Summer Lake Norman Ch 01 03

Hello everyone! This is the first of a multi-part series loosely based on a years-long crush I had at my first job. TW for dubious consent. Enjoy!

1.

My fingers drum idly on the cold metal top of the refrigerated confection display. The whole thing shines cleanly. It's a slow day in the beginning of August, and my boss is gone fishing. This time of year almost everyone in town goes down to the lake or up to the ocean. The really rich folks have houses right on the water that they spend a couple weeks at. Noelle invited me up to spend the long weekend there with the rest of the gang, but I can barely afford the rent on the tiny bungalow on the edge of the Grishams' property as it is--so here I am. We've had three customers all day and the late afternoon sun is already shining hot and gold and lazy through the windows. I decided to play Cinderella for the day. I spent an hour and a half digging layers of grime out of the grout. But now everything in the bakery is clean as it could be except the bottoms of my sneakers.

I gaze at my reflection in the glass of the display case. I read somewhere that checking your appearance in reflections a lot is a sign of narcissism, or insecurity, or both, but I'm the only thing here that's not made of glass or chrome or sugar. The way my work pants balloon out around me reminds me of one of those Italian clowns.

I hitch some of the fabric of my apron up around my waist and tie it tight. It's better, I guess.

The door beeper rings, snapping me out of my reverie. It's Arnold. Arnold is a handyman, and somewhat of a neighborhood celebrity. You name it, he can fix it. He's probably about forty five and he's worked with his hands for a long time. It shows. His grease stained white t-shirt and cargo pants are baggy, but I can still make out lean, taut muscles in his back and his thick, veiny forearms.

"How are you today, Miss Sara?" He asks. His voice is low and smooth. My smile widens involuntarily at the sound of my name on his lips.

"Bored as hell," I reply candidly. Arnold's one of those customers you can say just about anything to and they won't tattle on you. I roll my eyes heavenwards and flop onto the counter.

"Did you just die of boredom?" He laughs. I nod my head and giggle again. I'm acting foolish, like I do whenever he's around.

I realize I've been laughing for too long and rest my hands awkwardly on the counter, clearing my throat.

"Can I get you something?" I ask, tucking a loose ringlet of hair behind my ear.

He rests his hand next to mine, leaning his weight on the counter. My heart jumps a little bit, and I chastise myself for being so silly. He really is handsome, especially for his age. His jaw is firm, and his eyes glow warmly underneath a strong brow.

"Three snickerdoodles, please."

I raise my eyebrow but punch in his order. Usually, Arnold would get a cup of coffee and a slice of cake before he started his work. Snickerdoodles are not in his normal order rotation.

I hand him his bag. "Snickerdoodles, huh?"

"I already had coffee," he says, stuffing the bag of cookies into one of his large pockets.

"Sounds like you just needed an excuse to come see me," I say. It's half joke, half hope. Arnold seems sort of pure to me. Not quite churchy, but safe.

But then he grins a big grin and I realize he sort of looks like a wolf.

"Maybe I did." His voice is low, conspiratorial. This time my laugh is less of a giggle and more of a nervous, high pitched titter. The oven starts beeping and I'm jolted back into work mode.

"Muffins." I mumble it like it's a curse and excuse myself.

I switch the oven off, swiftly opening the door and grabbing the pan before remembering things that come out of ovens are often quite hot.

"Fuck!" I let go of the pan and a wave of heat, and then freezing cold, passes over me. In slow motion, I watch my beautiful blueberry yogurt muffins tumble to the floor.

"You alright back there?"

"I'm okay," I whimper in response. I feel like an idiot. I've worked here for two years and I forget I need a fucking oven mitt to pull things out of the oven. Christ alive. I realize the timer is still beeping obnoxiously, so I reach up and smack it off with my palm. A thrill of white-hot pain stabs through my hand and radiates up my arm. I make a horrible sound--like a wounded bird. Upon inspection, both of my hands are burned, bad, but the left one is worse than the right. White blisters have already started forming on my palm, which is beet red and seems to have developed a pulse all its own.

"Oh shit."

I jump at the sound of his voice so close.

"You are not supposed to be back here." My tone is joking, but my smile falters. My hands really do hurt. Arnold tuts and squats down next to me.

"Now, how'd you manage to do that?" It's not mean at all, the way he says it, soft and concerned and almost paternal, but still I'm embarrassed.

"I grabbed the muffins and I burned my hands." My eyes are fixed on the ground in front of me. Thirty once-lovely muffins, ruined because I can't keep my head straight.

Arnold laughs a loud, booming laugh that echoes against the walls. "You make it sound like somebody died."

"Somebody might as well have. Mr. Fisher is going to ream me out. He might even fire me. I mean, that's at least fifty dollars worth of product on the floor because I forgot to use oven mitts and I really should know better, and..." I realize I'm babbling. I shrug, defeated.

Arnold sinks down next to me on the floor. He puts one large hand on my shoulder. "I'll buy the muffins." He smiles a little.

"They're on the floor!"

"You don't have to give me the muffins. I'll just buy them."

"Why would you buy muffins you can't have?"

"I'll buy the damn muffins." This time he sounds final, and a little impatient. I glance at him, then my eyes drop back to the floor.

"Thank you," I say. My voice is small. When I look back up, Arnold has pulled his cell phone out.

"What--" he holds one finger up and winks at me. A brief pause, and then someone picks up on the other end.

"Henry!" Arnold's voice is full of that false enthusiasm men give to each other sometimes. With his free hand he takes me by the elbow and gently guides me to the sink and turns the cold tap. Another pause. "Yeah--yeah, I heard you were down fishing with Carl and them. Yup--sorry, I know those fish get jumpy. My apologies but--" Arnold looks at me knowingly and rolls his eyes. I smile sheepishly back at him. The water stings and then soothes my tender palms. Then, with some authority: "I hear you buddy, but listen. I'm down here at the shop with Sara, and she's burned her hands up really bad and--no she ain't drop anything, matter of fact I bought up all those blueberry muffins, I have some family coming in, you know, but I guess she musta been in a hurry to get that oven door closed and I was distracting her, you know how I like to talk." he winks again. "So I was wondering--damn near half the town is out on vacation and all, I don't expect you'll get much more business the rest of the day, so maybe I can take Sara home." There's a pause on the other end. I look up at him, wide-eyed. "Thank you much, sir. Uh-huh. Yep. Alright, I'll let him know. Alright. Uh-huh. Y'all take care."

And with that, he's on his feet.

"Did you just call me out of work?" I call after him, bewildered.

"Uh-huh."

I hear the ding of the front door bell. I sit there trying to figure out how I'll get the mess cleaned up in my current state, mourning my previously spotless grout, and the door dings again. The lock clicks.

"God, I hope that's you," I yell. I get a low chuckle in response, and Arnold walks back through the swinging doors with a first aid kit in his hand. He sets it down on top of the refrigerator. Then, in one fluid motion, he clears the space between us, grabs me under the arms and hoists me to my feet. For a moment, his firm torso is pressed against my back. My breath catches in my throat. Between my legs, I feel a new kind of pulse. My face is hot.

"Alright, darlin'. First things first. Does it hurt too bad?"

"No...yeah, it's pretty bad." Looking at the raw flesh on my palms makes me feel a little queasy.

"Well, that means it's not third degree at least, if you can still feel it." He's at the counter now, rifling around in his kit. He pulls out a squarish brown bottle of iodine, gauze, medical tape, ointment, and a tiny pair of scissors. He glances over at me.

"Sit." He jerks his head toward the small table in the corner of the main floor. I step over the mess of baked goods and perch on the edge of a finished wood chair, palms up. He places everything neatly on the table, then pulls a chair up next to me and unscrews the cap of the brown bottle. I recoil.

"That's gonna hurt," I whine.

"It already hurts, don't it?" He gives me a little smile. Before I can respond, he's pouring dark liquid onto my upturned palm. He's right. It's not so bad. Once both of my hands are sanitized, he covers each in a little square of white gauze.

"Thank you, Arnold, for helping me, and for paying for the muffins," I say sincerely.

"Don't mention it." He rises to his feet. "Anyway, it's not all bad. Getting off, y'know? Getting off early, I mean..." he clears his throat. "You and the other kids can start getting into trouble before sunset today."

I bristle at being called a kid.

"Yeah, well. Everyone's out of town. Maybe I'll go down to the hall for a beer," I respond. I don't really like beer, or the hall, or the old men who hang out at the hall trying to relive their glory days, but I really don't have much else to do and I kind of want to remind Arnold that I'm not, in fact, a kid.

"That's nice. Where's your broom?"

He thinks I'm an idiot, I realize. "I can do it myself," I say, rising to my feet. I make it halfway across the room before he meets me in the middle, catching me by the shoulders.

"No," he says matter of factly. "You can't."

"Left side closet," I mumble.

"Sit down." It's an order. I shake my head and plop back down into my chair. I pull my phone out and scroll absently.

I hear the heavy thunk of my poor muffins into the trash can, and then Arnold is pushing through the swinging doors once more.

"Alright sweetness, you're all clear to go." The pet names are starting to feel more patronizing than anything.

"Thank you so much, Arnold, really."

"Don't mention it," he repeats. He clicks the lock back open. I pull the keys out of my apron pocket before tossing it behind the counter into the dirty bin, and walk out into the late afternoon sun. He holds the door for me, and I lock it behind us. It's brutal out, hot and sticky. The air's so thick you could just about swim in it.

"See ya, Arnold."

"See ya, Miss Sara." He nods and walks slowly to his slightly muddy silver work truck. I grab my bike from its hiding place around the corner and lean it up against the wall. It really is hot. I peel my starchy pink shirt off and sling it over my shoulder. Underneath is a halter top, and the air feels good on my bare back.

"Miss Sara!" His voice startles me. He hasn't even started the truck. Suddenly I feel exposed, naked. That's silly though. In my long pants, I'm wearing more clothes than I usually do on my days off. I spin around. Arnold is leaning out of the driver's side window, elbow perched on the edge. He squints at me. "You uh...you want a ride home?" His voice catches a little. "Just thinking, it might hurt riding that bike with your hands like that."

**********

2.

The cab of Arnold's truck is a little cluttered with various tools laying around. Pipe wrenches, hammer, little bits of rope and tape. It smells vaguely of cigarettes. He lights one and offers me the open pack.

"No thanks, I don't smoke cigarettes."

"Good girl." His voice is slightly muffled by the cowboy killer he's gripping between his teeth. He lights it and takes a drag. Something about the way he says it and exhales smoke through his nose makes me squeeze a little. He looks at me sideways. He's got that look on his face again. The one that makes me feel like he's seeing inside me. I blush.

"You're a lefty," he says off-handedly. I turn my left hand palm up in an unconscious reaction, surprised.

"How'd you guess?"

"This one got it worse," he replies, reaching out to trace my tender palm with his fingers as he does.

"Ooh," I wince. He pulls his hand away. I wish I hadn't said anything. We ride in silence down the main road for a while, save for the tinny bluegrass playing on the radio.

"You'll turn up here, on the left. Then it's a mile or so down the road. Past the big weeping willow in the backyard," I tell him. He nods, then it's quiet for a little longer. He takes the turn I told him, and soon enough we're outside of the little yellow bungalow. He cuts the engine, and I take my seatbelt off.

"Well...thanks again." I'm feeling stupid and deeply embarrassed about the whole mess. "And I'm sorry," I add.

I start to open the door when he says, "Let me ask you something." His tone is low, sober. He casts his gaze slowly over to me, and for a brief moment his eyes seem to fix on my exposed navel before meeting mine.

"Oh...okay?"

He stares at me, unwavering, unblinking. His eyes suddenly seem very cold.

"Do you get scared? Being at that shop by yourself?" His eyes are still trained on my face, like he's looking for something. "I know how the fellas in town can be. I wouldn't be surprised if every so often one of them makes a pass."

What an odd question.

I hesitate only for a moment before I answer. "No. I don't get scared," I say carefully. This is true. Was true, at least. "I don't get scared," I repeat, "because I know eventually you'll turn up looking for your coffee cake and I have a feeling you'd knock somebody out if they got in the way of an excellent customer service experience." I muster up my best food-service smile. He chortles, and the tension melts around us like it was never there in the first place.

"Yeah, I guess that's right," he says, and that easy smile with the crinkly eyes is back. "Alright sweetheart, you be safe." This he says earnestly.

**********

3.

It's a short walk through the woods behind the field--maybe half a mile--to the spot. The setting sun is big and orange and reflects off the stream, throwing incandescent shapes onto the leaves of the birch trees that lean in around me like they're telling secrets. Tiny skeeters race around the water's edge. The sounds around me are familiar and peaceful--the rustle of leaves, a mourning dove. I take a sip of my drink, a tiny can of soda with a bendy straw. It's cooled down a bit, but the sun is warm on my skin. I smoke half a joint and read my novel--some pulpy, mindless summer romance thing--until it's too dim to make the letters out. By then my brain is filled with bubbles. I feel light, and optimistic about my ability to make my own fun. I've always sort of loved this time of year, when town is quiet and nobody's around to breathe down your neck or ask a million questions about how your folks are doing or when you'll go to college.

The sun creeps down until it's fully hiding behind the horizon, and the bird calls are replaced with singing bugs and frog calls. All around me is the sound of the approaching night, deep and dark.

A twig cracks behind me. Then another. Quietly and quickly, I rise to my feet. I'm silent for a moment, listening, and then I hear another crack, and what sounds like feet stumbling through the small rocks on the other side of the bank. My breath catches. It doesn't sound like an animal. I've never seen anyone else out here. There shouldn't be anyone else. I don't think it's a good time to meet new people, so I skitter onto the footpath back towards home.

I glance behind me and pick up the pace, feeling antsy. It was probably just a deer. All kinds of forest creatures make sounds out here, most of them harmless. I just can't shake the feeling that someone else is out here. I high-tail it out of the woods as fast as my legs will carry me, and within five minutes I'm in view of my sweet, tiny house, the windows lit with the soft glow of the kitchen light.

As soon as I'm inside, I feel silly. Since I burned my hands I've been acting like it's my first day walking the earth. I kick my shoes off just inside the back door and head for the bathroom. I turn the shower on, and while I'm waiting for it to warm up I lay out clothes on my bed-breezy red shorts with a ruffled hem and a spaghetti strap top. I fluff my stuffed animal, a big purple cat. When I return to the bathroom, the water is pooling a little in the bottom of the tub--a minor clog that I haven't been able to fix. I've tried everything. Eventually, I'll need to call a plumber. For now I just take fast showers. I slip out of my work clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. I test the water with my foot. After a moment's thought I dig underneath the bathroom sink, and find what I need--latex gloves. I slip them over my tender hands and hop in.

I wash away all the sweat from the day, and then carefully detangle my hair. I see Arnold's face behind my closed eyes, grinning that wolfy grin. My breath catches and my hands fall to my breasts, cupping them. I sigh. my gloved fingers trace my stiffening nipples. It feels strange, foreign, almost like they're someone else's hands instead of mine. I imagine it's him touching me, and that sends a pleasant pulsing sensation down between my legs. A moan escapes my lips. Already, I can feel slick moisture between my thighs. One hand traces down my belly, teasingly. "Oh, please..." I whisper. The combination of steam and arousal is making me light-headed. "Please..."

Finally, the hand finds my pussy, cups it tenderly. The middle finger teases my vulva. The finger eases into me slowly. I bite my lip.

"mmm..." I press into myself, against the sensitive spot just inside of me. I hump against my hand, faster and faster. I think of Arnold's strong hands on my shoulder. I think of the smell of his cigarette, his voice, low and smooth, calling me a good girl. Suddenly, a very different image appears in my head, the kind my mind always comes up with right before the climax.

Do you ever get scared?

In this one, he's pressing my face into gravel, my ass in the air. My work pants are pulled around my ankles in broad sunlight, hot juices trickling from my open, waiting cunt. A car roars by. The driver honks his appreciation for the slut that's on her hands and knees like a dog. Arnold shoves three fingers into me, roughly, and I wail. He drives them in and out rapidly, cruelly, laughing a mean laugh. "What a nasty little fucking whore," he says in my head. I cum with a quiet whimper, then a gasp, ignoring the pain in my hand. My eyes snap open and I'm immediately a little embarrassed. I always am, afterwards.

I step out and dry off quickly, peeling my soiled gloves off last. I change into my clothes and put my hair into two thick braids. I sit at the vanity that's crammed into the corner of the room. In the mirror, my face is flushed. I swipe pink lipgloss on, mascara, a little concealer under the eyes. Summer darkened the freckles that dot my nose and cheeks.