Chapter 1

Last Friday was shitty for me at Banks, Taylor, and Dawn Realty. Banks sent me naked selfies of his fat and ugly seventy-four-year-old wrinkled cock again. Taylor said I could get a raise if I sucked his wart-covered dick. And Will Dawn gave me the address to his cabin in Erie, next to Lake Erie, and told me, “My wife doesn’t need to know that I want you to lick my nuts in the shower.” What a fucked-up trio to work for. The worst.

The benefits weren’t so shabby, though. Four weeks’ vacation. A solid retirement plan. Stocks in the company. It was maybe the only reason I stuck around. Surely it wasn’t because of the sexual harassment from the higher-ups.

I didn’t have the weekends off; not that I minded. I enjoyed showing condos or high-end properties along the three rivers of Pittsburgh. Truth said, my weekends were jam-packed with clients. Married couples on Saturdays. Single ladies on Sunday mornings. Middle-aged straight men in the afternoons on Sundays. I worked like a demon making sales, earning a living, and showing/selling houses. Realty became my entire life and first love.

After leaving the office on Lawson Street and taking the bus home to Plane Street, I realized I left the key at the office on the other side of town. No way was I going to make the two-hour bus trip to fetch the damn thing to get the door of my flat open. I needed another plan.

Unfortunately, my parents, Dane and Vicky Comb, were on vacation in Cancun for ten days. And my second backup plan, my bestie, Luke Davenport, was somewhere in Asia on a business trip buying plush animals for his company and was totally unreachable.

No, I couldn’t climb the emergency fire escape outside and squirm my way through the kitchen window because the stairwell between the second and third floors was currently being remodeled and out of commission. Nor did I have an honest neighbor to leave my flat’s key with, since most of the people in the building were untrustworthy. And, regrettably, the custodian and manager of the building both hated me, calling me a “queen-queer-bitch” and someone who needed to be left alone, and/or institutionalized.

I was in a jam. Probably more so than I comprehended. Thank God for cell phones and a directory of nearby locksmiths. Amen to that.

* * * *

Approximately twenty minutes after calling Magnum Locks, a beefy, six-two, caramel-colored hairy chap climbed the five floors in my building with a red toolbox at his side. He sported a pair of tight jeans, tan work boots, no belt, and a chest-tight, sky blue tee with his company’s name and two entwined keys over his heart. He introduced himself, “I’m Kurt Magnum. You can call me Mag.” He looked down at his phone. “You must be Tanner Come.”

“Comb,” I correct him. “Not come.”

He chuckled. “Good thing. That would suck to be named after sticky, ejaculation fluid.”

I couldn’t help myself and smiled. Mag seemed to have a fun sense of humor. Plus, he was good looking, which immensely helped my shitty mood: big chest, big shoulders, big smile, big everything. Nice.

“Looks like my office spelled your last name wrong. Sorry about that.” He then joked, “I’ll make sure to whip my man-boy, Thad.”

“No worries.”

He stepped up to the flat’s door at 5-C, bent over slightly, studied its brass door knob, lock, and rattled off, “It’s a Kwikset 450P. Basic stuff. No problem.”

I stood behind him and checked out the massive splay of back and broad shoulders. “Which means?”

He looked over his right shoulder, dazzled me with his creamy brown eyes and thick head of matching hair, and said, “That you can be in your flat in less than six minutes. Then you can start enjoying your weekend like the rest of the city.”

“You sound confident.”

He fiddled with his red toolbox, opened it, pushed tools this way and that way, and found what he was looking for. “I sound confident because I’m a professional and know my locks. And I can tell you that you’ve had a rough day and probably need a strong drink.”

“How can you tell that I need a strong drink? Are you clairvoyant?”

He used a special tool that looked like the letter L in the lock, beneath the door’s brass knob, twisted the tool to the left, then to the right. “I’m not clairvoyant, but my Aunt Hilda is. She’s a delight. You’d love her. Big red hair. Big high heels. Too much lipstick. Big skirts. Big boobs. I love her. Plus, she smokes cigars. Loves them. People think she’s a man in drag because she has a deep voice, but she’s not. Vagina all the way. She loves men. All sorts of men. I don’t judge her for that. Never have. Never will.”

I wanted to ask him how much he knew about vaginas but thought it rude. Instead, I said, “I did have a bad day. And you’re right, I do need a strong drink. If you can get this door unlocked and open in six minutes, we can celebrate your success with a cold beer…That is, if you like a German IPA.”

“Deal. I love German beer.” He paused, moved the L gadget in the lock again to the left, then the right. “You look German, Mr. Tanner Comb.”

On his knees, he tilted his head upwards and to the right and checked me out. I did look German, just like my momma. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Round face. But I was tall like my father. Six-one. No fat around my middle because I worked out. Muscular in all the right places. Pecs he could hang on and do a string of pull-ups. Thighs like oak stumps. Long feet. Big dick like Uncle Charlie, my momma’s brother, who just happened to do queer porn in the early nineties.