Bankers' Hours (32 page)

I sniffled, and Tristan reached up and wiped away my tears. I never remembered crying as much as I had since I’d met him. He leaned in and kissed me. “I’m jealous because I want that same connection with you. I want to know you so well I’ll be able to finish your sentences and tell stories to our friends about the time you caught a hummingbird.”

I chuckled through my tears.

“I’ll call Mel tomorrow and apologize for being so grumpy at dinner, okay?”

I nodded. “I’m sorry too.”

Tristan turned his body into mine and kissed me again. I felt his hand sliding up my inner thigh as he deepened the kiss. His fingers ran over the hairs of my bare leg, and it tickled. When he rubbed my dick through my boxers, I gasped and pulled back.

I shook my head and whined, “I can’t. My ass really hurts, Tristan.”

He chuckled, moving his hand to my knee. “Okay. Fair enough. But what if I offered to blow you?” He waggled his eyebrows.

My dick pulsed and I lifted one corner of my mouth. “Um, okay.” It was hard refusing a blowjob.

TRISTAN UNDERSTOOD
my dilemma. I wanted more sex, but my ass ached for days after Tuesday. He’d fucked me so damn good, but the aftereffects were difficult to ignore. I needed time to recuperate.

When I wasn’t working at the bank, I was cleaning out his mess. As he’d suggested, I also cut back my hours in order to get the house cleaned. I brought most of my dishes over to his house so we could use them whenever we were there, but my clothes remained at my house because his bedroom was still untouched. The upstairs bedrooms had taken way too much of my time. By Saturday, Tristan was home with papers spread across the dining room table.

The upside: the engine was gone. The downside: more clutter.

He seemed very frustrated, more so than usual, so I stopped on my way back from taking out a bag full of trash. “Are you all right?” I asked, squeezing his shoulders and kissing his cheek as I leaned over him from behind his chair.

“I’m fine,” he sighed. “This is more tedious than I thought it would be.”

“What are you doing?” I asked, peering at the bank statements and copies of checks he had stacked in front of him. Bank statements were something I was familiar with.

“I’m looking for evidence of a cashed check.” He picked up a piece of paper and handed it to me. “This bill was sent to collections, and I swear I paid it. I might be slightly behind, but I haven’t forgotten to pay a bill since I took over this business. I’m normally very responsible.” He huffed and leaned forward on the table, rubbing his head.

I read the paper and then looked at the papers and stacks of unopened mail on the table. “This is for fifty-three dollars, dated two years ago. Are you sure you paid it? It seems strange they would wait two years to try and collect it. Are you sure it isn’t fake?” I had seen my share of scams trying to get personal information out of me.

“No. I remember that one. We had to return three different parts, and I never used them again after that. I know I paid it.” He sounded certain.

I pointed to the unopened mail. “Then what is all this?”

“I haven’t opened a bank statement in a few years.”

“What?” I shrieked. Then I cleared my throat and asked again, in a more controlled tone, “What? How can you not open the bank statements? Don’t you balance your checkbook every month?” The very thought made me nauseated.

He turned and looked at me. “Don’t yell.”

“Why would I yell?”

“Grant, you just pierced my ears with your first little shriek.”

“I won’t do it again.”

Tristan took a deep breath and then said, “I’ve never balanced the checkbook.”

My voice went up three octaves involuntarily. “What?” I immediately covered my mouth and whispered behind my hand, “I’m sorry.” I took my hand away and asked, “But I don’t understand how you can do that. What if checks don’t clear or are cashed for the wrong amount? Or if they get lost and are sent to collections.” I stopped talking when he glared. “Oh. Yeah. That’s what happened.”

He huffed loudly. “Yeah. It hasn’t happened in ten years. I hate math.”

I ran my palm over his bald head. I felt stubble for the first time. If he’d been so caught up in this issue that he forgot to shave, then it must be serious. Although I rather liked the feel of the hairs growing back. “Tristan, why don’t you let me help you? I’m really good with numbers.”

“Are you? I know you work in a bank, but I didn’t want to assume you knew how to do everything money related.” His reply seemed not to make sense, but I wasn’t going to argue about it. He was stressed enough.

“Yes,” I answered. “I’m good with all money-related issues. I have a degree in accounting from Loyola University.”

“Then why aren’t you the manager of the bank or running your own accounting firm?”

I chuckled. “Yeah, because all accountants start off opening their own businesses right out of college.” He didn’t react to my sarcasm, so I let it go and shrugged. There was no easy way to tell him I was lazy. “I didn’t try because those jobs take more effort than I’d like to give. Being a teller is easy. I really liked working alongside Mel every day. Things have changed since I moved to this branch, so I guess I should consider using more of my skills. I always thought moving up would be too stressful.”

“You mean you have all kinds of knowledge and you choose
not
to use it?”

I felt like a schlub for admitting it. “Yes. I haven’t found a reason to.”

Tristan looked back to his stack and gestured. “You think you can sort this out?”

How hard could it be?
“Most definitely. Go make me some coffee and start cleaning out your bedroom. I’m tired of looking at those ships on the walls. The frames never stay straight.”

Tristan stood up and offered me his seat. He kissed me before I sat down and then rubbed the back of my shoulders this time. “You’re pretty awesome.”

“I haven’t fixed anything yet.” I glanced around the table. “Um, where’s your checkbook? I should probably cross-check these numbers and go back as far as you have records.”

“You’re going to yell about that too,” he said, closing his eyes and sighing.

“Don’t tell me you don’t keep a checkbook. You have to. How do you know how much money you have in the bank?” He was right, I was close to speaking louder than I should, but I contained myself.

Tristan walked over to the counter in the kitchen and returned with a box. “These are my checkbooks. Number forty-three is the current one. I do keep a checkbook, but I keep a mental ledger on how much I have in the bank. I know roughly how much comes in, and the checking account is linked to a savings account in case of overdraft, although I’ve never been overdrawn. I don’t write a check for money I don’t have.” He set the box in front of me.

I took the top one off the pile inside the box and opened it. All the figures were for even amounts. No change. I knew some amounts could be even, but not
all
of them. I had to question him. “Er, Tristan? Why are all the numbers even?”

He drew in a long breath, exhaled, and said, “I round everything up.”

“What do you mean? You round to the nearest dollar and pay that amount?” I doubted that was what he meant, but the alternative might give me a stroke.

“No!” He shook his head. “I pay what I owe, but I round up the number I write in the checkbook because then I always have more money than I think.”

“But you said you keep a mental ledger. You should know how much you have anyway.” He ran his hand over his face. I could tell this was getting more frustrating for him the more questions I asked. I let it go. “Okay, I’ll just take this one statement at a time. Bring me that trash can, and help me open the statements and make a pile according to the dates. I’ll get this sorted, I promise.”

It was a daunting task, especially when I opened a statement from 2006, but this was also what I was good at. Helping Tristan would make me feel good. Cleaning his house made me feel like a maid no matter how many times he assured me I wasn’t, but straightening out his money situation made me feel important.

A COUPLE
of hours later, Tristan had some mail to send out and stepped out the door. I watched him walk down the sidewalk from my seat at the table since it was next to the window, and found myself appreciating the sway in his gait much more than I ever remembered enjoying a guy’s ass moving before. Tristan had a very fine posterior. I licked my lips and adjusted myself with a tiny tug to the front of my jeans. I’d been sitting at the table a long time; surely Tristan wouldn’t mind a short break to let off tension.

He opened the mailbox and then yanked his hand back and held it to his chest, dropping the mail. He kept walking backward, into the road, while staring at the box. I got up and went to the door. “What’s wrong?” I called to him. He was still staring at the mailbox and standing in the middle of the road. “Tristan? Stop standing in the road. You’re going to get hit!”

He did as I suggested but gave the mailbox a wide berth. As soon as he was past it, he ran over to me, still clutching his hand. I could see he was bleeding.

“What happened?” I asked, reaching for him. There were little droplets of blood all over his hand.

“S-s-snake,” he stuttered. “There’s a s-snake in the mailbox.” He pointed with his other hand.

“What?” I questioned. The notion was ridiculous. Snakes didn’t slither up poles to hide in mailboxes. “Are you sure?”

He glared hard, angrier than I’d ever seen him, and hissed, “Yes! I know a snake when I see one, and this one bit me. I hate snakes. Look what the hell it did!” He thrust his hand at me. Yup, it looked like a snakebite to me. A bunch of tiny blood spots on the back of his hand and on the palm over the fleshy part by his pinky finger.

“I’ll go see what kind it is. You got bit really good, and we shouldn’t wait around if the thing is venomous. Most likely it isn’t because of the bite pattern, but it’s best to be sure.” I took a step, and he grabbed my arm.

“What are you doing? You can’t go look. It’ll bite you too!”

“I’m not afraid of snakes. Spiders, yes—snakes, no.” I patted his hand. “I’ll be fine.” I walked toward the mailbox and picked up a stick I found in the yard on the way as Tristan watched, wide-eyed.

The metal box was already open, and I could hear hissing coming from deep in the back of it. I extended my arm and used the stick as a gentle prod to get the snake to move. I didn’t want to kill it; I only wanted it to reveal itself. A black head poked out. I used the stick like a rake and pulled the snake forward. It struck at the stick but also fell out of the box as it did so. It coiled up and struck again.

“It’s a black rat snake,” I called to Tristan. I mumbled to myself as I moved it with my stick. “In my experience, I’ve never seen one this angry before.” My eye spied blood. “What the…?” Thankful I was wearing shoes, I positioned my foot over its head and gently lowered my toes until I was pinning the snake down under the tip of my shoe.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tristan asked frantically, joining me by the mailbox but not close enough to get struck again.

“I think it’s injured. I’ve never seen this type of snake act so aggressive before. I’m not saying they’re docile, but this seems out of the ordinary.” It thrashed its body around, whipping its tail, but I had the head pinned to the ground. I grabbed the tail and found the problem. “What the fuck?” I questioned out loud. “There’s a nail through it.”

“What?”

“A nail. Someone drove a nail through this snake’s tail. That’s probably why it’s pissed.” I pulled the head of the nail, and its body thrashed even more. “Tristan, you’re going to have to help me.”

He shook his head emphatically. “No fucking way!”

“Come on, you have to. It’s suffering.”

“You know how you nearly had a heart attack when that spider crawled up your leg? That’s me with snakes. My older brother used to torment me with snakes when we were kids. I hate them. I would rather take a shovel to that thing than help it live.” Tristan was not kidding. I could see it by his wide eyes and shaking hands.

“Then is there anyone at the shop? Jeff, maybe?” I asked, hoping all of them were workaholics like Tristan.

Right on cue, Wes walked up. “Hey, what’s going on?”

Tristan glanced at him. “Hey. What are you doing here? I thought you had the day off.”

“I do. I left my cell phone on the filing cabinet. I stopped by to get it and saw Grant poking a stick in the mailbox. Is that a snake?” He was curious and obviously not scared as he stepped closer.

“Yeah,” I said. “Would you mind helping me with it?”

“Sure. I know Tristan won’t.” He grinned at Tristan as if amused by his phobia and then came down on one knee next to me. “What do you want me to do?”

“Grab its tail right there and the body over here. Someone put a nail through it, and I want to take it out.”

“Eww. Why would someone do that?” he asked, disgusted.

“I don’t know, but it’s pissed and bit Tristan.”

Wes grinned and glanced at Tristan standing just a few feet away. “I bet that made your day.”

“Fuck you,” Tristan grumbled.

I thought they were funny, but I had other things on my mind. As soon as Wes took a firm hold of the snake, I worked the nail out. I knew it would not feel very nice, but it was the only way I knew to help it. True, most people loathed snakes and many aimed for them when driving, but I thought snakes had as much right to live as any creature. No animal deserved to be tortured. Once the nail was out, I moved to grab its head as I lifted my foot.

“Whoa, Grant! You’re a badass,” Wes said, stepping back and watching me.

I had the snake by the back of its head and down by its mangled tail. I snorted. “Thanks. I don’t think anyone else would call me that.”

Tristan said, still standing back, “I would.”

I smiled. “You just like my ass.”

Wes chortled. I thought maybe he’d be uncomfortable, being a straight guy, but he wasn’t. His reaction was refreshing and new for me. I liked the comfortable feeling that I could be myself around Wes and make sexual innuendos without snide remarks. Wes was a really nice guy.