About The Manny

by Sara Bell
55 pages / 20000 words
Available file types - html, lit, pdf, prc, epub and Sony Reader pdf

Tate Fuller's life is a God-awful mess. He's flat broke, his dead lover's parents are suing him again and his asshat landlord A.J. Boyd is evicting him from his bike shop, the one constant in Tate's life. He's starting to think things will never look up when sees an ad in the paper for a night and weekend nanny. So what if the guy who's doing the hiring is none other than A.J. himself, or if A.J. makes Tate's blood heat with something other than anger?

After having his wife dump him because she claimed a bisexual man could never be faithful, A.J. Boyd has stopped being surprised when life throws him curve balls. Stopped being surprised, that is, until he finds out his ex-wife has died and left him with a six-week old daughter he didn't even know he had. Now he's sleep-deprived, scared stiff, and ready to do something really stupid, like hire the stubborn, infuriating, cocky Tate. And if the tension between them's hot enough to restart the Chicago fire, well, so be it.
 

Sample

The process server came to let Tate know the Michaelsons were suing him -- again -- exactly ten minutes after he got the disconnect notices for the gas and electric at his shop. Since it was Tate's experience bad news came in threes, he couldn't help wonder what fresh hell was in store for him next.

His answer came an hour after the process server left, when A.J. Boyd, his landlord and all-around pain in Tate's ass, strolled into the shop with a triumphant smile on his too-handsome-not-to-have-had-some-work-done face.

"You're late on the rent." A.J. was practically bouncing on the balls of his Italian-leather clad feet.

Tate swallowed. He had exactly forty dollars in his checking account, his credit cards were maxed out, and he had yet to notify his lawyer of this newest development with the Michaelsons. "I'm not even a month behind yet." Close enough. Twenty-eight days, but still… "Look, I'm good for it. I've got three bikes as good as sold and another guy who's waiting on financing. As soon as the money comes in --"

"I'm filing evection proceedings first thing tomorrow," A.J. said cheerfully. "No hard feelings."

Tate felt like he was drifting in the middle of the Atlantic in a leaky washtub. No matter the bad shit that had happened to him in the past two years, he'd always had his shop to fall back on. His former landlord, Red Hanks, had been a mentor to Tate, teaching him the ins-and-outs of the bike building trade, selling him the business and renting him the building. They'd been more than business associates: they'd been friends up until a year and a half ago when Red had a massive heart attack walking through his own living room on his way to the Sunday dinner table. Red's wife hadn't wanted the responsibility of paying taxes, keeping up codes, etc. etc, and so she'd decided to sell the building Road Hog Custom Cycles was housed in. She'd offered it to Tate first, of course, but thanks to the Michaelsons, he couldn't finance a stick a Juicy Fruit, much less a commercial property in Chicago. Enter A.J., who'd snagged the building from Red's widow for a song and had proceeded to make Tate's life hell ever since.

"You can't do this," Tate said. "I have rights."

"You and Red didn't have a lease, which means you and I don't have a lease." A.J. looked at him with something akin to pity in those emotionless blue eyes of his. "You're month to month, buddy. I don't have to have a reason to want you out. I --" From the pocket of A.J.'s black suit coat, his cell phone chirped. He held up one slender finger as he answered. "Hold that thought."

A.J. walked to the far corner of the main garage space to take his call. With his white-blond hair and sun-kissed skin, A.J. looked more like a California surfer god than a real estate mogul, but Tate supposed everybody had their talents. Too bad one of A.J.'s chief accomplishments was adding to Tate's mile-long list of woes.

"Yes. No, I understand," A.J. was saying into the phone Tate couldn't help but notice he was holding in a death grip. "No, I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Right. Goodbye." He killed the connection and looked at Tate, all the color gone from his cheeks. "I have to go. Remember what I said." All the warmth had drained from him along with the color. "I want you out."

Tate watched him go, wondering which of them was the more miserable bastard.