Pool Girl: A Forbidden Slow Burn Romance Page 2
Looking down at my defined pecs and taut abs, my muscles bulge with the same intensity as they did when I was but twenty and taking the porn industry by storm.
Not that that did me any good once they decided they wanted me out. I grit my teeth at the memory. My director, Mark, had given me the news. And I—embarrassingly—had tried to plead with him to change his mind. I couldn’t stand to lose such a high-paying job. I certainly didn’t want to lose my very comfortable lifestyle.
“You’re just too old, Cullen,” Mark said. “You’ve been doing this for how many years, now?”
“Twenty-two,” I replied.
“Don’t you ever get tired of it?” he asked. “Don’t you want to do something more meaningful?”
I hate the way he spoke to me. It made me feel like I wasted half my life while I lined his pockets and those of the production company with millions and millions of dollars.
At the peak of my career, everyone wanted to see Cullen Roberts. They wanted to see him unleash “the animal.” That was the nickname they gave me. “The Animal,” a reference to the savage, primal way I screwed on camera. Now, nobody wants to see me. I’m just a has-been. Old. Declining. Greying on all parts of my body.
“I’m still perfectly capable, Mark!” I exclaimed that night. “I mean, none of the younger guys can match my speed. My skill. Fuck this shit, Mark. You know I’m right.”
“Maybe,” Mark said, “but most of the girls here are young. Too young for a forty-two-year-old man. It’s a fucking taboo, Cullen. You know we don’t cater to that crowd. We can’t keep pairing you with young girls.” He paused, sucking in a deep breath. “We’ve begun to get negative reviews. People don’t care anymore how quickly you make them cum. They’re asking if you’re not old enough to be their father.”
That was the phrase that struck me. Old enough to be their father. It was the kind of biting slap that leaves an imprint of five fingers spread across the cheek, burning red.
For a long time, I’d been under the illusion that I could remain a porn star forever. I was making so much money I didn’t bother with life skills or getting a college education or any of that critical shit. Porn had chewed me up and was about to spit me out into an unforgiving world.
Realizing this, I made one last, desperate attempt to save my job. “Then pair me with someone closer to my age, man. Don’t leave me hanging.”
Mark sighed. “Cullen Roberts, no one wants to watch porn full of saggy breasts and cellulite. Youth and virility are what we sell. You may still look good and perform like you can go ten rounds with four different girls, but a female counterpart wouldn’t appeal to our target audience. I’m sorry, Cullen, but we have to let you go.”
I never thought I would hear those words. And as I stood on the sidewalk outside the company building in downtown Los Angeles on that cold night, still in shock, I thought back on how I’d led my life so far. I knew I had to take radical steps or I would end up in misery.
One of those steps was to move back to my hometown of Henderson, Nevada. Thank God I had enough sense to buy a house here. It’s the only one the banks haven’t foreclosed on only because I paid for everything in cash.
Henderson is not an ideal place to be if you want to hit it big. It certainly isn’t where I hoped I’d spend the rest of my life. There’s a reason why I never visited, aside from the fact that my parents are dead and my siblings, who don’t even live in town anymore, want nothing to do with me.
I never visited because nothing happens here. Yet, it’s Henderson that serves as a safe haven for me. With the banks coming after everything I own to pay off my debts and knowing I may never find work again, this is the only property that remains - this and the Range Rover in the garage—and the half a million I have hidden in an offshore account, and another two-hundred fifty thousand in cash.
Right now, I’m in survival mode, but I don’t plan on remaining in it forever.
I’ve always lived a very luxurious lifestyle. I lived in the most beautiful homes, stayed in the nicest hotels, bought the most expensive cars. I never flew anything but first class, and I wouldn’t be caught dead eating anywhere but the best restaurants. I spent money recklessly and often aimlessly. I never invested, only because I didn’t see a need for it. I was the man, after all. The Animal. The world loved me. Well, at least the part of the world that loved their porn stars.
I never thought the day would come that I would have to re-evaluate the way I live. But now that day’s come, and I’ve decided: I don’t plan on giving up my lifestyle without a fight.
And since porn and stripping are the only skills I ever learned, it’s going to have to be something to do with porn and stripping. I may never stand in front of a camera again, but what’s stopping me from being the one who owns the camera?
At first, I thought I’d start a production company, but then I was told that I’d need more backers than time allowed. So, I’ve settled for something less ambitious. It’s just that I’m currently having a difficult time making it work.
I head inside and over to the kitchen, throwing the rest of the mail in the trash. I lean against the counter, staring at the cabinets. I feel my stomach grumble. I’m hungry, but I don’t know what to cook. In fact, I don’t even know how to cook. That’s not high on the list of talents needed for porn.
Usually, I’d have people to make my food. I’d have people to clean the house and make sure my clothes are laundered. Now, all I have is myself. And it sucks.
“How the fuck do people do this all the time?” I think aloud.
That’s where the major project I’m working on comes in. Hopefully, this project will help me sustain my luxurious lifestyle perpetually. But so far, things aren’t going as well as I’d like.
If I think too hard about it; the fact that my money is gradually dwindling and that I have no hope for a good job and that my plan is not a guaranteed success, I begin to panic.
What if it all fails? What if my House of Stars dream doesn’t pan out?
I shake my head, fighting off the sudden fear. I can’t think like that. I’ll make it work.
And if I don’t...
I push away from the counter and head upstairs to my study. I’m ashamed to say I’m still feeling a little panicky, so I first go to the balcony to take a few gulps of fresh air. The desert’s arid breeze whips against my body, invigorating me. I glance down at the pristine backyard, the immaculate landscaping. I’ve had it kept up even though I’ve spent minimal time here. I frown as my gaze lands on the pool. It definitely hasn’t been well-maintained. Who knows if it’s even functional?
I make a mental note to have the pool looked at soon as I return to my study.
I sit in the plush desk chair, grab my phone, and dial my friend and business partner, Rick Wilson.
Fear has a way of motivating me. Fear of losing my wealth entirely. Fear of failing. Fear of wasting my life.
On the fourth ring, Rick picks up.
“Yep,” he says.
“I want us to move up the meeting,” I state, getting right to the point.
“Why?” Rick asks, a note of panic in his voice. “Something wrong?”
Yes. There’s a lot of things that are wrong, but I’m not going to bore you with those details.
“I just want us to move a bit faster,” I tell him.
“Okay,” Rick says. “When?”
“This evening,” I answer. “The usual joint.”
“Okay,” Rick replies. “I’ll tell the rest.”
“Good,” I reply and end the call, dropping the phone onto the desk.
I sigh as I think of the long drive to the usual joint for the meeting, which reminds me of the girl I’d almost run over earlier. Gemma. Her face is all hazy to me now—because the whole experience happened in a flash. But I remember she’d been young and her face sweet, although she’d looked like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. And what the fuck had she been wearing? Some kind of maintenance uniform?
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That reminds me, and I pick the phone up again, do a quick internet search, and dial the number for the first pool company I find. A man answers, going through the usual “Hellos” and “How may I help you?” in a forced cheery voice.
“My pool needs to be checked,” I say.
“What seems to be the problem with it?” asks the man.
“I just moved back to town, and I haven’t used it in a while,” I explain, “and I need it checked so I can start using it again.”
“Okay, if you could just give me your address and phone number,” he replies.
I give him the information, and he reads it back to me so I can confirm.
“Right. We’ll have someone over as soon as possible,” the man concludes. “Thank you, sir.”
And with that, he hangs up. That’s usually my move.
Once again, my thoughts trail back to the incident that morning, to that girl I almost ran over. There was just something mysterious and pure about her I can’t seem to get out of my head.
Chapter Three: Gemma
I get to work just after eight, but I still end up with one of the crappiest assignments: a pump mechanism that won’t work. After barely ten minutes, I’m already pouring sweat in the sweltering hot workroom.
This place is older than I am, and it hasn’t undergone any major renovations or ever been repainted. I don’t even think anyone’s ever cleaned in here. The walls are caked with thick layers of soot and grime, which is accentuated by the fact that the ceiling is high enough that it’s retained most of its original color.
Workbenches line the space in long rows. On each workbench is a workspace with a permanent tool box welded to the bench. There are about twelve workspaces, four areas on each bench. Out of those twelve workspaces, only six have functional toolboxes.
That means there are only six pool maintenance officers, including me. My workspace is on the furthest row to the left, closest to the door. Right next to me is Michael. He’s like twenty-four, and he’s a major dork. An adorable one. He’s also very hardworking and really nice. Sometimes, I find him staring at me, but I don’t draw attention to it. I smile when I catch him, and he looks away.
I figure most of the time he’s probably just daydreaming and doesn’t realize he’s looking at anyone. I, too, get lost in thought and end up staring right at someone’s face or something. And when I realize the person is now looking at me, I get embarrassed and turn away.
It’s just that when there’s so much going on, so much that makes you want to give up, so much pressure, you can’t help but think about how life would be if you weren’t stuck on the lowest rung of the ladder. If you had more money. A good education. A better-paying job.
Sometimes, daydreaming is the only reprieve we have from everyday life, which can feel like an endless, almost meaningless grind if you don’t have money or happiness.
I don’t have money. But I do have happiness. Even with the often-miserable working conditions, I manage to enjoy my job. I still keep a smile on my face.
When I wake up in the morning, I’m excited to get to work before eight. I’m eager to tackle the next project, to fix some other family’s pool, probably their favorite place to be. Some of the families even end up as friends to me. It’s nice. I get to meet new people, and I get to make them happy.
My friends sometimes ask me how I can be so optimistic when I work a “shit-as-ass” job (their words, not mine) and live in a “fucked-up apartment” (again, their words). I tell them it’s simple. I can whine about it all day, but that’s not going to change anything. So there’s no merit in being pessimistic or moping about it. Instead, I can refuse to be down and just do the right thing to move forward in life. One step in the right direction is to remain positive. To be happy. I’ve tried to do that ever since my mom passed away.
One thing I don’t tell people is that she made me swear it. On her dying bed, she held my hands tight, tears falling down her cheeks as she squinted in pain. She told me to swear that I would never give up. That I would always try to be happy, even if life wasn’t going the way I wanted.
I was only seventeen. I didn’t know squat. I had always lived under my mother’s wing. She had always been there. And now the doctors told me she only had hours to live.
I realize now that I probably wasn’t in the right mind to be promising anything. But I would have done anything for my mother, especially then. So I swore.
She smiled at me, patted my hands, and closed her eyes.
Shortly after, I heard the steady blip of the heart rate monitor turned to one long, continuous tone, and the room burst into chaos.
There was yelling and lots of people rushing in, and I was being manhandled out of the room and down the hall. I was left in the waiting room, where I just stared off into space, repeating the promise I made to my mother.
Later, the doctor came to tell me what I already knew. She didn’t make it. I just nodded, got up, and walked right out the door and all the way home.
I attended her funeral the next week still completely calm. Family and friends thought I must have been in shock. Many family members came to ask me to return with them to their various destinations. I refused them all, even my uncle, who offered to send me to college.
I realize now that I’d already broken my promise to my mother by that point. I had given up.
It wasn’t until the fourth week that her death really hit me. It was the simplest thing that did it. I thought of a joke and turned to tell her, but she wasn’t there. She would never be there again.
I would never again get to enjoy the warmth of my mother’s presence. I would never again get angry at her for doing something I hated or make her mad or hear her scream, “You’re grounded, young lady!” I would never again get to listen to her singing. I would never again make her laugh when she was going through a rough patch.
When all these realizations finally dawned on me, the tears began to flow. Every drop concentrated with pent-up rage, hatred, anger, and terrible grief. The pain was so severe I thought I’d die from it.
But I survived.
And I told myself, if I can survive this, I can survive anything. In that dark room, on that terrible night, almost a month after my mom died, my oath to my mom was renewed. Mom had always believed in me. The least I could do was try to remain positive and reach for my dreams.
Before long, reality struck. All the bills came due, including the mortgage. Of course, I didn’t have money, so the banks foreclosed without regards to my status. I was already seventeen, so there didn’t seem to be anybody interested in putting me into the foster care system. I suddenly had nobody and nothing.
But Taylor, a friend from high school, who was a year and a half older than me, made a promise to look out for me. And we were a good fit together. For the three months that I was out looking for a job, Taylor fed, clothed, and housed me.
When I finally did get a job, I returned the favor. The first six months I spent making money to repay all the kindness Taylor had showered me with, although she protested. After the sixth month, Taylor told me firmly that I’d done enough. She commanded me to start spending the little extra money I had on myself.
“Ugh!” I growl, banging the pliers in my right hand on the pump mechanism on my workstation. The clang rings through the workroom but does nothing to dull the soft, consistent buzz of conversation in the room. Everyone is used to this kind of outburst.
“Having troubles?” a voice says behind me.
I turn to see Jack Monroe. He’s the senior-most son of James Monroe, the owner. Jack is thirty-something with a wife and three kids. He’s also the head of operations, which means that he manages the workers and sees to it that repairs go smoothly.
“Yes,” I say matter-of-factly, eyeing his thinly-striped white shirt tucked into baggy jeans.
Jack draws closer and looks over my shoulder. “What’s the problem?”
“Still don’t know,” I shrug.
“Well, what di
d the customer say?” Jack asks, still carefully scrutinizing the machine.
“The customer said the pump doesn’t work,” I reply. “Says the pump comes on, but the water doesn’t flush.”
“Hmm,” he says. “And you’ve tried oiling—”
“Everything, sir,” I say, cutting him off. “Oiling. Cleaning out. Changing the fuse.”
As I say that, I notice a frown spread across his face. I follow his eyes. He’s looking at the electrical coil, which is a coil of thin gold wire around a small metal bar—like thread around a spindle. It’s the step-down transformer, which is responsible for lowering the electrical input, so it doesn’t blow up the pump and electrify the pool.
“That looks charred, doesn’t it?” he asks.
I take the electrical coil and turn it around in my hands. I notice the burn marks around the edges of the metal bar underneath the coil. It’s almost unnoticeable except to the closest observer.
“It’s burned,” I confirm.
“Damn right it is,” Jack replies.
I know it can be fixed. I don’t know how to fix it.
“Give it to me,” Jack says. “I’ll get you a replacement part.”
“Yes, sir,” I answer, handing him the electrical coil.
Jack leaves the room and returns a few minutes later with a spare electrical coil. It takes me about forty-five minutes to finish the job. Everything seems in order. However, I am well aware that I can’t be sure until I return to the client’s house and test the mechanism there.
That’s how we roll here at J&J Pools. We can’t be sure until we test run it in your pool.
“I called the client,” Jack says over my shoulder, startling me. I didn’t hear him approach.
“So?” I ask.
“They’re away for the evening,” he replies. He looks at his watch. “And it’s already four. Why don’t you pack up? You can return tomorrow morning. Take the rest of the day off.”
“Really?” I shriek, excited.
Jack nods with a smile and walks away.
I wrap the pump mechanism into a carton with Michael’s help and leave for the day.