Screwed Read online

  Gulp.

  “I—I really had a good time tonight, Leena.”

  And I don't wanna fuck it up, because I know where this road leads.

  “That's it?” Leena laughed, and let out a frustrated groan. “You're lucky you're so hot, Paul.” She reached for my car keys and switched the engine off herself. “'Cause you've got literally no game.”

  That comment made a small part of me feel a little hurt and a little mad all at once. And maybe she noticed.

  “Aw, now don't go getting mad at me, Paul. I actually find it kinda cute.”

  “It's just—maybe I'm not trying to play games like the other guys on Tinder.”

  “Oh, so you want to 'get to know me' first?” She added a cynical laugh.

  I shrugged. Was that really so crazy?

  I have my reasons, after all.

  “Paul. Look. You seem like a nice guy. But I'm not looking for a boyfriend, understand?”

  I nodded.

  “So? You wanna come up or not? We can put a movie on and relax on the couch. Last chance, 'cause I don't like twisting arms—even if I think innocent guys are hot.”

  I took a deep breath—fuck it—and unbuckled my seat-belt.

  “Yeah, alright. Let's hang out.”

  ***

  Leena put a movie on Netflix and the two of us settled onto her couch.

  My heart was racing—I knew what came next, what always came next. Maybe it wouldn't be such a problem if I wasn't in my own head, but damn it, it was already too late for that.

  Leena made soft noises, almost like moans, as she made herself comfortable on the couch. I knew enough about diagnostics that I could read the signs of attraction. How her knees pointed towards me, how her head tilted towards me, how her elbow gently brushed against my forearm, and how she flipped her hair to the other side to make her neck prone to me.

  I knew what she wanted. But that wasn't the problem. It never was.

  My pulse throbbed in my neck, and my breath became shallow.

  Leena took charge again. She grabbed my hand with hers and inspected it.

  “Hm,” she giggled. “Such manly hands. So big and strong and chewed up, too. I've never been with a mechanic before.” She guided my hand to her thighs. “Bet you're good with tinkering under the hood?”

  Fuck it.

  My heart beat like a drum, but I leaned over and kissed her. I ran my hand higher up her leg, brushing my fingers over the crotch of her shorts. She spread her legs open for me and moaned into my mouth.

  Her kisses went deeper and grew more urgent—like she wanted, no, demanded more from me. But all I felt, deep down, was a failure to start. Like when you turned the key, but instead of the engine roaring to life, all you got was a series of maddening clicks.

  Leena slid into my lap and straddled me. With her lips locked on mine, she rubbed herself against my manhood.

  I tried to enjoy kissing her … but I was too busy hoping and praying for a spark.

  “Just close your eyes and relax,” Leena whispered as she lowered herself to the floor, between my legs.

  I closed my eyes while she unbuttoned my chinos and pulled them off me. Then my boxers, too.

  “Ohh,” she cooed with delight. “Fuck, you're so big and thick, even when you're soft. Can't wait to see how big you get when you're hard.”

  Yeah, that's kind of the problem, isn't it.

  Leena slurped and sucked at my flaccid cock. She pulled it between her lips, like she could magically stretch it erect. She squeezed and tongued my balls.

  Gotta give the girl credit: she did everything she could to work a miracle.

  But I didn't get hard.

  I buried my eyes in the crook of my elbow, silently swearing at myself.

  Fuck, c'mon, man! Get hard! Think sexy things!

  But what were those sexy things? My mind just wouldn't go there. I couldn't. I was too freaked out.

  Leena tried her best. She tried to blow me faster, harder, heavier—as if she were saying, why the hell isn't this working?

  But a girl can only suck at a limp cock for so long before her heart isn't in it anymore.

  “Just stop,” I said quietly. The torture had gone on long enough for both of us. I pulled up my shorts and zipped up. “Sorry.”

  Leena glared at me, her lips glistening. She looked pissed off. And I understood why. But it made me feel even worse.

  “What's your problem, man?” she asked.

  “I don't know,” I muttered. “I told you. I think I'm stressed. Sorry. I shouldn't have come up here. It was a bad idea.”

  She blew out an angry sigh. “Fine. Whatever. You should probably go.”

  “Yeah. Alright.” I stood and walked myself to the door. “See ya.”

  She sat, arms folded, and watched me leave. “Bye.”

  A long and shameful walk back to my car. I climbed in with a sigh. Pounded my fist on the steering wheel.

  Then I felt bad about it.

  “Sorry babe.” I rubbed my palm over the wheel to soothe it. “Damn.”

  I started my car, and slid Radiohead's The Bends into the CD player—a band that always took me back to high school. When me and Chance were best friends, and we'd spend hours after school, just driving around in Chance's car, listening to Radiohead and talking about life.

  Not that much was going on in our lives back then. We were just two dumb kids who couldn't wait to get laid. Little did I know …

  I cranked the Radiohead up to drown out the embarrassment and drove myself home.

  Chapter 3

  To Get Screwed

  Liam

  Three days later.

  I navigated my way through the traffic-heavy streets of South Beach, going from one stop light to the next.

  Finally, Scud's Auto Repair came into view on my right. But as I neared, I chickened out again. I stomped on the accelerator, and with a huge breath of relief, zoomed past Scud's.

  But my relief, of course, was only temporary.

  C'mon, Liam! You're already here, just get it over with.

  Why the hell was I so nervous, anyway? It's not like I was doing anything illegal or dangerous. Really, what was the worst case scenario? These guys might see through my pitiful doctor disguise—which was really just a lab coat—and tell me to get lost.

  Big deal!

  I circled the block one last time. This time, when I saw Scud's come into view, I grit my teeth, flicked the turn signal, whipped off the road and pulled into their parking lot.

  I put on the bulky and hideous pair of sunglasses that Angela gave me … yes, with a spy camera mounted in the frame. Then I took one last deep breath to gather my wits before I stepped out.

  Whew. Okay. Here we go.

  I climbed out of the car and made my way for the shop.

  I glanced into the garage. It looked like a legitimate shop—each port had a car raised on the lift, with several mechanics milling around the area.

  It sounded legitimate, too. A crackly radio blasted rock music. A couple of the mechanics shared in a back-and-forth banter. An impact wrench noisily tightened a bolt: brtt-ttt-ttt, brtt-ttt-ttt. The sounds of men at work.

  I pushed through the door to the shop, and the sweet smell of automobile fluids filled my nostrils. The front desk was empty, but a bell jangled to announce my arrival. Still, I waited for a good minute before someone came to help.

  Thanks to Angela's print-out, I recognized the paunchy, middle-aged man the second he came ambling into the shop from the manager's office. This was Carl, the surly-faced shop owner.

  “What can I do for ya?” he asked, sounding annoyed.

  “Hi—I've got a problem with my car. It's making a sound.”

  “What kinda sound?” he asked gruffly.

  “Well, hm, I'm not quite sure how to descri—”

  Carl turned towards the garage and yelled at the top of his lungs: “PAULIE! GET IN HERE!”

  Then Carl mumbled to me, “Paulie'll help ya.” And then he sauntered
back to his office, waddling like a lazy possum.

  Behind the protection my gaudy sunglasses, I rolled my eyes. Yow. Okay. Great customer service here at Scud's.

  A few seconds later, the guy that must've been 'Paulie' came trotting in from the garage, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm.

  And then I saw his face.

  Oh. Oh.

  Paulie was Paul Parisi. Duh. The hottie. His hair was longer than it had been in the website photo—and he swept a goliath hand through his hair, and pinned a thick lock of his curls behind his ear.

  And, thanks again to the protection of those terrible shades? I was able to check Paul out shamelessly. His oil-stained mechanic's jumpsuit was unzipped just enough that I could sneak a glimpse at his solid and well-built pecs. A manly patch of hair grew between those mountains of muscle. It was a sight that wrenched at my throat.

  Uh. Yum.

  “Hey there, how can I help you?” Paul asked with a smile. His glowing white teeth were a crisp contrast to the dirt, oil and grime that speckled his sweat-glistened face and arms.

  “I'm--” I stammered.

  Nervous, and now for two entirely different reasons?

  “I'm good!” I managed to blurt out finally. “How are you?”

  “Good, good. So what's the problem today?”

  “My car is making some kind of noise.”

  Paul grabbed a pen and clipboard. “Okay. What kind of noise?”

  “Hm, that's the thing, I'm not really sure how to describe it.”

  “Is it a click, a clunk, a pop, a rattle, a bang, …” Paul gestured with his hands that the list of sounds could go on forever if I wanted them to. And I almost did want him to go on forever—if only to listen to his smooth and rhythmic voice.

  “Hm. Honestly, I've never even thought about it in terms like that before.” I paused and took a quick breath to brave myself. “I'm just a doctor, what do I know about cars, you know?”

  Paul smiled. “Yeah. It's alright. We can help.”

  Jeez, I thought. Was it really this easy? Say the magic word—doctor—and Paul's salivating over all the money that must be in my wallet.

  “So what's the car's year, make and model?” he asked.

  “It's a 1993. Acura Legend.”

  Paul stopped writing and shot me a smile. “Yeah? A '93 Legend?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I laughed nervously.

  Shit, was he on to me already?

  “Awesome. I love that car,” he said, almost whimsically. “So when is your car making this mystery sound? Consistently? Or more situationally?”

  I gave him a blank stare.

  “Like, say, only when you're turning, or going over a bump …”

  I pursed my lips. “Mm. Man. Wish I knew.”

  Paul gestured for the door. “Tell you what. Why don't you fire her up and show me. It's been a while since I've seen a Legend anyway, and I just wanna see it.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” I said.

  We walked out together. I couldn't tell if this guy was on to me or not—why the heck would he be so excited over a Legend? Sure, it was a decent luxury car … over twenty years ago! It wasn't like it was some amazing classic.

  “Nice ride,” Paul said with a smile.

  “Thanks.”

  “Go ahead and pop the hood and fire her up for me,” he instructed.

  “You got it.”

  I hopped in, turned the key and pulled the hood latch. Then I climbed back out and watched Paul do his thing. He was way more jacked than he looked in his photo—his sexy mechanic jumpsuit was practically painted onto his tall and built frame. His hard biceps and forearms visibly bulged under the sleeves of his jumpsuit as he lifted the car's hood.

  With the hood up, I hoped like hell he wouldn't see the spy cameras we'd had installed in the car. I knew they were small, and supposedly well-hidden. Hell, I couldn't find the cameras when I looked … but then, I wasn't a mechanic who knew the ins and outs of an engine bay.

  Paul turned his ear to the engine and listened intently.

  And me? I just stared at him. Paul's bio must have been true. Because judging by his tanned and lovely olive-tone complexion, he really did love long walks on the beach.

  “Okay. You've got a hunting idle. Is that the sound you're talking about? How the engine revs up and down, up and down, instead of idling steady at 775 RPM? You hear that?”

  I listened quietly. I thought this might be the beginning of Scud's scam. But then, no, I heard it, too. I hadn't expected them to actually find something wrong with the car—but I guess that's what these guys were good at.

  “Hey … yeah, it does do that, doesn't it?” I remarked. I folded my arms and stared into the machinery that might as well have been alien technology to me. “What would cause that?”

  “A more accurate question might be, what doesn't cause it?” Paul chuckled, amused by his own joke.

  But then he looked at me and realized I wasn't laughing.

  “Er. Sorry. Here's the thing. You've got six cylinders in your engine, right, and all six need to fire at exactly the same time. You've also got several different systems, all indirectly connected, that need to come together to provide the precise mix of fuel, air and spark, at just the right time for this to happen.”

  I bit my lip and watched as Paul spoke with his hands to teach me the intricacies of an engine's operation. With a surname like Parisi, I figured those hand gestures were part of his Italian heritage.

  “With the smallest imbalance, the ECU has to adjust the firing order, and voila.” Paul gestured with his ear towards the engine. “Now your cylinders aren't firing at the same time, and that's why you get that tell-tale engine surging.”

  I don't know why he shared all that with me, because I clearly didn't know anything about cars. He might as well have been speaking Latin.

  But even though I had no idea what he was saying? I loved listening to a man who was passionate about something, who knew what he was talking about. Competence was an insanely sexy trait.

  Then again, another part of me knew that Paul here might be the key to selling Scud's rip-off scheme. Maybe they suck you in with the cute, friendly, young buck mechanic. Paul chats you up about your car, makes you feel like he loves and knows your car, and convinces you that you're in good hands—and then, once they have your keys, they strike.

  But that's exactly what I was hoping for here, wasn't it?

  To get screwed. Screwed by Paul.

  Ha, you wish, I told that devious part of myself. Don't even start thinking like that.

  Under the Miami sun, beads of sweat continued to roll down Paul's temple and drip from his sexy, stubble-covered jaw. He wiped at his face once more with his muscled and hairy forearm.

  I cleared my throat and went back to my mission.

  “Sounds like you guys will have your hands full trying to find the problem, then?”

  “Well, maybe, maybe not. Most commonly, it's a vacuum leak. Could be your injector seals, or any number of emissions equipment or sensors. Actually, hold up, I'll be right back.”

  Paul retreated into the garage and came back a second later with a handheld electronic device.

  “What's that?” I asked.

  “A multimeter.” He stuck the test probe into a sensor connector. “Mm. Yup. You're lucky today. Your TPS voltage is out of range. These old Legends can suffer from that problem.” Paul grabbed a screwdriver from his pocket and turned a screw, carefully adjusting while watching the digital numbers on his multimeter, until he liked what he saw.

  Paul pocketed his screwdriver. “There we go. Hear that?”

  The engine's idle was smooth and steady. No more up and down, up and down.

  Paul headed back for the shop. I hopped into the car to kill the engine and hurried to catch up with him.

  “Did you really just fix that? That was so fast!”

  Paul clicked his tongue. “Like I said, your TPS was out of range. You might still have some other related issue
s, though. An older car like this, things are bound to break down. Rubber hoses get brittle and break, gaskets deteriorate, injectors get dirty.” He lowered his voice as we entered the shop together. “You could drive yourself mad—and spend a fortune—trying to replace everything that might be going bad.”

  I reached for my wallet. “So … what do I owe you?”

  Paul waved his hands. “Nothin'. That didn't even take two minutes. Don't worry about it. I'm just glad to see another Legend out on the road.”

  Suddenly, Carl, the shop owner and toddling possum, moseyed out from the back room.

  “Paulie,” he grumbled. “The customer said he was hearing a noise from underneath the car earlier. That can be dangerous. We don't want anybody to die out on the road.” Carl glanced up at me. “What was it? You said it happens when you're turning?”

  Whoa. Carl was clearly a bad dude, and now I was beginning to see where the dishonest element at Scud's came from. Hell, that made Paul even cuter in my eyes.

  “Uh, yeah, yeah,” I lied. “That's it.”

  “Really?” Paul asked, his eyes narrowing at me skeptically.

  “Yeah,” I mumbled.

  “Oh. You didn't tell me that.” Paul frowned.

  I couldn't hold his gaze—I didn't like lying to him. I felt like he could read me, that he could tell I was lying. But that was absurd, right? Surely I was just being paranoid.

  “Why don't you take the car for a spin, Paulie,” Carl said as he retreated to his office. “I'm sure you'll hear the problem.”

  “Right. Yeah,” Paul seemed to reluctantly agree. He shook his head, shrugged, and grabbed a big bottle of soap. He double-pumped the dispenser, and two healthy squirts of pumice soap shot into his hand. A knot in my throat grew as I stared at the pearly-white streaks that glazed Paul's large hands. Actually, that soap looked an awful lot like—

  Ahem.

  Paul rubbed his hands together until the oil came off his skin in a dark, greasy slurry. He toweled his hands dry, good as new.

  “So let's go for a ride and try to find the source of that sound, eh?” he said to me with an unconvincing smile.