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

  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 attract
ive 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?”

  The repairman gazed at Susan, intentionally silence. Then, he stepped forward and lowered his voice, stern. “My name is not ‘Joe.’ ‘Joe’ is sick today. I am Cozma. If you want it fixed today, the price is one-hundred fifty. Or maybe you get your boyfriend to fix instead.” Cozma nodded over to a framed picture on bookcase.

  Susan followed Cozma’s glance to the picture of her future husband. Stan couldn’t unscrew a set of training wheels, and this guy knew it. Susan was starting to get the impression that Slavic Sir Speedy didn’t really care whether or not she replaced the humidifier. He just wanted to irritate her.

  “You want it fixed today? I fix it. You don’t want to pay. Then I don’t fix.” Cozma shrugged and replaced his tools into his suede tote bag. He swung his bag over his broad shoulders and moved forward for the front door.

  “Okay, okay,” Susan said, jumping in front of Cozma with a forceful push against his torso. She felt the muscles in his chest contract. “One-hundred fifty. But it better be fucking perfect once you’re through with it. I mean it. No more whistling.”

  Their eyes connected, and Susan peered into his playboy gaze. She loved and hated it. Cozma grinned wide; he was amused by her empty threats. He lowered his tote bag to the floor and hovered over her, close and uncomfortable. Cozma stood much taller than Susan, and he his chin tilted downwards, just to make his words meet her lips.

  “I fix all your problems, remember?” he said with an arrogant wink. Then, he brushed past Susan, heading towards the front door.

  “Wait—” Susan called out, her voice cracking with alarm. She jumped in front of him again, blocking his exit. “Where are you going? I said I would pay you.”

  Susan heard the anxiety in her own voice, and checked herself. Yes. She was the Ice Queen, damn it. She was in-charge.

  “I go downstairs to get new humidifier from truck,” Cozma replied. His blue eyes softened, reflecting the color of his service man blouse. He hands spread open with reassurance. “Please—”

  Susan noted how he said “please” with gentle courtesy.

  “Well, okay. I guess…” She tossed him a smug glance, like she would allow him to pass by—just this once. He nodded and smiled, waiting for her to step aside and clear the way.

  From her living room window, Susan watched Cozma rummage through the bed of his white pickup truck. The long lines of his arms stretched across the vehicle, and there was something rugged about the way he rearranged his tools. She found herself gazing at the way he unloaded and reloaded his truck with blue-collar confidence.

  Cozma returned to her condo with the new humidifier and immediately set to work. Meanwhile, Susan continued to monitor him and felt a strange urge to fill the silence.

  “So, ‘Cozma,’ huh? What is that, anyway? Like Russian or something?”

  Cozma scoffed, like he’d just been insulted. “No. Romanian.”

  “Romanian,” Susan repeated. “You’re pretty tall for a Romanian.”

  Cozma dropped his screwdriver and peered at Susan. “Tell me. How many Romanians do you know?”

  “Well, I’m just saying that you seem taller than I would expect a Romanian to be.”

  He was making Susan nervous, and she didn’t know why. Maybe it was his unguarded stare or direct questions or intimidating posture—the way he would cock his weight to one side and dangle his wrench down his other leg.

  “Do you know where Romania is?” he insisted.

  “Yes,” Susan asserted, feigning offense. She literally had no idea where Romania was.

  “Look, do you see these filters?” Cozma pointed, changing the topic. “When the weather gets warmer, you will take them out and drain the water at the bottom of the pan. Or you will grow mold and your air conditioner will circulate it through your ducts. Ask your boyfriend to help.”

  “Fiancé,” she corrected him. “I’m getting married tomorrow.” Susan held out her hand and flashed her engagement ring.

  “He will help you. Yes?” Cozma repeated without interest in her ring or her imminent marriage.

  “Yes,” Susan snapped back.

  Hello? She’s was getting married—tomorrow. Everyone else in Susan’s life seemed to acknowledge and understand what that meant except for Slavic Sir Speedy. She was annoyed that he was treating her like a child, but she was even more annoyed because she knew that Stan
would be clueless about humidifier filters and mold prevention.

  “Are you married?”

  Cozma raised an eyebrow at Susan as he tightened the last four screws onto the face plate of the new humidifier cover. Clearly, Slavic Sir Speedy was not the type to be satisfied by any one woman, and Susan knew it.

  “Girlfriends?” Susan probed. It wasn’t a question. It was a bitchy assertion that she wasn’t as naïve as he thought.

  He screwed on the final bolt at the end of the hose’s nozzle.

  “No more whistle,” Cozma answered.

  Susan could feel herself frowning and she knew that he could see her frowning, too. Cozma had finished the job. He had fixed her furnace. But still Susan couldn’t stop frowning, and Cozma noticed it.

  “What’s wrong? You don’t believe me that it is fixed?”

  “No, I trust you,” Susan muttered with another frown.

  “Okay then. So you should not frown and worry about such little things. You are getting married tomorrow. Yes? You should be happy.”

  “Who says I’m not happy?” Susan snapped.

  But Cozma was right. Susan was scowling, and they both knew it.

  “You have a very pretty face. But you are not happy,” he repeated, their eyes locking.

  He was standing there, staring at her, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting for her to say something. But then, suddenly, Susan realized he was waiting for the check.

  “One hundred and fifty, right?” Susan asked, turning away for her checkbook. She felt her hand trembling as she wrote out the check, and when she turned back to face Cozma, he was already staring at her, eyes penetrating.

  Susan held out the check to him. But Cozma didn’t move forward to accept it.

  “You are very beautiful woman. You should be happy.”

  Susan nodded “yes,” then “no,” and waved the check at him like a surrender flag.

  “I fix all problems, remember?” he said, ignoring the payment.