Back in my truck, I couldn’t help but chuckle. Another day, another disappointed housewife. If only they knew how many times this exact scenario played out. It’s like all of them had read or watched just one too many Hallmark movies. Then again, I couldn’t help but feel bad for her. If she was that desperate, her husband wasn’t taking good care of her.
Another reason to never tie myself down. One person couldn’t beeverythingI needed. It wasn’t fair to them and it wasn’t fair to me. So why bother trying to make it work and end up miserable?
I checked my phone for my next job and sighed. Mr. Volker in apartment 4C down by the lake. Great. The werewolf with the perpetually clogged shower drain. Every month like clockwork, I’d get called out there to deal with the fur situation. You’d think he’d invest in one of those special hair catchers they make for shifters, but no.
Twenty minutes later, I was knocking on his door, already dreading the familiar wet dog smell that would hit me when he opened up.
“Waylon! Thank god you’re here,” Mr. Volker said, swinging the door wide. His bushy eyebrows were knitted together in distress. “It’s worse than usual this time. The full moon was last night.”
I nodded sympathetically. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ve seen it all before.”
The bathroom was a disaster. Water pooled on the tile floor, and tufts of gray-brown fur clung to every surface. The shower drain was completely matted over with a thick layer of wet hair.
“Sorry about the mess,” Mr. Volker mumbled, hovering in the doorway. “My arthritis is acting up, or I’d have cleaned a bit.”
“No problem,” I said, rolling up my sleeves. “You mind giving me some space to work?”
Once he shuffled away, I got down to the grim task. This was the unglamorous reality of my job. Being elbow-deep in werewolf fur, fishing clumps from a drain while trying not to gag. The things they don’t tell you about in plumbing school.
An hour later, I was finishing up when Mr. Volker appeared with a glass of lemonade.
“You’re a lifesaver,” he said, handing me the drink. “Most plumbers refuse to come back after the first time.”
I took a grateful sip. “Just doing my job, sir.”
Back in my truck, I checked the time. One more call before lunch. It was the dragon in the high-rise downtown. Ms. Emberscale and her infamous shower issues. If werewolf fur was bad, dragon scale buildup was worse. The scales were incredibly corrosive. And then there was the heat problem.
The security guard at the luxury building recognized me and waved me through. “She’s expecting you,” he said with a knowing look. Every maintenance worker in the city knew about Ms. Emberscale’s plumbing problems.
“Darling! You’re here!” she trilled when I knocked, her forked tongue flicking between sharp teeth. In human form, she was stunning with copper-red hair, golden eyes, and skin that seemed to shimmer with hidden scales. And she was filthy rich. No wonder she always had people knocking at her door. “The shower is simply unacceptable again.”
I followed her through the penthouse apartment, noting the scorch marks on several pieces of furniture. Dragons weren’t the easiest tenants. They could be a littletoo freewith their fire.
“It’s the temperature,” she explained, gesturing dramatically. “It barely gets warm! I need heat, real heat!”
“Ma’am, we’ve discussed this before. The building’s pipes aren’t rated for the temperatures you prefer. That’s why they keep melting.”
She pouted, a wisp of smoke curling from her nostrils. “But I can’t possibly get clean in cold water.”
What she called “cold” would scald any human. I sighed and opened my tool bag.
Three hours and two melted PEX connectors later, I’d installed a special high-temperature section just for her shower. It would hold for a month or two before we’d have to do this dance again.
“You’re such a dear,” Ms. Emberscale said, pressing a generous tip into my palm. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
As I drove to my favorite fast food place for lunch, my mind drifted to my evening plans. The work day couldn’t end fast enough. The bathhouse in the warehouse district was calling my name. It was the one place in this city where I could truly be myself. Men only, monsters welcome, no pretenses, and no games. Just raw, honest fucking with no names exchanged.
My cock stirred just thinking about it. After a week of rebuffing housewives and fixing supernatural plumbing disasters, I needed release. Abigone. Tonight, I wouldn’t be the polite Southern gentleman fixing pipes. Tonight, I’d the guy fucking every single hole I could find until I collapsed from exhaustion.
I pulled into the drive-thru line, tapping my fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. The sun beat down through the windshield, making the truck’s interior feel like an oven. I cranked up the AC and checked my phone again. Two more appointments after lunch, then freedom.
The speaker crackled to life. “Welcome to Burger Barn, what can I get for you today?”
“Double cheeseburger, extra pickles, large fries, and a chocolate shake,” I said, already tasting the greasy goodness.
When I pulled up to the window, the cashier, a young harpy with iridescent feathers where her hair should be, gave me a wink. “Hey, Waylon! Usual day?”
“Hey, Kira. Yeah, pretty much.” I handed over my card. “How’s your sink holding up?”