I ran my hands down the length of the smooth wood, my fingers curving and shaping. I swiped the sandpaper one final time and carefully laid down the guitar neck I had just finished.
“Fucking perfect,” I murmured, pulling a cigarette out of the pack I kept in my breast pocket and tucked it between my lips, sucking until the end was soggy. The taste of tar and nicotine sharp in my mouth.
“Wow, nice job, man,” Tate said, coming over to the workbench I had claimed as my space.
“Thanks, I just need to finish the body and I can hand it off to you,” I told him, proud of the approval in my buddy’s eyes.
I had been working as a paid luthier’s apprentice at George’s Custom Shop for over a year now. My dream involved opening my own studio and designing guitars for everyone that loved music as much as I did.
“You gonna smoke that thing or are you planning to eat it for lunch?” A pretty girl with long red hair and tits up to her chin leaned against the doorway, her lips curved in pretty little smile. I raised my eyebrows at Margie, and Tate snickered from beside me.
“Yeah, I’m comin’,” I told her, following the woman who had so eagerly gotten naked for me just last weekend.
Margie pulled a lighter out of her pocket and handed it to me. I lit my cigarette and took a drag before giving it back to her.
“Thanks,” I said, my voice tight as I breathed out a lungful of black cloud.
Margie tucked the lighter away after lighting her own cigarette, bright pink lipstick leaving a ring on the filter.
“I hear Tate’s having a party tonight. Are you going?” Margie asked, performing an awkward form of fellatio on her cigarette.
“I doubt it. I want to finish the build I’ve got going before George hands me my nuts in a sling,” I said, dropping my cigarette butt on the ground and rubbing it out with the tip of my boot.
Margie pouted her pretty lips. “I’d like you to go, Elian.”
I gave her a smile. I liked Margie. As much as I was capable of liking anyone. She was sexy and amazing in bed. I considered her a close friend.
But that was all I was willing to invest in that particular arrangement.
“Marg, our boy doesn’t do complications. Just ask his last three so-called girlfriends. Or is boink buddy a more appropriate label?” Tate cut in drolly, lighting up a stogie and sitting down on the front stoop.
Margie flushed a deep red, her mouth flapping open like a fish. “I wasn’t suggesting—” she began. And because I tried to be a nice guy, I gave her hand a quick, comforting squeeze.
“I know, Margie. I just can’t make it tonight. My head will be somewhere else,” I said, tapping my temple for emphasis.
Margie gave Tate a less than friendly glare, though the look she gave me was all female longing.
“Okay, well, if you change your mind, I’ll be there until this jackass pisses me off.” Tate chuckled and held his hands up in mock surrender.
“This jackass is getting loaded. If the night goes as planned, I’ll be passed out in the bathtub by ten.”
“Good to have plans,” I chuckled, shaking my head.
Margie went inside without another word and I kicked Tate in the foot. “Man, give her a break. You really can be a dickhead.”
Tate puffed on his cigar and blew smoke rings in the air. Needing something to do with my twitchy fingers, I fished another cigarette out of my pocket. Tate, knowing I never carried my own lighter, handed me his.
“You were the one that dipped your wick in the co-worker. That’s just stupid, Elian. Weren’t you ever told not to shit where you eat?”
“Your metaphors are really inspiring,” I remarked dryly, my lungs seized with the first drag of polluted air. For a man who smoked almost a pack a day, my body never really acclimated to the vice. My lungs still screamed in protest with every pull.
My body knew there were limits to my fabrications.