Blue-Collar Boys (Service Calls - Alpha Male Romance Erotica Stories)

Blue-Collar Boys: Service Calls

By Aria Hawthorne

Copyright © 2013 by Aria Hawthorne

Kindle edition

ISBN: 978-0-9890858-0-9

Published by French Kiss Press LLC

http://frenchkisspress.com

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. 

Be sure to check out Book 2 in the series:

Blue-Collar Boys – Repairs & Maintenance

Website:
frenchkisspress.com

Twitter:
@frenchkisspress

Summary

Cozma
 - 
Straight-laced Susan is getting married tomorrow, and the last thing she has time to deal with is her whistling furnace.  But when the cocky Slavic repairman, Cozma, arrives to Susan’s condo, he persuades Susan to soften her ice queen exterior and allow him to ignite more than her pilot light.

Tommy
 -
Chloe is a stay-at-home mom, disillusioned with the mundane routine of managing her family’s needs: cooking, cleaning, and grocery shopping.  By chance, she stumbles upon an unusual new hobby—a passion for re-carpeting the rooms in her house with Tommy, her carpet installation man—who also helps rekindle the passion in her own bedroom.

Enzo
 -
Vanessa is one of the richest entrepreneurs in Silicon Valley who loves her new luxurious pool, especially her ongoing rotation of young, handsome maintenance men.  Nothing gives Vanessa more pleasure than luring unsuspecting workers away from their duties of pool maintenance and into escapades of casual sex.  But soon, Vanessa will meet Enzo—one pool boy unlike all the others—who will teach the temptress the pleasure of being tempted.

Cozma

When Susan woke up in the morning, she knew that her life would be different.  She was getting married in two days to her fiancé of two years, Stanley Kirkeberg.  After she married Stan, she was going to be stuck with him, and she would never have the chance to have sex with another man again.  It was a sobering realization, and one that was subconsciously bothering Susan more than she cared to admit. 

Why it was bothering Susan—
exactly
—she couldn’t say.  It wasn’t like Susan was the “fling-her-top-off-and-dance-drunk-on-tables” type, so why did she even care?  But Susan did care, and for some reason, the knowledge that she would never have the chance to
be
the “fling-off-her-top-and-dance-drunk-on-tables” type was more the point.  Why on earth would she ever want to be like them, anyway?  Susan despised those “fling-off-their-tops-and-dance-drunk-on-tables” girls and scorned their whorish, cut-off T-shirts and carefree one-night stands, probably just as much as they scorned her prudish pearls and two-caret diamond engagement ring.  Susan could think of a hundred reasons why she would never want to be like them, and chlamydia topped her list. 

And yet, despite her certainty that she was willing to give up a fair amount of fun and sexual frivolity for the sake of marriage and security, Susan lay in bed, paralyzed.  She couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that she would soon become Mrs. Stanley Kirkeberg, destined to be pleasured by Stan—and only Stan—for the rest of her life.

TwEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!

Susan shot up from her bed.

TwEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!

It was the most annoying, horrifying sound ever.  A high-pitched, nasal squeal, even worse than the grating laughter of her mother-in-law-to-be, whose piglet snort-squeal laughter was still pealing through Susan’s head from last night’s rehearsal dinner. 

Susan slipped a robe over her matching pajama top and bottom set—bought for her by Stan as a pre-honeymoon gift from Victoria Secret—and ran into the living room.  The tea kettle screeched louder and louder.  Oh. My. God! 
What the fuck was that noise
?  Susan flicked on the living room light and threw open the mechanical closet.  

TwEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!

Susan covered her ears and winced.  Investigating its source, she followed the noise from the furnace fan to the valve hose, which was screwed into the humidifier’s face plate by a single bolt.  Susan clamped her hand around the nozzle of the hose and strangled it, hard.  She imagined it was her future mother-in-law’s throat.  The whistling stopped.

This was
thee
absolute last thing Susan had time to deal with today, and for a brief moment, Susan considered calling Stan.  Then, she reconsidered.  There was no one in the world more un-mechanical than Stan.  Besides, they were leaving for their Los Cabos honeymoon right after the wedding, and Susan’s realtor planned to schedule showings of her condo while she was away.  It had
to be fixed today. 
No one was going to buy her condo with a fucking musical furnace
.  Susan was certain.

Susan dressed and applied her make-up while simultaneously flipping through the yellow pages.  God, the
fucking
yellow pages.  She was exasperated.  Her smartphone charger was in her car.  Her internet service had been disconnected, and her laptop was stuck over at Stan’s place.  She was moving into his larger, two-bedroom condo when they returned from Los Cabos.  Empty boxes were huddled in the corner and her suitcase was sprawled open on the floor like a hungry monster, waiting to be fed clothes.  But Susan hadn’t packed a single thing—not for her honeymoon, or afterwards, when she planned to permanently move in with Stan.

She checked to see if her landline was still working, then dialed the first listing in the phone book under REPAIRS: AAA-Sir Speedy Home Repair Mechanical.  She spoke with someone who had a Polish accent.  He barely spoke English, and Susan was certain he had gotten her address wrong.  Still, she waited for Sir Speedy, and in the meantime, surrendered to her anxiety by gnawing off her manicured nail.  For the past three weeks, she had successfully fended off her bad habit, determined to have long, luscious nails for her wedding day.  But now, she had ruined her three-week, nailing biting dry run—all because Sir Speedy was less than speedy.  

The door buzzer ran. 

Susan spit out her torn nail and pressed the intercom button. 
You better be a fucking bad ass
, Susan thought as she whisked open the front door.

Yes, oh yes.  Sir Speedy Furnace Repair Man was certainly a bad ass: a brown-haired, blue-eyed bad ass.

“Hello,” the young man said with a Baryshnikov accent.  He stared at Susan from the doorway with unwavering confidence.  “I’m here to fix all problems.”

The young man with the Baryshnikov accent didn’t wait for an invitation.  He brushed past Susan and entered her home.  His arm grazed her chest, almost pushing her aside with his commanding presence.  Moving straight into Susan’s living room, he opened up her mechanical closet as if he had been inside her apartment before.           

“I only have
one
problem,” Susan retorted, certain that Slavic Sir Speedy was going to be nothing but trouble.  “And it’s the fact that my furnace is whistling.” 

Susan crossed her arms and glared at Baryshnikov, intent on making it very clear from the beginning that he did
not
want to mess with her.  She had dealt with cocky, arrogant handymen in the past.  Her dishwasher had stopped working, and the repair man had convinced Susan to replace the whole unit.  Later, Susan learned that there was no problem with her dishwasher.  It was fine.  The problem was with Stan, who had accidentally flipped off the power switch under the sink cabinet when he was looking for the detergent.  That’s when Susan learned that being nice and cute and female only succeeded in getting her screwed out of five-hundred dollars. 

That would
not
happen this time.  Susan crossed her arms and donned her ice queen persona—extra frigid and super-sized queenie.  Besides, Baryshnikov clearly knew he was attractive, and there was nothing worse than an attractive man who knew he was attractive. Except, of course, an attractive man who knew you were attracted to him.

The repairman stepped away from the furnace, glancing it over, up and down.  “A whistle?  Like what kind of a whistle?”

He shifted his gaze to Susan; he had no reservations about glancing her over, up and down. 

Susan glared at him.  She could
not
believe this guy actually expected her to whistle for him.  “Like a bad irritating whistle,” Susan answered, seriously annoyed.

He smiled, his eyes roaming.  Susan had considered carefully what to wear this morning; she had consciously made an effort to convey that she was a professional woman who would not be easily taken advantage of.  The repairman seemed to enjoy her choice.  She had put on a knee-length corduroy skirt with sheer frosting stockings, and a conservative white blouse with a string of pearls.  Stanley had bought her the pearl necklace for her thirtieth birthday.   

 “I’ve never heard of bad whistles.  Only good whistles,” he smirked and lowered his suede tote bag to the floor.  It clanked against the slats of Susan’s hardwood floors, and he bent forward to retrieve his wrench and screwdriver.  His sculpted arms dangled from his tapered waist.  He pitched his long, slender legs forward, and his taunt back arched with a single curve, forcing the folds of his blue service shirt to stretch and tighten across his shoulder blades.

Susan felt herself staring.  Her super-sized ice queen routine was in danger of thawing.  She shifted her gaze and concentrated on the label of his jeans.  Levi’s—of
course.  Stone washed and tinged with grey, and their back pockets were weathered like the seat of a cowboy.  Susan noticed the metallic corner of something else in his back pocket, something small and square, something he kept there with insouciance and conceit, a blatant rubber invitation.

The repairman stood and rotated towards Susan.  “Please, can you start the furnace?” But his lips spread into a smirk; he had caught her—staring.

Susan turned with a huff, making it absolutely clear that she was doing him a favor.  She cranked on the thermostat and the gas furnace blazed on.  After a minute or so, there it was—the unbridled whirling whistle of air, escaping from the nozzle nut of the humidifier hose. 

TwEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet
.

The repairman seized onto the nut with his wrench and tightened it with deep rotations.  The veins bulged in his hands and the muscles in his forearms contracted with ferocity.  Still, the whistling squealed on.  Suddenly, the young man flicked off the power switch to the furnace, killing the piglet trapped inside.  With his left hand, he closed the water valve while simultaneously loosening the bolt connecting the water supply hose.  Then, like a magician performing slight-of-hand, he swapped out his wretch for the screwdriver from his back pocket, and twisted off four screws from the face plate.  He removed the cover and peered inside the cavity of the exposed humidifier.

“Your humidifier needs to be replaced.”

“Replaced?” Susan repeated, skeptical. “What do you mean, ‘replaced?’”  She was testing him.  Mrs. Stanley Ice Queen Kirkeberg was back in full-force.  “Can’t you just swap out the bad hose or bolt or whatever?”

“No,” he countered with his steady, blue gaze.  He had no intention of offering a further explanation, and Susan knew it.

“Well, how much is it going to cost?”

The repairman shrugged.  “If I have new one in my truck, then I charge one-fifty.”

“One
hundred
and fifty? 
Dollars
?” Susan crossed her arms and shifted her weight onto one heel.  “Just to replace a stupid humidifier?”  She glared at the name tag sewn into his blue service blouse.  “Don’t you think that’s kind of expensive,
Joe
?”