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This story probably falls more at the Reluctance end of this category than at the more hardcore NonCon end, so let that be your guide as to whether your free hand wants to go with you on this journey. My outline tells me this thing should be 8 chapters. I have 1 and 2 written, 3 almost done, and the rest will come as I'm able. It's been a nice break from revisions on The Eighth House, which have been making me crazy for months. That was because her boss was too cheap for them to have one. Instead, there was the cracking plastic one that read 'OPEN' beneath a little clock someone could manually move the hands on, to show the entire dozen customers they might have over the course of a week when an employee would be in the building. Christina pulled off the highway and the tires of her '80 Bronco crunched over the gravel drive and parking area until she pulled up at the side of the squat little manufactured building that was her only place of employment. She cut the engine and shouldered her purse. Looked down at herself and let out a breath. This was not her normal work attire. Christina was a jeans-and-t-shirt kind of girl. She stepped out of the truck—she called it a truck, she didn't care what her cousin Lloyd down in Tyler said—and straightened the gores of the summer dress. The rare specimen in her wardrobe was navy blue and dotted with tiny pink and white flowers. It came with equally tiny sleeves and its hem fell somewhere south of slut but north of schoolteacher. There was a fair amount of the jersey material: Her and her brown cowgirl boots and long blonde hair, on display like it almost never was, marched their way to the front door. She made her best effort to wipe the grim look off her face and look chipper. She was trying to charm her boss. The twined chain of mini cowbells dangling from the inside handle of the door clunked their dull alarm as she pushed her way into the office. Air conditioning blasted her in the face. It was hot already, and only May. There was Bill Marshall. Bill was her boss. And Bill was an asshole. Let me just clock in. It was pretty much his default response, now that she thought of it. Haul Ash still had an honest-to-goodness time card punch clock, and for similar reasons as their OPEN sign. Christina pulled her card and did the deed, then slid it back in its slot below the three others there: Jonah, Travis, and of course, Bill. She came around the front counter in all its faux-marble Formica glory and slid her purse onto the shelf below, the same as she did every day. Bill turned on the tall shop stool where he'd sat in front of the front desk computer and slid off toward the door to the back half. She made a face. If he'd noticed a difference in her appearance at all, he hadn't so much as twitched an eye about it. Sounds of puttering and clacking of kitchenware came from the back half, which was what everyone there called the combination break and storage room of which the rear portion of the building consisted. The whole floorplan, if you could call it that, was a simple rectangle, divided neatly in half, the front room allotted to the space where customers came and waited or paid, the back a catchall for everything else, with a smaller bit sectioned off on the west side for a bathroom. There was also a second building in back a detached aluminum affair where repairs happened, and it was mostly Travis and Jonah who worked out there, anyway. Fifteen minutes passed while she busied herself. She shifted on her seat. She'd heard the back door open and close, which meant Bill had probably gone to the shop and Christina was alone in the office. At some point, she was going to have to ask him, because at four o'clock he was going to go home. She needed tomorrow off. It was no joke. And Bill Marshall was one hard stick of butter. The man needed softening. For probably the twentieth time, her eyes flitted down to the probably way-too-obvious dress. She had some cleavage—not much, but some—and it was doing its best to sit up straight and look pretty. Had her mascara wondered what it was doing in the light of day when she'd dug it out from the bag under her sink? There was hardly time for makeup anymore, but today she'd made time. Christina was not ignorant. She knew about the Halo Effect. If a body needed to ask favors, better to do it not looking disheveled and tired. By the time the clock read ten after three, they'd had all of one customer pick-up and two phone calls asking about hours. Bill had returned and put away a box of packing tape, restocking the shelves of the few items they sold rather than rented, and then had gone off again into the back half. You need to do this, Christy. Or you're not gonna get a chance. She sighed and hopped down from the stool. Pushed through the door to the back. Her boss stood on a stepladder in the storage side of the room, and had his head periscoped into one of the acoustic tiles of the ceiling. He was fiddling with something out of sight above the shifted tile. Christina crossed the room to lean against a long folding table that stood along the opposite wall. A wide, horizontal window, banded with aluminum blinds, grinned at her back and lit the room. He hadn't acknowledged her entry yet, and the knot in her stomach from having to ask for anything made her almost give up and leave. Everyone knew Bill handed out extra time off like the Devil handed out ice water. Could she sweet-talk Asshole Bill? It was really just the west side of the back half, where they had a card table and some folding chairs set up next to a mini fridge. Christina ground her teeth, her head welling with the consequences of not having the time she needed the next day. Her boss turned around and eyed her, wiping his hands with a paper towel. Was there the slightest tilt of his head? Was that movement of his eyes him taking some notice of her dress for the first time? Some of her legs, her collarbone on display? Sauntered in her direction. That would imply some sort of self-aware ego, some cocky show he was putting on, and Bill never put on anything. Either way, in a moment they were closer and, for whatever reason, it made Christina press the backs of her thighs against the table in unconscious retreat. Still, she nodded at the sliver of hope. Or you can quit whining and come in tomorrow. And you won't bring this shit up ever again. The dress was supposed to paint a picture, not pull audience members up on the stage! Bill had hooked thumbs into his belt, one eyebrow up, waiting, while she gaped at him. Who looked at Asshole Bill that way? The man was, well, not quite old enough to be her father, but still. He wasn't in bad shape she supposed, but attractive? Someone to fantasize about? Someone to invite quickies with? But you need tomorrow off. It was three-fifteen in the afternoon, for Pete's sake! A customer could come and— "That's what I thought," he said, turning for the door to the front. Some indication he was as dumbfounded as she was. But just as quick, it was gone, and his mouth settled into a hard line. Bill Marshall had no sense of humor at all. He was not joking, not even one little bit. To face the other way. This is like, every sexual harassment stereotype in the world. Christina put her hands on the table. Leaned forward on tentative arms. How much higher would her dress come up if she bent over that far? But she went down on her elbows, and then laid the side of her face on the surface like he'd asked. You're worried about what he's gonna see? You know he doesn't want to bend you over just to laugh at you. You know what he wants.
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