedy.
Why is it so goddamn drafty in here? I grip my hammer in my hand, my tool belt riding low on my hips, and my stereotypical construction hat rests on my head as I finish up the project I was hired to do.
Taking a quick look around, I search the bedroom, looking for an open window or AC vent that’s blowing a cold breeze right against my dick and sac, making it almost impossible to look semi-decent in this scrap of fabric.
“Mmm, I think you forgot a nail on the ground over there,” says the throaty, smoke-filled voice of Mrs. Sage, who is lying across her chaise lounge, wearing a silky pink robe that is barely tied around her waist. She makes it her mission to show me as much skin as possible, and as we’re talking about skin showing . . .
I bend down to pick up the nail she’s pointing at as the thin strip of man thong material rides higher up my ass crack than I care to admit.
Let’s pause for a second.
Are you wondering to yourself, is Racer really wearing a man thong as he finishes building a solid oak shelf?
The answer is yes. Yes, I am.
I’m Racer McKay, and I wear man thongs for older, rich women while I work on simple projects around their houses. Excuse me, I mean mansions.
Don’t worry. Yes, I’m also very much ashamed to admit the level I’ve stooped to in order to make some cash. I have my pride, but right now, when I’m offered three hundred dollars more to build a shelf in a man thong, I’m choosing to seize the opportunity.
Self-respect was thrown out the window two years ago when a pile of bills and responsibilities were thrust in my direction without any preparation or warning. Making money is as vital as breathing to me, so I will take it any way I can get it.
Cue the man thong.
“Oh, you’re right. Here it is,” I say, holding up the nail. “Thanks for the help, Mrs. Sage. I would hate to see you hurt yourself from my lack of attention to detail.”
She waves me off and puffs her chest toward me, her robe slipping farther apart, showing the cleavage of a very saggy pair of breasts. I’ve seen my fair share of boobs, and even though I don’t mingle sex with work, I can’t help but want Mrs. Sage to remove the robe just so I can see what she has hidden under the silky fabric.
How saggy are we talking here?
I’m interested for exploratory reasons, for knowledge about every kind of breast out there. Because right now, Mrs. Sage looks like she’s rocking a pair of pancakes that have been flattened by a steamroller.
“You would just have to nurse me back to health if that happened.” Her finger trails up her varicose veined leg to her geriatric hip. I hold back the shiver that wants to spin up my spine.
All I can say is . . . can’t unsee that.
I nervously laugh and tuck my hammer into its holster. “Not much of a nurse, Mrs. Sage. I might hurt you even more.”
“I don’t mind getting hurt.” She starts to spread her legs and that’s when I call it a day.
I turn around quickly, snag my jeans, and slip them up and over my legs, struggling around my tool belt. Once things are in place, I remove my hat, put on my shirt, and cover my hair with a backward baseball cap. The peep show is over.
Once dressed, I gather my tools, tuck my construction hat under my arm, and turn to Mrs. Sage. This is my least favorite part, getting the old bird to pay up.
“Leaving already?” She pouts, lipstick on her teeth.
“Unfortunately, I have another engagement I’m running late for.” A lie, but it’s the only way I know to get out of here.
“That’s a shame. I really should book you for a whole day. That way you can’t skirt out of here earlier than I’m ready for.”
She walks out of the den and into the entryway where she opens her purse and pulls out a wad of one-hundred-dollar bills. My brain explodes from the amount of cash in her purse, as if it’s chump change she’s ready to throw around at a parade dedicated to her and her riches.
“What do I owe you? Six hundred?”
Fuck, it’s five hundred, and if I wasn’t a nice guy, I wouldn’t correct her, but I believe in good karma. Especially considering where my bad luck has gotten me—trying to climb my way out of a large debt. I try to put as many good vibes out in the world as possible.
“We actually agreed upon five hundred, Mrs. Sage.”
“Such a bargain.” She flips through her cash, pulls out five bills—damn—and hands them over to me. “Shall I call for my next project?”
I pocket the cash. “Email is best, Mrs. Sage. I always feel awkward taking phone calls at work.”
“Such a hard worker.” She pats my face and leans forward, lips puckered, but I step to the side avoiding an attack from her old-lady lips.
As I depart, I wave my hand in the air and say, “Thanks, Mrs. Sage. I look forward to your next email.”
Out of her reach, I toss my tools in the back of my truck, enter the cab, and place my hands on the steering wheel as I exhale a long pent-up breath.
My boys, Smalls and Tucker, can never hear about today’s side job. There is no way they’ll let me live it down if they knew. I know my two best friends—who I’ve been working with in construction for the last few years—have never had to put on a man thong and bend over for a client multiple times. And hell, if they found out I do—on occasion—I think they would question my sanity.
Although, they’re aware of my struggles and try to help out where they can. Tucker, technically my boss, tries to schedule me as much as possible, but sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough.
From the center console of my beat-up truck, I pull out my phone and see three text messages.
Tucker: At the House of Reardon with Smalls. Come have a drink.
Smalls: Get your ass here.
Adalyn: Have you ever smelled burning skin before? It’s nasty.
I chuckle at the last message. I head toward the bar where Tucker and Smalls are hanging out and do voice text back to Adalyn.
“Try to avoid burning skin, especially on the worksite. I’m taking it you’ve had a fun shift at work today?”
Adalyn is one of my best friends as well. I met her through Tucker’s fiancée, Emma. We spent one night together hanging out and we’ve been inseparable ever since. And before your mind starts racing a mile a minute about how we’re going to get married and have little Radalyn babies, I’m going to cut you off right there. There is nothing going on between us. As Adalyn very honestly told me one night, she has no interest in starting any type of
relationship with me since I’m not her type. Although, she said if I want to hang out with my shirt off it would be no problem with her. Such a horny little minx.
My phone rings in my hand. I put it on speaker.
“Addie sweetie pie snookum face.”
“Racee pacey penis breath.” God, I love her humor.
“What have we talked about?” I turn onto a main road, feeling a little more at ease knowing there is a beer in my near future.
“I can call you nicknames just not penis breath,” she says in a monotone voice.
“Correct. I don’t think that’s all that hard to remember.”
“I know,” she sulks, “but ever since you taught me the insult, I want to use it all the time.”
“Call your mom penis breath.”
“Yeah, great idea. Next time my overprotective mom calls, I’ll be sure to call her penis breath. I’m sure she’ll love it.”
I chuckle. “Maybe it’s what your dad calls her in bed.”
“I hate you. I hate you so much right now.”
I full-on belly laugh, the rumble coming from the pit of my stomach. “You started it, Addie.”
She lets out a long breath. “Note to self, don’t call Racer penis breath ever again.”
“I’m glad you learned your lesson.” I turn onto State Route 17 and head toward The House of Reardon. “So what’s going on, burning skin today at the office?”
“No, but I did watch someone get a mole removed and that smelled like absolute carcass. It was nasty.”
“Why did you want to be a nurse again?”
“I don’t know,” she sighs. “Good benefits?”
“Good benefits? I would have sworn you were doing it for the free latex gloves.”
“Well, there is my latex glove obsession,” she says sarcastically. “Ugh, what are you doing tonight?”
“Getting a drink with the boys down at Reardon. What are you doing? Painting those gnarly toes of yours while drinking an entire bottle of peach schnapps?”
“Close, I’m clipping my toenails for you as a gift and drinking peach schnapps. Expect a package at your front door tomorrow.”
“Aw, you shouldn’t have.” I switch lanes and speed down the highway, the froth of the beer calling my name.
“What did you do today?” Adalyn asks, changing the subject. “Were you with Mrs. Sage again?”
Adalyn is the only one who knows about Mrs. Sage and her “requests.” I had to tell someone and Tucker and Smalls were not an option, given I work with them every day. But Adalyn was a safe second. She’s cool and wouldn’t say anything.
“Yeah,” I huff. “It was extra drafty in her house today.”
“Probably to cool down her old-lady hot flashes. Would she still get those at her age?”
“I don’t know.” I get off the exit, thankful I’m only a few minutes away. “You’re the woman and the nurse; you should know a hell of a lot more about hot flashes than I do.”
“Of course you would say that, sexist.”
“Hey,” I shout, seeing the parking lot straight ahead. “You know I’m the first fucking person to celebrate women and their rights. Forgive me if I don’t quite understand your lady parts and the tubes that float around in your lower half. Do you know the intricacies of the penis?”
“As a matter of fact—”
“Scratch that, wrong person to ask.” I put my truck in park, and I’m about to tell Adalyn I have to go when she starts walking toward me. “Well, hello there, pretty girl.”
She smiles and pockets her phone, ending our conversation. Dressed in her scrubs, she opens my door and says, “You drive like a grandpa. Took you long enough.”
I hop out and wrap my arm around her shoulder. “Crashing the dick party?”
When we enter the bar, we spot Smalls and Tucker immediately. They have a table off to the side with a pitcher in the middle and a plate of nachos. Thank fuck. I’m starving.
I pull out Adalyn’s chair for her, like the gentleman I am, and then spin my chair around so I’m sitting in it backward. “What’s up, men? Mind if the little lady crashes?”
“Only if she can hold her own,” Smalls says, handing her a cup.
“You know I can.” Adalyn winks and starts filling up our glasses with beer.
I pull a large chip dripping of nacho cheese and jalapenos from the center of the nacho plate and stuff the whole thing in my mouth. Damn, that tastes good.
“Help yourself,” Tucker says. I’m sure that is not sarcasm I hear in his tone.
“Don’t mind if I do. My belly boo was screaming at me for food.”
Tucker is about to take a sip of his beer when he says, “Dude, you’re a six-foot-three, grown-ass man; you can’t say shit like belly boo.”
I shrug his comment off and stuff more nachos in my mouth. Within a minute almost half the plate is gone and I have no regrets.
“Where’s the fiancée?” I ask Tucker.
“She’ll be getting off her shift soon. She’s going to meet me here, and then we’re going out for dinner. She has a bunch of wedding things she wants to talk about.”
“Sounds riveting,” Smalls teases.
“Hey, I will talk whatever kind of wedding stuff she wants to. She’s marrying me, she said yes to me.” He takes a sip of his beer, disbelief in his voice. “I’m one lucky fuck.”
“This is crap. She better talk to me next,” Adalyn huffs and crosses her arms, interrupting the loving moment Tucker was having. “I’ve been asking that girl about her wedding plans for months now, and she keeps blowing me off. Who does that? Someone who’s trying to avoid me, that’s who. I’m going to be her maid of honor, right?” She pokes Tucker. “Tell me I’m her maid of honor. End my misery and let me know.” Tucker says nothing, which only fuels the fire. “Fine, don’t tell me, but if she picks someone else, I swear to the yeast in my beer that I will start slashing tires.” Adalyn stabs the table with her finger, showing us all just how her temper can skyrocket in a second. “All the tires will rue the day Emma didn’t pick me as her maid of honor.” She laughs sardonically and sips her beer while staring Tucker down. “This is all your fault.”
Tucker holds his hands up in defense. “I have no idea what she’s planning. You take that shit up with her . . . and leave my tires alone.”
“Oh, I will take it up with her.” Adalyn bounces her knee up and down, clearly still hyped up. It almost looks like she’s about to explode . . . “Racer wears man thongs while doing his side jobs.”
What the hell?
“Adalyn!” I give her a what the fuck look.
Frazzled, she covers her mouth. “I’m sorry. I needed to change the subject before I started running around the bar tossing drinks in people’s faces.”
“Talk about your fucking burning mole skin. Don’t bring me into this. Christ.” I lift my baseball cap off my head, run my hand through my hair and situate it back on, holding the top for a few seconds.
The table is silent before Smalls taps me on the shoulder. “What?” I snap.
“Are you wearing just the man thong, or is it one of those things where you pull the thong over your jeans to give the ladies a sneak peek?”
“Are we talking lace, silk, or cotton? I would assume cotton for breathability, but then again, I’ve never worn a man thong before,” Tucker adds.
“How many do you have?” Smalls continues. “Do you wear them all the time?”
“Do you have a favorite color?”
“Are we talking thong or G-string? Because that’s a big difference,” Adalyn joins in.
“Huge difference.” Smalls rests his chin on his hand and leans forward, batting his eyelashes as he waits for an answer.
My eyes fixed on Adalyn, I say, “I’m going to kill you.”
She hides her smile and takes another sip of her beer.
She doesn’t know what she just started.
But, oh yeah, she’s going to get it all right.
About the Author:
Born in New York and raised in Southern California, Meghan has grown into a sassy, peanut butter eating, blonde haired swearing, animal hoarding lady. She is known to bust out and dance if “It’s Raining Men” starts beating through the
air and heaven forbid you get a margarita in her, protect your legs because they may be humped.
Once she started commuting for an hour and twenty minutes every day to work for three years, she began to have conversations play in her head, real life, deep male voices and dainty lady coos kind of conversations. Perturbed and confused, she decided to either see a therapist about the hot and steamy voices running through her head or start writing them down. She decided to go with the cheaper option and started writing… enter her first novel, Caught Looking.
Now you can find the spicy, most definitely on the border of lunacy, kind of crazy lady residing in Colorado with the love of her life and her five, furry four legged children, hiking a trail or hiding behind shelves at grocery stores, wondering what kind of lube the nervous stranger will bring home to his wife. Oh and she loves a good boob squeeze!
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