TV was on, but I wasn't watching. Just background noise—flickering light in a dim room. I was sunk into the couch, legs stretched, shirt damp from the day. The stink of engine oil still clung to me. Hands dirty, beer half-dead on the table. Twenty. That's what today was. No one had called.
Then I heard the door.
Keys. Lock. Hinge.
Laura stepped inside, arms full—cake in one hand, half-finished bottle of Jack in the other. She kicked the door shut behind her like she owned the place, yes she did. Her boots landed hard on the wood. She didn't look surprised to see me. Just tired.
Her eyes found me. She grinned.
She looked like sin with sore feet. Tight black jeans, worn low. That tank top—black, knotted under her tits—said LAST CALL in faded red. Her bra strap had slipped off her shoulder. Her makeup was old, lips rubbed bare. Hair up, coming undone. Chest rising. Skin damp. She hadn't stopped moving all day.
She dropped the cake on the counter, then the Jack.
"Told Derrick I had to leave early," she said, voice rough from hours of smoke and shouting over jukeboxes. "Said it was my roommate's birthday."
She turned, leaned on the counter, arms crossed. Those tits were right at eye level.
"Didn't mention you turned twenty. Figured that part might complicate things."
I looked at her. Smiled just a little.
"Could've said unemployed mechanic crashing in your guest room."
"Could've," she said. "Didn't."
She poured a shot, didn't ask if I wanted one. The glass hit the counter. The smell of Jack reached me. Burned a little in the air.
I hadn't seen her like this. Not in this light. Not this close. She looked... spent. Hot. Alive. Real. The kind of woman who holds herself together just long enough to shut the door, then lets the pieces fall where they want.
I watched her take the shot. Throat tight, lips wet. She exhaled, jaw clenched.
This woman saved the house. Said she had savings tucked away for emergencies. I didn't question it. Just nodded and felt something tighten in my chest I didn't know what to do with. I owed her. More than I could repay.
"You gonna blow out candles?" she asked.
I stood, slow. Walked over.
"You gonna light them?"
She smiled without looking at me.
"Nope."
It's been a year since I am living with her, after my dad Jared died in Syria and my step mother June took the house and married someone just a month later. Laura is June's sister, she and I got along well over the years and when June kicked me out Laura insisted I live with her. It seems as if I've got this bad luck about losing houses.
I leaned on the counter next to her. Not touching. Just close enough to smell the smoke in her hair and the cheap perfume clinging to her top.
"How was your shift?"
Her face lit up.
"Oh, honey—bachelorette party. Already wasted before they got through the door. One of 'em climbed up on the bar, tried to strip, and fell tits-first into a tray of nachos."
She laughed, eyes shining now, voice loud in the still kitchen.
"Cheese everywhere. Sour cream in her hair. Whole bar was howling. Derrick nearly pissed himself."
I laughed too. Couldn't help it. The way she told it—gritty, unapologetic, alive—it cracked something in me wide open.
She turned, looked at me then. Just for a second. Not teasing. Just there.
Then she kept going.
"And that wasn't even the worst of it. Around midnight, this couple—regulars—starts bickering. Harmless at first. Thought they'd fuck it out later and call it even. But she throws his phone into a pitcher of margarita, and he—get this—calls her a 'budget Lana Del Rey.'"
She shook her head, poured another shot.
"Two minutes later, they're screaming over the jukebox. Security's dragging them apart, she's sobbing, and he's bleeding from a bottle someone else threw. Not even related. Just caught a stray."
She looked down at her glass, grinning like the chaos had followed her home and unpacked in her bones.
"Tips were shit, though."
She poured again, but didn't drink. Just toyed with the glass between her fingers.
"Oh—and two finance bros tried to out-tip each other over who got to 'walk me to my car.' One leaves a hundred. The other? Hundred plus a condom with his number in Sharpie."
She raised her eyebrows, tilted her head.
"Joke's on them. I used the condom to tie up my ponytail."
I laughed—short, sharp. I couldn't stop staring at her. The way she told it. The way she owned it. She wasn't bragging. Just breathing. Like this was normal. Like this was her.
And maybe it was.
"DJ tried flirting with me during my smoke break," she said, tossing the words out like trash she didn't care who stepped on. "Told him I only date men who can make me come without a bass drop."
She looked at me like she was daring me to laugh. I didn't. Not fully. Just smiled, slow.
"He followed me into the bathroom. Said he just wanted to 'talk.' I slammed the stall door in his face and reminded him I'm not a groupie."
She finally took the shot. Swallowed. Set the glass down with more force than it needed.
"Little fucker still asked for my number. Told him he'd have better luck with the mop bucket."
She downed the shot. Glass hit the counter with a sharp clack. Her lips were wet. Her throat moved.
I didn't say anything. Just stood there. Still. Watching her.
She looked at me.
And didn't look away.
Something passed between us. Not words. Not laughter. Just weight. Eyes locking, breaths shifting. That lazy grin of hers faded, slow. Her jaw set just a little tighter. Her shoulders stopped moving.
I should've blinked. Should've looked away. But I didn't.
Neither did she.
The hum of the fridge felt louder now. The kitchen lights a little dimmer. Her pupils wide. Her mouth just open. No lipstick left. Just a woman in a tight top and bar makeup, looking at me like she'd just noticed I wasn't a kid anymore.
She pushed off the counter.
Closed the distance without saying a word.
Stopped too close. Close enough to smell the Jack on her breath and the day on her skin.
She reached up. Brushed her fingers against my jaw.
Not soft. Not slow. Just a drag of knuckles. Testing. Deciding.
"You gonna tell me to stop?"
My throat was dry.
"No."
She stared at me like that answer wasn't a surprise. Just confirmation.
Then she went to her knees.
No ceremony. No performance. Just movement. Smooth. Sharp. Final.
Hands on my waistband.
Breath hot through fabric.
She didn't speak as her fingers found my belt. Just undid the buckle like she'd done it before—fast, deliberate, practiced. She looked up once. Eyes low. Lips parted. Then she pulled the zipper down and let the weight of everything between us hang in the air.
My cock twitched as she tugged my boxers down. She didn't touch me yet. Just stared. Her breath hit the tip. Warm. Close. My fingers curled against the edge of the counter.
"Happy birthday," she murmured, wrapping one hand around the base. Her grip was lazy. Loose. Cruel. "Wanna see how deep I can take it this year?"
She spat once. Let it drip onto her hand, then smeared it over the head with her thumb. My hips twitched. Her grin returned—just a flicker.
She leaned in. Licked once, flat and slow. From base to tip. Not looking at me now. Just working. Like she had something to prove.
Her lips wrapped around the head. Wet. Hot. She took it slow. Sucked just enough to tease. Sloppy on purpose. No rhythm. No rush. Just pressure, tongue, spit. Her free hand gripped my thigh. Anchoring herself.
I let out a breath through clenched teeth. My legs tensed. She went deeper. Moaned low. The vibration shot up my spine.
"Still with me?" she rasped, pulling off for a second. Her chin slick. Mouth open. "You're not gonna embarrass yourself, are you?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't. Her hand stroked faster now. Wet. Noisy. Her mouth followed again. Deeper this time.
Her throat opened wider the second time. No gag. No flinch. Just discipline.
She took me in inch by inch, pausing near the base, tongue working, hands steady. She wanted it messy. Wanted me soaked. Her spit coated everything. Her lips dragged back up, tight and slick, leaving a line of saliva clinging from my tip to her tongue.
I swore under my breath. She smirked, then went right back down. Faster. Smoother. No hesitation now.
One hand cupped my balls. The other gripped the back of my thigh, nails digging in with each pump of her throat.
She moaned around me. Not performative. Not cute. Just dark and real and guttural. I felt it in my stomach.
"Fuck," I hissed. My hips moved before I thought to stop them.
She took it. All of it. Let me thrust. Let me use her mouth. Her eyes flicked up—wide, unblinking, locked on mine.
That was it.
I grabbed her hair, held tight, groaned through my teeth as heat built hard and fast. She didn't pull back. Didn't even blink. Her lips sealed around the base and she stayed there.
I came. Hard. Groaning, stuttering, biting my lip as I spilled down her throat. She swallowed without breaking eye contact. Not once. Not even when I twitched against her tongue.
When she finally pulled back, slow and controlled, a line of spit and come stretched from her bottom lip to my cock. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, looked up, breathing heavy.
I jerked awake with a grunt. Sheets twisted around my legs. Sweat clung to my chest. My cock throbbed under the covers, stiff and aching and useless.
Then came the voice.
"Morning, birthday boy."
I looked up. Laura stood in the doorway, hair tied in a messy bun, holding a travel mug and keys.
Her voice was real. She was real. But not the one from the dream. No eyeliner. No whiskey in hand. No cake. Just a tired smile and a black tank top under a fraying denim jacket. Jeans. Sneakers. The apron tucked under her arm said she hadn't been home long.
"Didn't mean to wake you," she said. "Just wanted to say happy birthday. I'm heading to bed for a bit—double shift later, but I'll try to be home early."
I stared at her clothes. Not what she wore in the dream.
"Thanks," I muttered, throat dry. "You, uh… working the bar tonight?"
She nodded, sipping from the mug. Her eyes were already distant. She was halfway out the door in her head.
"Yeah. The weekend crowd's already rolling in drunk. If they're lucky I won't spit in their whiskey."
A smile tugged at my mouth. She turned to leave.
"Get some rest," I said.
"You too," she called over her shoulder. "And don't get into trouble while I'm gone. Save some bad decisions for tonight."
The door clicked shut behind her.
I stared at the ceiling.
My cock still hadn't gone down.
Goddamn dream.
The shower didn't help. I stood under the water for ten minutes, eyes closed, jaw clenched, letting the steam soften the ache in my thighs. It didn't work. My body knew what it wanted. My mind knew it was fiction.
I dried off, dressed quick—faded jeans, oil-stained shirt, jacket slung over my shoulder—and grabbed my helmet off the table. Laura's mug still sat there, half-full. Lipstick smudge on the rim. Not the same shade as the dream.
I swung a leg over the bike and kicked it alive. The engine rumbled under me, familiar and loud, the one thing that didn't tease or lie. I pulled out of the driveway and let the wind hit me hard.
Garry's Garage sat three miles down—a warehouse with a bad roof and worse music. The sign out front flickered, always spelling G_A_Y'S after sundown. Garry never fixed it. Said it attracted a better class of customer.
I pulled up just before noon. Parked by the dumpster. The smell of burnt rubber and cheap weed hit before I even took my helmet off.
"You're late," Garry called out, already elbow-deep in the hood of a rusted-out Camaro. "Birthday hangover, or did your MILF landlady finally let you hit?"
I walked past him without answering, dropping my bag by the workbench.
"Ah," he chuckled. "Still dreaming. Been there."
He had no idea.
Garry waved me over to the corner of the lot, where a sleek black Toyota Supra sat sunning itself. Carbon fiber hood, wide-body kit, neon trim tucked under the skirt—Smith's baby. Illegal as hell. Gorgeous.
"Get this to Smith by two," Garry said, tossing me the keys. "And don't test the turbo, I just fixed the damn thing."
I caught the keys mid-air, grinning. "Can't promise shit."
He pointed a greasy thumb toward the door. "Don't scratch it either. He's the kind of client who shows up with a clean shirt and a loaded Glock."
I opened the driver's side door. That new leather scent hit immediately—fresh, warm, laced with cigarette smoke and speed. Just as I was about to slide in, Garry called out:
"Oh—almost forgot. Couple of guys came by late last night. Asked about you."
I paused.
"About me?"
He shrugged, like it was nothing. "Could've been anybody. Skinny guy, heavyset friend. Looked like they'd crawled out of a Vice City remake. Said your name, though. Seemed… curious."
I raised an eyebrow.
"You give 'em anything?"
Garry snorted. "What am I, Yelp? Told them to fuck off. They left. Probably just trying to score a shot at your aunt. She's the only reason half the neighborhood knows you exist."
I climbed in, started the engine. The Supra purred like sin.
"Still weird," I muttered.
"So are you," Garry replied, already walking off.
I pulled out of the lot, merging into the flow of downtown. Sunlight bounced off chrome and glass around me, but the chill stuck in my spine. Two guys asking around about me, late at night, with no good reason? That wasn't nothing.
And if Garry was brushing it off, either he didn't want me spooked—or he was.
I shifted into third. The thought lingered. Clung. Refused to let go.
The Supra tore down the boulevard, slick and smooth, sun slicing through the tinted windshield. I passed a matte black Charger low enough to scrape gum off the pavement. The guy behind the wheel gave me a nod. Street types know each other—if not by name, by ride.
A couple miles out, I heard it—grunting, wet and rhythmic, echoing off the brick like bad porn through a tin speaker. I slowed down, squinted toward the alley.
Ben.
Bent over the dumpster was a woman—skinny, filthy, skirt bunched up around her waist. Ben had her by the hips, pants around his ankles, face locked in pure bliss like he'd won the goddamn lottery. Probably paid her in loose change and weed crumbs.
"Jesus, Ben," I called out the window. "Romantic dinner too much to ask?"
He didn't even slow down. Just turned his head slightly, grinning like the pervert he is.
"Got that fuel injection module you wanted," he huffed between thrusts. "Might've run a little over budget though."
"Fuck you," I said, rolling my eyes.
"Too late," he laughed.
I peeled off before I could see—or smell—anything else. Some people spend their money on beer, some on blow. Ben? He gets his kicks and kicks ass at the same time. Disgusting bastard.
But if he's got that part, and it works, I can't afford to care how sticky his hands are.
About five miles out, I spotted it in the rearview. Matte grey Dodge Durango. Nothing flashy, nothing that screams heat—but it'd been behind me too long to be coincidence.
I kept driving. Glanced again.
Still there.
I tightened my grip on the wheel.
Then—bang. The Supra jolted forward as metal kissed metal. Hard.
"Fuck!"
I cursed, slammed the brakes, but they kept riding my ass. Another slam—louder this time. Bastards weren't playing.
The Durango swerved, pulling up fast, driver to driver. I turned my head, and there they were.
Two of them. The skinny one had hollow eyes and a twitchy mouth. The heavy one looked like he'd eaten his conscience years ago. The skinny guy rolled down his window, lifted a pistol casually, and pointed it at my face.
"Pull over, motherfucker."
I did.
What else could I do?
I pulled into an empty lot, heart thudding, mind already calculating what part of me they were gonna break. The Supra hadn't even cooled when my door flung open.
The heavy one yanked me out, slammed me into the wall hard enough to make my ribs sing.
"Easy," I growled. "It's Smith's—"
A punch silenced me. Fist like a brick to my gut.
The skinny one yanked the keys from my hand, smiled all teeth and hate.
"That's half the money," he said. "Tell your sugar mama to be quicker next time."
Another hit. Cheekbone, this time.
They left me there, bleeding and breathless, as the Supra screeched away.
I spat blood on the pavement, chest heaving.
Smith's gonna kill me.
I slumped on the cold bench, spit copper, and pulled out my phone. Garry picked up after two rings.
"Supra make it?"
"Nope."
"...What do you mean, nope?"
"Got jacked."
Dead silence.
"What the fuck?"
"Two guys. Durango. Hit my bumper, boxed me in. One had a piece. Took the car, roughed me up. Said—'That's half the money, better be quick.' Then they peeled off."
I expected yelling. A lecture. Threats. Instead, Garry just went quiet.
Too quiet.
"You still there?"
I heard movement—something clattered. Then his voice came back low, tight.
"Fuck me. This isn't about the car. You sure they weren't just joyriding punks?"
"They knew what they were after. That line wasn't random."
More silence.
Then Garry muttered something under his breath I didn't catch.
"Shit's getting weird, Lucien. Keep your head down. Get back here. Now."