Each Day

"Every happy client? Tells maybe two or three of their friends," Leslie pointed out. "An unhappy one? They'll tell no less than ten people."

Vince did something he rarely did; he left the office early. He was already quite upset with Monica; she'd asked why they were using twelve inch pipe instead of eighteen inch pipe.

"It's only a few pennies more per foot," she'd pointed out. "And the volume is larger."

"Ms. Proust, when we're talking several miles? A few pennies becomes thousands of dollars," Steve Adams quietly said.

"Also, Ms. Proust," Vince had said, trying very hard to keep his anger in check. "I am sure you know how the diameter of a pipe affects pressure and flow rate?"

Instead of turning south on Highway 72, Vince turned north. He drove through Oakleaf, not seeing the trailer parks, the strip malls, the convenience stores along the way.

He did see the Connelly College campus, did see the Connelly Cougars Stadium. He turned left at Stadium Drive, then right at Connelly Way. Finally he rumbled to a stop at Tijuana Jack's.

Tijuana Jack's had three things going for it. Its beer was ice cold. The girls were Texas pretty. And Tijuana Jack's ignored the Oakleaf County ordinance that dancers must keep nipples and pubic hair covered.

He showed his TJ pass to the doorman. The man smiled and wished Vince a good day as he opened the door of the squat building.

On the stage, a blonde was gyrating to Pantera's 'Walk' as she pulled the crotch of her panties up into her crotch. The silky material bisected her pussy, showing her blond hair and her pussy lips on either side of the think scrap. As the song died out, she let the material go and smiled a vacant smile. Another song started and the dancer now discarded her panties and strutted around the stage, dressed in only her five inch pumps.

One other thing Tijuana Jack's had was a half-pound hamburger, served with a pound of cayenne dusted thick cut French fries.

"Help you, Bud?" a grizzled man asked as Vince straddled the bar stool.

Draft, and, what the hell, burger and fries," Vince ordered.

"Well? Medium well?" the man asked.

"Medium well," Vince said, knowing no matter how he ordered his burger, it would be very well done, almost burnt.

The draft beer came first and eight minutes later, the heavy platter was shoved in front of Vince. He bit off the end of the mustard packet and doused the burger with the yellow glop. Then he sank his teeth in and let a smile crease his face.

"Yeah?" the bartender asked, then chuckled. "Yeah!"

"Yeah," Vince agreed, washing his mouthful of food down with the last of his beer.

An Asian-American girl with quite large breasts trolled among the clientele, trying to entice a customer for a fifteen minute sojourn into the Tequila Room.

"How much?" Vince asked, even though he had no desire to go to the Tequila Room.

"Hundred for the room and uh, whatever you decide to tip the dancer," the girl said.

"And I've never had any complaints," she whispered hotly into Vince's ear.

"Really? I have," Vince said.

He wanted a second beer. He wanted to take the blonde dancer, the one that had been on the small stage when he'd entered the bar into the Tequila Room. She looked somewhat like Monica, only in the fact that they both had blonde hair, and in Vince's bitter state of mind, both were useless whores.

But the blonde was already leading a happy man toward the area where the small private rooms were. The only other girl on the floor was an African-American woman. Vince had nothing against African-American women, but this girl had a loud, grating laugh.

"Don't think so, Sugar," Vince told the Asian girl, but slipped her a five dollar bill. "Get yourself a drink, okay?"

"Thanks, Sugar," the girl smiled, then turned to the next customer.

"Whoa, whoa Buddy!" the doorman said when Vince strolled out. "Dude! Just got here, huh?"

"Just needed one of them burgers," Vince said. "And uh, hey, burgers and them furburgers?"

"Heard that, buddy, heard that," the man chuckled and the two bumped fists.

Roaring down Highway 72, Vince saw Monica pulling into the Oxbow Apartments. He did not acknowledge that he'd seen her. As far as he knew, she had not seen him either.

She had seen him. Pulling into her parking space, she hung her head and sat quietly for a few minutes.

Her permissive mother and absent father, combined with the inadequate public educational system had done little to prepare Monica Rene Proust for the real world. She had done well on tests; she did have a remarkable knack for retaining information. In college, many of her grades had been given to her simply because the instructors grew tired of arguing with her. She had a Masters in Mechanical Engineering. Vince Davis's refusal to accept her proposed thesis had kept her from entering the Doctorate program. And by that time, the money for tuition had dried up. It was time for her to obtain employment.

Again, Monica found that she was competing, mainly with herself. The few places that had shown any interest in her had followed through with speaking with her professors at the University of Louisiana at DeGarde. And not a single one of her professors had anything kind to say of Monica Proust.

"Spent damned near every class arguing why she should get an 'A' and when you finally gave it to her just to shut her up? Spent the next hour arguing about her next assignment," Dean Melancon sighed when Clay Chopin with St. Elizabeth's Distillery called.

"Gave her a 'C' on her mid-term? In Physics? Next thing I know, I'm in Dean Simms's office, answering to a sex discrimination complaint," Professor Huxton snapped when King Sanitation called for a reference.

She kept widening the circle of her search. Which kept widening the circle of rejections.

"Oakleaf? Where's that?" Monica's mother had asked.

"Texas," Monica said, temporarily losing her happy mood.

"Bob always said there is no gravity in the state of Texas," her mother smirked. "Reason people in Texas don't just float away? Texas sucks."

Bob was Monica's absentee father. As Monica had never met the man, his opinion of Texas didn't matter to her.

A quick search found an apartment, actually, a room in an apartment in Oxbow Apartments. Her roommate was Michelle Garcia, an extremely attractive Latin girl. The two girls would be splitting the seven hundred and fifty dollar rent down the middle, as well as the utilities.

Beautiful or not, Michelle was a bit of a slob. She was also quite shrill, loud whenever she was talking. Even when Monica was agreeing with Michelle, Michelle would often end up arguing to prove her point.

"So she's your twin?" Rene Proust asked when Monica called home to complain to her mother.

Michelle was also a bit of a slut. It was rare that Michelle did not have a man spending the night. Since their bedrooms were next to each other, Monica had no choice but to listen to the sounds of two people having sex.

Monica vowed, as soon as the six month lease was up, she would not be renewing with Michelle. Every dollar she could save was stashed away, to go toward getting a one bedroom unit in the complex.

With a sigh, Monica got out of her car and wearily walked up the flight of metal stairs to the apartment. Gratefully, Monica observed that she could not hear Michelle's music blaring and thumping.

"Hey!" Michelle cheerfully greeted Monica, toweling her long black hair.

"Hey; going out?" Monica asked, not smelling any food.

"Yeah, Eddie's taking me to Casa Ole," Michelle said, turning to go to her room.

And when she turned, her towel slipped from around her body. In the brief moment that Monica could see Michelle's body, she saw that Michelle had a large flaccid cock and heavy balls between her beautiful tanned thighs.

"That's a, you, Michelle, you're a," Monica stammered as Michelle squealed and grabbed at the towel to cover herself.

"And that's how my day's going," Monica said to herself as Michelle slammed the door to her bedroom.

Monica was eating a ham and cheese sandwich when a hotly blushing Michelle left her room, dressed in a dress that barely reached past her mid-thigh, feet jammed into a pair of 'fuck-me' pumps.

"Good night," Monica quietly said.

"Yeah," Michelle whispered.

Chapter 11

There were mishaps, there were bound to be mishaps. No project covering such an expanse of miles, involving so many crews would be perfectly choreographed.

Vince actually rode shotgun with Pablo, or with Jim Tucker, Pablo's right hand man for the first week. In the second week, Vince took his own crew out and worked alongside the men. When they hit snags, Vince wasn't in his office, relying on Pablo, or Jim, or whoever to describe the snag. Vince was right there, could see the snag for himself. He could call Jason and tell Jason what they needed.

"Damn it, Vince, making the rest of us look bac," Jason complained.

"Oh? So it's working?" Vince joked.

"Hey, nuh uh, come on, Vince," Jason said when Vince called in that they needed some couplers and valves. "Call Ms. Proust; what we're paying her for."

Vince set his jaw and dialed her extension.

"Ms. Proust," she said, voice professional.

"Ms. Proust? Vince Davis here," Vince said, voice also professional.

He relayed his need, relayed his location and terminated the call.

He was very surprised when Monica arrived at the site, riding shotgun with one of the laborers. She stayed out of the way, but did watch as the men grabbed the inventory and began an almost frenzied pace of coupling the heavy pipes. It was like a ballet, set to loud machines and shouts.

"Thank you, Ms. Proust. Glad you came out here, see what it is we're up against," Vince said and she beamed under his simple praise.

She stepped close to the trench to peer into the earth, to see what they were actually doing, what they'd done so far. She was surprised, squealed slightly when Vince grabbed her around her waist.

"Before you scream 'sexual harassment' or that I'm touching you inappropriately, you're wearing office shoes," Vince said. "The ground here is loose as hell and I don't need you falling in, slowing us down."

"Wouldn't slow us down," one of the men joked. "We'd just bury her along with the pipe."

"Yeah, she's administration; not like she'd be missed or anything," another man said and the crew laughed.

"Thanks a lot, guys," Monica said, chuckling.

She looked into the ravine, saw the hard work, nodded approval and stepped back.

With a wave, she climbed into the truck and the laborer drove the truck back to the office. The whole trip to the office, Monica's side tingled where Vince's powerful arm had touched her. Her nostrils were filled with his scent, a heavy dose of male sweat.

Immediately upon returning to the office, she dashed into the women's' lounge, locked herself into a stall and frantically rubbed her wet pussy.

She flushed, then giggled when she realized, she needed to urinate.

From that day on, whenever Vince called in for more inventory, Monica made sure to climb into the truck and ride the truck to the site. Twice, when no one was available, Monica grabbed the keys and drove the pipes and elbow joints out to the site.

Each time, she wanted to see the progress. Each time, Vince wrapped his arm around her waist, even as the other men offered to do this for her.

"Thank you, Ms. Proust," Vince said as she turned to climb back into the cab of the semi.

"It's Monica," she smiled, lightly touching his bulging bicep.

"Damn it, don't touch me; I'm covered in dirt," he complained lightly.

"Ew!" she mock-screeched and made a show of wiping her hand on his tee shirt.

"Hey Boss, think she likes you?" one of the men asked as Monica drove away.

"Been out in the sun too long?" Vince asked and the crew laughed.

In the truck, Monica could feel her pussy practically drooling her excitement. Vince's chest was tight, his abdomen was tight. And in bulging tee shirt and snug jeans and work boots, he looked so rugged, so masculine.

"Not at all like Patrick," Monica thought.

Patrick Longstreet was soft-spoken, thoughtful, introspective. He dressed well, he smelled of lavender or jasmine scented cologne, had his hair cut into a fashionable bob, bangs hanging into his soulful eyes.

Patrick kept his skin moisturized, his nails manicured, his breath fresh.

He could discuss politics intelligently; he applauded the Democrats for trying to keep Trump from completely ruining America. He watched the Discovery Channel and TLC and CNN.

When he drank, Patrick drank white wine. He did not smoke and very infrequently did drugs. And even then, it was usually a little cocaine.

The few times they'd made love, Monica had nearly fallen asleep. His lovemaking was slow, deliberate, boring.

In short, Patrick was the perfect man for her. He was everything she would have said she wanted in a man. And Monica couldn't stand him.

Micelle had joked that if Monica ever decided to get rid of Patrick, she'd take him off of Monica's hands. Monica sat in the cab of the truck and sent Michelle a text message.

'Did you tell him I'm TS?' Michelle texted.

'No' was Monica's response.

Then she sent Patrick a text message, letting him know they'd not be seeing each other again. But she did let him know that Michelle would love to hear from him.

In typical Patrick fashion he accepted the break-up. And he hoped that they could still be friends. In fact, he would love to call Michelle, but was worried that it might be uncomfortable, the three of them in the same apartment at the same time.

"Don't worry about it, pussy," Monica thought as she walked to her office.

On Friday, Vince was in the office, filling out the mountain of paperwork that had accumulated during his stint in the field. He looked up when there was a knock at his door.

Monica felt her pussy spasm as Vince looked up and actually smiled at her. She fought to keep the excitement out of her voice.

"Twelve o'clock. Not going to lunch?" she asked.

"Aw damn it," he smiled, glancing at the clock. "Been eating off that School Bus lunch place; forgot bring my lunch."

"Line's usually a mile long by now," Monica agreed.

She then pointed toward Benito's Pizza.

"Benito's got this Friday lunch buffet," she suggested. "Want try it?"

"Hmm, I'm on the Harley," he said.

"Oh good, I want a ride on that anyway," Monica said.

He did not smell of sweat as she leaned against him, but Vince still had a manly smell. The powerful engine thrummed and snarled and Monica could feel the vibrations right against her wet pussy. She just hoped that the crotch of her panties absorbed most of the moisture.

The ride to the pizza place was far too short and Monica even pouted when she got to shaky legs. She took off the helmet and shook her long blonde hair.

"That and a set of railroad tracks and who needs a man?" she quipped and Vince actually laughed.

They ate far more than they should have. But when the sign says 'All You Can Eat-$7.99' one almost feels obligated to binge.

Roaring out of the parking lot, Vince rumbled south. Monica hugged herself against his back, wondering why he'd turned the wrong way. Then they jostled as he ran his sled across some railroad tracks. He turned around in a gas station parking lot and ran over the tracks again.

"You good or I need do that a few more times?" he asked her.

Monica laughed long and hard and slapped him on his shoulder. Then she hugged him even tighter and relished the feel of her breasts mashed into his back. Again, he was pulling to a stop long before she was ready to stop.

That night, Michelle smirked as she dragged Patrick out of the apartment. Monica shrugged and relived her exciting lunch date with Vince Davis. Later on that evening, as she was drifting off to sleep, Monica was jostled awake by the sounds of sex.

In the morning, a blushing Patrick left, mumbling a greeting to Monica. A moment later, Michelle tottered into the kitchen.

"Oh God, girlfriend," Michelle smirked. "That boy's got him one tight ass, hear?"

Monica smirked, then thought about Michelle's words. Her eyes opened wide.

"You mean? You mean, you fucked him? Not..." Monica asked.

"Shit, girl, God gave me these eight inches for a reason," Michelle said, gripping her crotch through her sheer robe.

Monica thought she was going to be sick, but fought it down. She tuned Michelle out as Michelle described, in very graphic detail Patrick's attributes.

"Hello?" Vince answered on the fifth ring.

He'd seen a Texas telephone in the display of his cell phone. It was a local number so he shrugged and answered it.

Vince lived in dread of the day he received a call from a Missouri phone number. He had committed Leslie's phone number, Stephanie's number, David's phone number, and Debbie's phone number to the 'Block' segment of his phone. But there was no guarantee that Leslie, or Jack Warner, or any of Leslie's kids wouldn't simply use an office phone, or a friend's cell phone to contact him.

"Hello?" he answered.

"I want a ride," Monica demanded.

Chapter 12

Vince picked Monica up and she happily clung to his back as they rumbled along the highway. There was no destination in mind, they just rolled. As the sun began to travel over their shoulders toward the west, Vince pulled over at a barbeque restaurant. Monica got to rubbery legs and smiled as she took the brain bucket off. Then when Vince took his own helmet off, she leaned forward and kissed him, squarely on the mouth.

"First thing Monday morning, I'm marching into Coretta's office and claiming sexual harassment," Vince joked.

"Uh huh," Monica giggled. "Ever eat here?"

"No, but I'm hungry," Vince said.

He opened the door of the restaurant.

"And don't tell me you're one of them vegans," he said.

"Tried it; too much work," Monica admitted.

As they waited for the hostess to seat them, Monica put a possessive arm around Vince's narrow waist. She'd seen the look of interest in the hostess's eyes.

Over ribs, Vince learned that Monica had started college when she was seventeen, then entered the Master's program at age twenty.

"Would be working on my PhD, but some hard ass actually had the nerve to turn my thesis down," she said.

"There were some good points in the proposal," Vince said. "Just do the rewrite the way I suggested and then who knows?"

A mild argument started when the waitress brought the check. Vince silenced Monica's protest with a kiss to her lips.

"Shut up, just shut up," he said, putting his credit card on the bill. "Quit trying to prove you got bigger balls than me, huh?"

Monica thought of Michelle and almost smirked. Then she shrugged her shoulders.

"Fine, I get the next one," she bartered.

"Stone Grill?" Vince asked.

"Sure, I guess, no, wait a minute, that's that steak place," Monica said.

They rumbled out of the parking lot. The sun beat down on their backs as Vince turned the Harley toward the east.

Forty minutes later, they pulled up to Number 202 at the East lawn Condominiums.

He showed her where to put the helmet, showed her his austere living room, uncluttered kitchen and breakfast nook, accessory-free bathroom, severe guest bedroom and his sparse bedroom.

"Good God, can tell this place needs a woman's touch," Monica said, unimpressed.

"Sorry, pharmacy was out of estrogen patches," Vince said.

He kissed her. Vince's kisses were nothing like Patrick's sterile kisses. She could taste the beer he'd had, the ribs and the barbeque sauce, the jalapeno fries.

Monica could feel the bristle of his upper lip, could feel a faint race of stubble on his chin.

His hands touched her buttocks through her blue jeans, cupping, squeezing her flesh. He worked his hands underneath the hem of her tee shirt and touched her bare flesh.