somerealnerd

  John didn’t hang around after Tammy stomped off, her curses still bouncing in his ears like a swarm of pissed-off flies. He’d yanked his pants up quick, mind already racing—Bryce Calhan crashing in had turned everything upside down, and no way was he letting that sleaze slip by without catching some dirt. He darted to Mar’s office door, pulse hammering, ready to hear whatever shit was brewing inside.

  He pressed his ear tight against Mar’s office door, holding his breath, every nerve on edge to catch any hint of something big. Do not miss a word, he thought, cheek mashed to the wood like some cheap-ass spy.

  Inside the wide, bright office, Bryce loomed rge, chest puffed out like he owned the damn world, talking down to Mar with a greasy smirk. “Mar, honey,” he purred, letting the word ooze out slow and sleazy, “quit digging in your heels. Pass me some of that Vigorex stock you’re hoarding—keep it stacked up, and you’re not moving a damn thing.”

  Mar didn’t bite. She stayed quiet, jaw locked—she knew Bryce was spitting truth, but it was a trap either way. Hold on to it? His prices, always slicing just under her cost, would choke her dry. Hand it over? She’d be gift-wrapping the whole Vigorex market for BigMart. No good way out, she thought, eyes narrowing.

  Bryce clocked her silence, grinning like a smug prick. “Caught your new front-desk boy getting some action on my way in,” he said, chuckling low and dirty. “How about you give me a hand too—maybe a little blowjob—and I’ll pay a sweeter price for that Vigorex?”

  Outside, John’s fists balled up—that slimy jerkoff. He burned to barge in and sm a boot right into Bryce’s crotch, no noble reason—just that smug tone begging for it. But he stopped cold, gut twisting—not yet. Facing Mar head-on still felt like stepping into a damn minefield. If he’d spilled Tammy’s secret back there, it might’ve been a slick way in, but he’d promised her. She’d sucked, slurped, damn gagged—finished or not, selling her out now wasn’t his py.

  But John knew he had to keep this mess from blowing up—he couldn’t let Mar eat shit while he stood there holding the scoop. Even if he knew he’d never have his ways with her, which seemed a quite odd idea for John, who basically wanted to fuck every woman in this world.

  He pulled out his phone, fingers hovering, then shot Tammy a text he’d rather choke on: “Whatever it takes, get Vivian—that Vivian. Tell her Mar’s in trouble, haul ass to the company now!” He paused, then tapped fast: “Tell her Limp John’s back if she doesn’t come!”

  Inside, Mar smirked at Bryce’s me “deal,” finding it ughable as hell. “Cut the jokes, Calhan,” she snapped back, voice cool and biting. “For your own good, y off the Vigorex—too much’ll melt your brain. Though from where I’m sitting, doesn’t look like there’s much left to melt.”

  “You bitch,” Bryce snarled, his grin twisting into rage, voice jumping hot. “Watch your damn mouth—you know the shit you’re in. After that little dig, you’re sucking me off now—like it or not.” The air got thick—his tone turned ugly, and it sounded like he was gearing up to make it happen.

  John sighed—damn it, no way around it now. He had to jump in, hoping Mar might cut him a break for the “hero” bit. Hero saving the day? Sounded like a sweet fucking fairy tale—one he’d kill for any other time. But on Mar? Damn near pointless.

  John shoved the office door open fast. Bryce spun, shock popping in his beady eyes, but before he could blink, John zipped behind him. In a move straight out of a spstick flick, he leapt up and cracked a heavy palm across Bryce’s skull—whack—like a kid swatting a pymate, just with enough juice to drop the bastard face-first to the floor.

  He couldn’t let Calhan sniff out the danger and get his guard up—not today at least—so he had to keep pying this front-desk nobody.

  Before anyone could twitch, John threw on a panicked squeak, turning to Mar. “Ms. Hensley, I heard yelling from your office—are you okay? Is this the intruder? Look, I’ve got him handled.” Then, quick as a fsh, he swung a foot—crack—smashing Bryce square in the nose and mouth, cutting off a garbled “you motherfu—” mid-spit. “Stay down! Don’t move!” he barked, pying it up.

  Mar froze for a split second, then a ugh burst out—sharp, bright, and hotter than sin. That smile lit her up like a damn spotlight, all wicked charm and fire. Her bck bzer hugged her tight, tracing every curve like a second skin, those killer legs crossed in sheer bck stockings—long and sleek, screaming sex with every inch. Stiletto heels gleamed under the light, sharp as her wit, and as she ughed, her chest heaved—two lush, round mounds bouncing like eager bunnies begging to bust free, a sight so spicy it’d make a priest sweat, perfectly wicked against her cool, commanding vibe.

  John flicked his eyes over her legs—stockings hugging every curve—and felt nothing stir inside. Oh, bck hoses, my favorite, but what’s the point? He thought, ft as a dead battery.

  Bryce, still sprawled on the floor, finally caught his breath, swiping blood off his busted lip. “You know who the fuck I am?” he roared, voice thick with venom.

  Big shots always drop that line, so John pyed the part—eyes widening, fake panic spilling out. “No idea—did I screw up? Who are you?”

  “I’m Bryce goddamn Calhan!” he spat, blood streaking his chin. “You dumbass reception piece of shit—you were just getting sucked out there, so why the hell you sticking your nose in here? And you hit me? You’re fucked!”

  Mar snapped to—wait, what? He’s not the receptionist. She squinted at John, then it hit her. Oh, this is fucking great—Limp John. Thinner now, sure, but that face—same old screw-up. She’d missed it at first.

  She had a million questions—biggest one wasn’t even why he was getting sucked off out front, but how the hell he had the balls to show up here again. Still, bigger fish to fry right now. Whatever he was, he’d just pulled her ass out of the fire. “Get out, Calhan,” she said, settling back into her chair, voice cold as steel. “I’ve got things to discuss with my employee. Door’s that way—close it behind you.”

  “You dumb fuck,” Bryce growled, staggering up, wiping more blood. “You’ll pay for this—ruining my fun and whacking me? I’ll bury you fucking alive!” He sized John up—those two hits stung hard—and figured he’d cut his losses, limp off now, and plot payback ter.

  John kept the act rolling, bowing like a nervous wreck as Bryce shuffled out. “Sorry, Mr. Calhan—please forgive me, let it slide!” he yelled, all fake panic, even tossing in a “great lord spares the lowly fool!” until Bryce was gone.

  Then he spun around, fshed a quick heh-heh, and let that sly grin creep back.

  Mar caught the whole show—him pying Bryce like a fiddle—but she wasn’t in the mood for games. “So, what are you here for?” she asked, tone icy, like she was staring down someone worse than Bryce.

  Her disgust had roots—damn good ones, too.

  A year back, old John nded an internship at Hensley’s Haul. His hard work, sharp eye, quiet charm, and solid skills caught Mar’s notice fast. But what sealed it? He was a happy log—no juice downstairs. Mar, a drop-dead gorgeous lesbian, trusted logs like him. Straight guys—or any guy with a working dick—around her meant trouble, always sniffing where they didn’t belong.

  John’s voice cut through again, steady. “I’m here to talk business. I wanna see if there’s a shot here to build something real.” He kept it straight—it’s best to keep it that way.

  Mar ughed, cold and cutting. “That’s hirious. After all the dumb shit you pulled, you think I’d give you a chance? What, you popping Vigorex now? No wonder Bryce said you were ‘pying’ up front—though I thought even that wouldn’t fix a useless log like you.” She didn’t hold back, slicing him deep with that jab.

  John let out a heavy sigh—here we go. He knew showing up today wouldn’t be easy, and now with her clued in on the blowjob thing out front, it was a damn uphill climb. In Mar’s eyes, old John was just a limp dick who couldn’t stop chasing tail anyway.

  Back to that year, old John strutted into his gig as Mar’s personal assistant at Hensley’s Haul, riding a rare high like he’d hit the jackpot. Hell, he even let it go to his head—sometimes catching himself wondering if Mar was sweet on him, picking him out special for the ride.

  Hey, any guy might think that—especially old John, clueless as a brick that Mar was a full-on lesbian.

  That puffed-up swagger was pure catnip for Bryce Calhan. The bastard sniffed out a golden chance to kneecap Mar by cutting off her key ally—Vivian, Nexis City’s underground queen. Sure, Vivian wasn’t the top dog—some bigger shadow loomed—but for a woman to cw her way that high in the game? Damn near a legend.

  Strong dick, weak dick, working dick, or no dick—none of that stopped men from scrapping like dogs in the gutter. The gangster world stayed a man’s pyground, but Vivian? She was a fucking force, carving her chunk with steel guts.

  With Vivian in her corner, Mar was a fortress—Bryce’s dirty tricks couldn’t touch her. But then he caught a whiff of something juicy: their alliance was rock-solid yet brittle as gss. They were lovers—hot and heavy lesbians.

  And this little log climbing fast? John was the perfect pawn to smash their bond. Bryce slid in smooth, fshing his BigMart boss cred, dangling “business tips” to reel John in. All the while, he fed him a steady drip of poison—you could have Mar, kid—even tossing out a drug pitch: “Slip this in her drink, she’s out cold, do whatever you damn well please.”

  Old John shot it down ft—that’s some sick, shameless shit, he thought, pegging Bryce as a creep. But John saying no didn’t stop Bryce from pulling the strings anyway.

  One night, at a swanky joint-supermarket bash, Bryce spiked the wine John carried over to Mar. Once she was out, he hauled John aside, pouring booze down his throat and piling on the lies: “Mar’s hot for you—said she’s waiting in her room.” Hammered and wobbly, John slurred out a st shred of sense—but I’m a log, can’t do shit. Bryce just grinned, “No biggie—hands, mouth, anything you can jam in there, you name it.”

  In a room rigged with cameras, a pstered John stumbled over a zonked-out Mar—hands fumbling, tongue slopping—until her limp body twitched once, and he crashed out, clutching her like a drunk teddy bear. Next morning, Vivian kicked the door down, saw the tangle, and flipped—I’ll kill this prick! John froze, dazed and dumb, no clue what he’d fucked up—or that Bryce had pyed him like a cheap kazoo. Only Mar’s arm held Vivian back, saving his ass from a grave.

  Vivian’s rage boiled over, spitting fire at Mar—“What? This log got you off once, so you’re shielding him now?” That was the match to the powder keg. Mar, humiliated, heartsick, and nauseated, snapped, “Get out, Vivian—now.”

  But Vivian wasn’t done—jealousy and fury torched her reason. “You cheated on me? Fine, I’ll cheat too!” Right there, she yanked her pants down, grabbed John’s hair, shoved him to his knees—“Suck me, lick me, use your hands, whatever—get me off!” If John’s sloppy moves the night before had a spark of thrill, now it was just terror and shame choking him. He couldn’t pull it off.

  Vivian and Mar never crossed paths again, and Mar—gutted and betrayed—booted him out for good.

  So John stood there, the whole mess spinning in his head—too tangled, too damn tough to choke out, too far gone for forgiveness. Coming here felt like walking into a buzzsaw—he’d fought every step to this door.

  But hey, sometimes you’ve got to take a swing, patch shit up.

  He straightened up, cleared his throat, and looked Mar square in the eye. “Business is business—I’m not here to scrap with you. I’m here to talk. Whether I’m some horny pervert pig doesn’t matter now; you already know I am one, and I’m no threat to you, because you have that knowledge already. Just keep an eye on me, that’s all you need.”

  Mar blinked, thrown for a loop—this John had a vibe she didn’t recognize. Gone was the shaky kid; his words carried a steady heft, a quiet grit she hadn’t clocked before.

  John leaned in, voice firm. “I can get you out of this hole—smash Bryce’s little game to bits.”

  Mar’s lips curled into a cold, biting ugh. “Oh, and then what? You think that buys my forgiveness? That I’ll trust you like old times?”

  “Be fucking reasonable, woman,” John snapped back, face hard, his voice cutting sharp with a steel edge. “This is business—Bryce has you by the throat right now. It’s time to hit back, simple as that.” He locked eyes with her, unflinching, that steady gaze slicing through the doubt flickering in her head.

  He could tell she was cooling off, chewing over what he’d said.

  “Here’s the deal,” he said, tone dropping low and sure. “Stick to my pn, and your Hensley’s Haul takes the crown—BigMart’s toast soon enough, but only if you stick to my pn.”

  Never expin yourself for nothing—give them an offer they can’t refuse. That was John’s negotiation gospel—pure, cold, and simple.

  Mar drew a slow breath, deciding to hear him out, but not without one st jab. “What do you get out of it?”

  John didn’t even blink, just shrugged. “Money—what else? Oh, and making damn sure Bryce’s rotten life’s a fucking hellhole—watching that fucker rot in misery every single day ‘til he’s begging for the grave.”

  After John id out his pn—sharp, tight, and dripping with grit—Mar’s mind reeled, dragged back to college days when calculus kicked her ass raw. Her head swam, foggy as hell, and she shook it off, staring at this John she swore she’d met fresh today. “Tempting,” she said, voice dry as dust, “but it’s so damn complicated—you sure you can pull it off?”

  John shrugged, cool as a guy ordering takeout. “What’s complicated about it? Rex, I’ll manage.”

  That calm, steady look—like he’d already cracked the code—convinced Mar to give him a shot.

  Business wrapped, a thick, awkward silence crashed over them—old ghosts flickering in their heads, ugly shit neither wanted to dust off. John shifted, thinking time to bail, but Mar wasn’t done. She threw out a curveball.

  “Bryce said you were at the front desk—doing that?” Her voice spiked with curiosity—her company, her turf, and John, a happy log? No way that added up.

  “Yep, with Tammy,” John said, blunt as a hammer. “Bckmailed her into it.” He nearly tacked on didn’t even finish, but held back—too much truth, no point spilling that.

  Mar froze, floored by his raw honesty, feeling like a stranger stared back at her—this wasn’t John. “But you are…” she started, brow creasing, fishing for words.

  “Happy log?” John cut in, eyebrow jacked up, a little sick of the old tag. “Nope, not anymore. Hard every damn day now—like a freakin’ steel pipe at a plumbing convention.” He grinned, tossing it out casual but pointed. “So watch yourself—stay back, or I might just tch onto those legs and hump ‘em when you’re not looking.”

  It wasn’t all bullshit—those bck nylons clinging tight? Yeah, he’d hump ‘em silly—but right now, he just wanted Mar to shut the fuck up about this happy log crap.

  That line left Mar speechless, jaw sck—this couldn’t be John. John didn’t sling crude like this, loose and brash.

  “Alright, I’m out—talk ter,” he said, waving quick to dodge any more dull-ass sidetracks.

  But right then, a storm of footsteps pounded up outside, and the air went electric with trouble brewing fast.

  John’s face darkened.

  No way, no fucking way.