Golden Hour (GarouxReader lemon)

Part 5

The thing I'm really loving about writing this, besides playing with Garou's voice and narration, is that I'm imagining the setting as my own city. I get to think of and describe places I've been to, that I know, that have special meaning and feeling for me. That always inspire me.
This city, at the edge of the world, next to the water, tiny compared to places like LA, London, Paris. But nothing beats it on a good day...

I hope you you imagine your own city as you read. Imagine Garou coming to life, and living and breathing the same place you do.

xoxo

~*~

And then the kid showed up.
I hate to admit it, really fuckin' hate to admit it, but he was the real MVP of this whole thing. A hero you might say. I won't because I fuckin' hate that word. But that part's still comin'.

It was several days later. I still had to make good on my promise for two more dinners but things just hadn't lined up right yet and I was getting agitated. It was a Saturday and the old man with the truck said he wanted me there because he had some house moving job or some such fucking thing. And this irritated me even more because I wasn't counting on that. More money, more problems they say but damn, for whatever reason I couldn't say no.
So here I was, in this fucking truck, and I have no idea how it hadn't up and fucking died up to this point because it seems it like it was as fucking ancient as its owner. And that's saying something.
And we're heading in a familiar direction. And then turning right and I suddenly gotta laugh coz there I am, right on my own fuckin' street, just a few houses down.
"That's the one. Number nine," the old man says as he parks way too close to the curb.
The odd numbers are on the good side of the street. Her side.
Fuck. I glance down the road, wonder if she's at home, just three or four houses down. And if she is, what is she doing?

Now, I don't have to wonder, because I'm there. Just like today. I know what she's doin' on Saturdays. It's me, I think and grin to myself half-asleep. Once it started, there was no stopping it. Not on my side, not on hers. Every free, waking moment it seemed we were in my bed or hers, or on the floor, or the kitchen, or, my personal favourite, the shower. Even on that pier one night, after midnight, when it was all black again and she pulled her skirt up and I pushed up into her while she grabbed fistfuls of my shirt, tugging me closer and fuck it was hard to not cum right then. But she can tell when it's gettin' like that, forces me to slow down, knowing exactly what to do with me., how to handle me. All these things we've done, that we continue to do. Back then they were nothing but intense fantasies, over and over, making me feel out of my fucking mind. And then it all happened for real. After almost not happening at all.

"Oi, these things ain't gonna move themselves," he calls after me, swinging the truck doors open, yanking me out of my more pleasant thoughts.
"Yeah, yeah," I say, taking over. 'These things ain't gonna move themselves' is code for 'They ain't gonna move themselves coz Garou's gonna get them all while I sit on my fuckin' ass and watch and complain about my goddamn knees or whatever the fuck it is today'.
He goes to unlock the front door of the empty, neat house. We've arrived before whoever's moving in and I ain't wasting any time.
"Boy, you grab the big ones in the back," he says, coughing, as if this is a new arrangement, just for this particular job. "My hip's giving me jip today."
Ah. Forget the knees. It's his fuckin' hip today.

The family arrives just as I'm about done and I make myself as inconspicuous as possible while they chat to the old man, finishing up the big items. Seems like a pretty standard non-descript family with a non-descript kid.
"Whoa! Uncle! You're really strong!"
Huh? I place the table down and turn. Uncle? I turn around, wondering who else is here but I'm just met with the kid staring up at me with these wide eyes and a pudgy face. He's clutching some sort of yellow superhero book or something. The kind of shit I hate.
Fuck. I'm uncle.
"Oi, don't call me that. I ain't that old," I say, making my way past him. Which is funny, because really, I'm fuckin' dying to be older, to have her look at me as if I'm not some high school troublemaker she's babysittin' but when it comes out of this kid's mouth, it pisses me off just a little bit.
"Sorry uncle!" he says and follows me out.
Tch.
"My name is Tareo," he continues blabbering.
"Good for you," I say, trying to get him off but he's following me around like a shadow.
"We moved here because of my dad's job," he continues.
"Ain't that nice," I say, trying to get this done as quickly as possible as I head back inside with one of the last oversized boxes.
"This town looks really nice!" he beams. "I'm going to the school just by the park over there," he points down the street as I head outside again. "I saw it when we drove past! I hope it's nice too!"
"Uh-huh," I say.
That's the fuckin' school I went to. And there ain't no pleasant memories there. I'm sure others had them. I'm fuckin' sure. And at my expense. But there ain't none for me.
I glance down at this kid as he jabbers on. Poor little brat. He's goin' to get eaten alive.
Oh well. Ain't my problem.
Or so I thought.
"Headin' out?" the old man says as I give him a nod and proceed on my way.
"Yeah."
"You don't want a ride?"
"No."
"Are ya sure?"
Sure I'm fucking sure.
I give him another nod and continue up the street, it's literally right there, as he starts the truck. I let him go ahead, watch him turn and disappear around the corner before getting closer to my own place. Don't want people knowin' where I live if I can help it.
The truck is nowhere to be seen and I'm about to head down the path to the front door. It's after lunch and I'm starting to feel the hunger.
"Hey," her voice stops me where I am. It's the sweetest thing I've heard all day. In the last three days.
I turn back around, facing her place instead now. She stands in the doorway, on the porch, leaning against the door frame, lazy wine glass in hand.
"I still like pasta, you know," she says, taking a small sip, expecting an answer.
And I'd still like to fuck you senseless, darlin'.
Until we're both senseless, really.
"That's news to me," I say with the most insolent smile I got. I ain't one to give in so easy.
"Is it?" she says, leaning away from the door frame now and standing straighter and fixing me with her intense gaze. "Or is it that you have no idea how to make pasta?"
Well.
"Number nineteen with a side of twenty seven," she says, taking another victorious sip, never taking her beautiful eyes off me. She knows she's got me cornered. That I have no idea what she's on about.
"La Porchetta," she laughs. "It's the thing I always get."
Oh. That place. That generic Italian place up the street and round the corner. It's so generic I always fuckin' forget it's there.
"You sure those aren't just lottery numbers you're giving me?" I say.
"Who knows. Maybe you should try your luck," she says mysteriously and disappears back inside.
Oh don't tempt me, woman. Don't tempt me, I think with those departing words.
But it appears, I'm being expected.
This day just keeps getting better and better, that insolent grin stays plastered on my face as I head inside.