Impress her. Ask for nothing. Maybe you can cash it in later.

Giving It Your 70%

“So what can I do for you to make this situation as comfortable as it can be?”

You consider. That’s one hell of a question. Nevertheless, Brooklyn so far hasn’t been naything more than a pain, and that pain will be alleviated once Monarch picks up the tab. Even as your imagination runs with the possibilities of what all this woman might be able to do for you, you rein yourself in. No. No more thinking with your dick. That’s what had you coming up here sweating with dread in the first place, even if by some miracle it all worked itself out. No, this time you’re going to think about the bigger picture.

“Ms. Merriman, I assure you, I’m already quite comfortable.” You flash that winning thousand-watt smile of yours. “I promise if that ever changes–”

“You let me know right off, all right?” She nods, looking as if she approves of your handling of the issue. “I know at some companies ‘consultant’ is a four-letter word, but here, even our temporary people are our people.”

“Thank you, truly. I feel really welcome here. Parking operations aside,” you add with a dismissive chuckle.

“You’ll let me know if Ms. Diamond becomes too much for you to handle.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can take on one over-zealous parking operations officer.”

“Of course you can.”

Indeed, after an unusually normal afternoon of actually doing your job, you find there is once more a citation left on your dashboard. Today, it’s for parking in a reserved space, even though the orange-painted lines you took to delineate employee spaces appear on only one side of your vehicle. Ordinarily you’d be up in arms, but today, knowing it’s all some uptight lady’s hazing ritual, you tear it up without a second thought.

(Seriously, though, it can’t be reserved if both sides aren’t orange! The nerve! That woman!)

The next couple days are back to your actual job. No more weirdly flirtatious encounters with weirdly attractive women, just crunching numbers and tapping keys. Tedious, sure, but that’s what they pay you the big bucks for. You’re not the sort to let yourself fixate on a smoking hot body. Not even one with unbelievable tits like Jenna’s. Or a smile to soften granite like Amy’s. Or, sure, you can admit it, an ass that’s a hard round endorsement of somebody’s fitness center like... like...

Hmm. There's an ass in your memory, but you can't put a name to it.

Anyway, no, not you. You know when to back off and bide your time. Or to accept that maybe there will never be a time. Maybe someday years from now, your stint at Monarch Industries will be an uncommonly sizable deposit in your spank bank and nothing more.

You still have Mo, after all. That weekend, it’s all you and him, cranking up the AC on a sweltering summer heat wave, binging TV and dozing at intervals. As too often happens, by Monday morning, the weekend is already a blur in the rear view mirror.

Hey, speaking of the rear view mirror…

You round the block, and as you retravel a stretch on Regina Blvd you confirm that you’d seen what you’d thought you’d seen. By the side of the road, kicking her tire with the pointed toe of her heeled shoe in frustration, is none other than Avery Parker, regional assistant to the manager of sales. Sure enough, that sucker is flat as flat can be, very much unlike Avery herself.

“I don’t need any help, thank you,” she says without looking, no doubt responding to the sound of your car door shutting.

“You sure? Because it looks like you do,” you reply. She turns, and her defiance at the universe’s delivery of this damsel in distress scenario is apparent. Right before “I don’t need any help” can become “fuck off, stranger danger,” however, her eyes focus through her glasses, and recognition registers.

“It’s… Will, right?” she asks.

“Bing. And Avery?” You’re not the least bit sure. The question mark is solely to reassure her you’ve thought about her as little as she’s no doubt thought about you. “From sales?”

“Good memory.” She lets out an aggravated breath, scowling once more at her defunct vehicle. “Not sure how long it’s been leaking, but I sure heard the rim grinding when I was driving. Stupid goddamn… Sorry. Just not how I wanted to start the week.”

“Yeah, no doubt.” Your own manly glee at feeling exactly the opposite, playing rescuer to a beautiful woman in need, barely misses its chance to leak into your voice. “You already called somebody, I take it?”

“Somebodies. Tow truck and a Lyft. I have a 9:30 with Danny that I can’t miss, so I can’t even follow it to the shop. I know I shouldn’t be paranoid, but… something about handing off your car to total strangers… I dunno. My mom says I have trouble accepting help. Even very expensive help, like this is obviously going to be. Fuck.”

“Yeah, no doubt.” Didn’t you just say that? You’re pretty sure you just said that. “Though hey, I know it’s the lesser of two charges, but if you want to cancel that Lyft, I’d be happy to give you a ride in.”

Despite it being a no brainer of an offer – accepting an immediate free ride from a little known coworker vs. a delayed and expensive one from a total stranger – she mulls it over a moment. “Sure. Thanks, Will. Let me grab my stuff from the car and I’ll be right there, OK?”

Her ass, shapely and inviting, does its best to thank you as she bends down in her car, rummaging for who knows what. There has to be a special place in heaven for whoever does the hiring for Monarch Industries. Or maybe hell. However amazing ass scouting talent is weighed in that equation, they’re getting full credit or sanction. A few moments later, she scoots into your passenger seat, setting her purse and a second bag between her feet as she buckles in. The seatbelt is covering almost as much of her breasts as her top, but your brief introduction to Jenna has already disabused you of any antiquated notions about dress codes at Monarch.

You give her a few minutes to touch base with the tow company now that she won’t be there to meet them. When she’s done, Avery rams her phone into her purse with a grunt. “Assholes. Do you ever get a feeling about someone where you just know they’re going to mess something up for you?”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. They do this for a living, after all. Hey, look on the bright side. You’re already past the worst part of your week, eh?”

Grudgingly, she gives you a thin smile. “Here’s hoping, but yes, that’s going to be tough to top. That sound it made… yuck. That was an expensive sound.”

There’s not much to say to that. Avery gives it a block before making the transition herself. “So, Will, you live around here? There, rather – by where you picked me up.”

“Sure do. Little cul de sac right off Maple, less than half a mile.”

“No way! Small world, I guess. Look at us, practically neighbors.”

“Really? Whereabouts are you?”

You can see the question pushes a button that you forget some women even have, but her flash of caution fades quickly. “On Rexford? That big condo complex with all the trees with the silver-green leaves?”

“Yeah, I know that one. Looks really pretty.”

“For what the condo association charges, it fucking better,” she grumbles, then her eyes widen. “Fucking FUCK!”

“What?! What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing important. I forgot my goddamn jacket in my car! Jesus, I look like a… Fuck!” She folds down the sun visor, inspecting herself in the attached mirror. Her fingers tug around at the large oval around her breasts, and while you’re mostly focused on the road, you don’t miss the fact that by the time she’s done inspecting and fruitlessly adjusting, two huge nipples are pushing out into the thin black fabric. Heck of an anger response, that.

“I… I wondered if… I just didn’t want to…”

“Well thanks for that,” she gripes. For some reason, she presses her breasts together so suddenly and so firmly you can hear the skin clapping together, then releases them after a moment. From the duration of the jiggle, there’s no longer the least bit of uncertainty that Avery is going commanda under that blouse. “Goddamn tow truck’s come and gone by now, too, and we don’t have time to… Fuck!”

You don’t know what to say to that, and really, you can appreciate that the poor woman’s off to one heck of a lousy start to the week. Let her blow off some steam. Soon enough, in fact, she seems to realize her misplaced frustration and puts an arm on your shoulder apologetically. “Look, sorry, I’m pissing and moaning like crazy this morning. I’m sorry. I promise I’m usually at least 30% less bitchy.”

Her frankness wins a laugh. “I didn’t know there was a numeric scale for it.”

“Oh yeah, all sorts of factors and equations go into it. Percentage of advances rejected, level of education, hair color to hair length ration… I’m practically an actuary of it.”

“Hair color to hair length? What’s the most and least? I gotta know. For a friend.”

“Short and tall redheads are at the high end. Ass-length brunettes come in dead last, at least in the American system.”

“And in metric? Who’s worst there?”

“Blonde down to the shoulder blades all the way,” she says with a wry smile, pointedly twisting a strand of her long blonde hair around a finger.

Despite her forgetfulness regarding her jacket – and what jacket could possibly render that blouse, on that body, modest, you have no idea – Avery had the presence of mind to snag her employee parking pass and sticks it on your dashboard, securing your best space yet. Sure enough, by lunch time there’s a fresh ticket from Brooklyn for having an illicit pass transfer to your unregistered vehicle, and through the window, you can see a second one joined it for the second half of the day. You snag a fresh manila folder and designate it “Brooklyn’s BS” in sharpie, a new home for her inexplicable crusade against your parking pleasure. It can go to Aubrey Merriman along with your final report, in case anybody ever has the stones to go over the fascist bitch and wants some evidence of her abuses handy.That afternoon, you get a text from Avery Parker asking if you would mind dropping her at the tire place. She’s only slightly apologetic for the ask; you suppose it’s difficult to be a woman so gorgeous and still feel like your presence is that cumbersome to young single men. Needless to say you accept. Hardly out of your way, and you only need to stay two and a half extra hours past your usual quitting time to accommodate her.

You head into the shop with her at her invitation on the off chance her vehicle’s not ready, but sure enough, everything’s taken care of. You grimace at the price they list – turned out to be one heck of an expensive sound indeed – and even bravely venture a consoling pat on the back as she curses under her breath while submitting the demanded ransom.

You walk her to her car, where she immediately does a thorough inspection for fresh scratches in the paint. For you, it’s an exercise in only noticing how, bent over like that, her boobs threaten to jump out of her neckline when she’s facing away from you. “Hey, I guess I’ll see you around,” you say after a couple minutes of this.

“Yeah,” Avery replies absently. That’s that.

You head back to your car – only right as you’re hitting the lock button on your fob, you once again hear Avery’s voice behind you. How she snuck up so close in those heels, you have no idea. “Hey, Will. Sorry about that. Look, you’ve been awesome today, chauffeuring me around and putting up with my bullshit. I want you to know I really do appreciate it. Yeah?”

Damn, she’s pretty when she smiles. She’s sexy as hell when she scowls, but smiling, the woman is radiant. “No problem. I hope I made a sucky day a little less sucky.”

“You did. Big time.” She takes a step closer. “You know, since we’re neighbors and all, what do you think about carpooling? You and me?”

You need no time at all to respond. Avery Parker may not have the warmth of Amy Marchiano, but surely she’s at least worth getting to know. “Carpool sounds great, actually. I hate making the drive all the way into the city by myself every day. Some company would be fun.”

“Agreed. Maybe back and forth, like I do Monday Wednesday Friday, you do Tuesday Thursday? How’s that sound?”

“Or I could just drive every day. I don’t mind. I know how I am, and I guarantee you I’ll forget whose day it is and make us both late.”

Her smile broadens. “You are a godsend, buddy. I am not even going to try to talk you down from that. Deal.”

“Deal.” You extend your hand. Avery takes it, but rather than shake it, she raises it to her lips and extends her glistening pink tongue. Your jaw drops in surprise as she plants its on the back of your wrist and, with a gradualness both exquisite and awkward as hell, drags it up to your knuckle before standing back up and releasing it.

“Um…”

“Look, you’ve put up with me enough today – get the heck outta here, OK? I’ll text you my address.”

“Uh, sure. But–”

She turns, and is back at her car, giving a second check on the rear door, before you can ask what the flying hell that lick was about. Did you imagine it? You’d think you must have except for the thin trail of Avery’s saliva cooling in the heated evening air.

So you carpool with Avery. Sure enough, the thirty percent forecast in reduced bitchery is about spot on. She’s opinionated, outspoken, and critical. She adjusts the radio station without permission, applies her makeup while you’re driving, and one morning asks if you wouldn’t mind going almost half an hour out of your way after work to drop her off at the gym. Why she even goes to one so far from her home is anyone’s guess.

Still, she’s also got a knack for observational humor, is a solid partner for swapping war stories of workplace grievances, and, you even grudgingly acknowledge, has better taste in music than you. She follows hockey but disdains other pro sports; she geeks out hard about wristwatches but with enough passion to draw you in; in spite of her flawless appearance, she’s almost never girly. Avery is… cool. You can imagine that if you strapped on a penis, a beard, and fifty extra pounds on her, she’d get along great with your guy friends.

Perhaps best of all, though, she lacks a beer gut, evidences no body hair you’ve seen, and is in possession of what you can only imagine is a spectacular vagina, if the rest of her is anything to go by. While Monday’s jacket debacle seems to have annoyed, Tuesday’s tight sleeveless blouse, showing glimpses of her tits between the buttons, occasions no comment. Nor Wednesday’s skin tight pant suit painted on her ass, nor the sports bra and leggings she’s already got on for her trip to the gym Thursday, nor casual Friday’s skinny jeans and tank top, the back so low it’s hardly even there. The front is only somewhat better, a pair of thick mounds of flesh upthrust through her neckline.

She seems like she enjoys your company, too. She invites you to sit with her and a few colleagues when your paths cross at lunch Wednesday, and even sends a decidedly non-work-related text your way at almost eleven o’clock Thursday night.

Do you watch Fallon? I have thoughts on one of his bits tonight and you won’t get them if you didn’t watch and I have to rant them to someone so if you’re not going to be my dude in the morning I have to find someone else yet tonight

Yeah, you reply, quickly searching for a video of tonight’s show.

Sweet.

The rant is supplanted by a separate one, this one about how it’s been three days and she still can’t get the goddamn air freshener scent out of her car, and how there ought to be an air freshener whose scent destroys other air fresheners. It’s inspired.

Friday afternoon, Avery is waiting for you by your car along with a fresh citation from Brooklyn for expired plates. Why a company lot would even look for such a thing aside, yours aren’t even expired! You check just to reassure yourself, only to realize that the little green sticker is absent altogether. What? Those things stick through rain, sleet and snow – no way it happened to fall off! Could Brooklyn have actually peeled your sticker off? Sure enough, you can see little scratches in the dust on your plate as if someone’s fingernail attempted just that. What the mother fuck?!

Nonetheless, once Avery lets you do a little venting of your own, she stops you before you can climb into the car. “Hey, look, I’m actually sticking around here for a while yet. I know, working late on a Friday.” She puts a finger-gun to her head and pulls the trigger, tongue lolling out a moment later. The same tongue she has not yet referred to a single time since employing it on your hand.

“Oh, bummer. Sure I can’t drag you out? Tell Danny your ride home was a jerk, wouldn’t wait for you.”

“Like that asswipe cares.” She frowns. “I actually gotta head up quick, they’re already waiting on me, but… before I do, I just wanted to run something by you. If you have a sec to talk.”

You’re about to tell her to go right ahead when, as if by a quirk of fate, both corners of your eye catch a different sight.

To your right, exiting the building and striding briskly toward the other end of the lot, is none other than Jenna. THE Jenna, flimsy skirt, inadequate vest and all. Her keys are already in hand, and you can hear a distant beep as she unlocks a car in that direction. It’s the first time you’ve seen her since she flashed her tits to you on 7 over a week ago. By now, you were beginning to wonder if you’d imagined it, but there she is, tits and all.

To your left, however, you catch another sight. None other than Brooklyn Diamond, unremarkable as ever. While Jenna doesn’t seem to have noticed your presence, Brooklyn’s snide smirk is unmistakable as she makes her way to her own ride, one of those jeeps with the clear plastic doors. Because of course the biggest asshole at Monarch has to drive the assholiest car. What the fuck is with that woman!

“Will?” prods Avery. “You with me?”

Decision time! Voting takes place for patrons $10+ at https://www.patreon.com/icebear. Results will continue to be posted here for free, though, so no pressure. Avery image was a little tricky to source, but as near as I can tell appears to be another excellent piece of work by artgerm. Your choices:

• Listen to what Avery has to say.
• Run down Jenna lest she once more slip through your fingers.
• Finally give Brooklyn a piece of your mind before the righteous indignation fades over the weekend. Enough is enough.