Chapter Text
Jim looks down at the Word doc in front of him and thinks that if he has to force himself to type just one more sentence he’s going to pick up his poor, battered MacBook and hurl it into the wall.
He takes this as a sign that he’s done working for the night.
Taking a slow, deep breath, he carefully hits save and closes his laptop with a somewhat unsatisfying, but prudently gentle thump. No matter that he’s got three papers due by the end of next week and he’s only halfway through one of them, he needs to blow off steam in the worst way.
He could hit the bars, but that’d cost money and require him to be charming. He picks up his phone and sends a text instead.
Grad school overload. Save me, plz!
Forty-five minutes later, he hears the honking down at street level. He slips his wallet into his pocket, grabs his keys, locks the door to the overpriced shithole his landlord calls a studio apartment and hurries down the stairs.
He doesn’t bother with the door to the tiny convertible double-parked in front of his building (a shiny new MINI Cooper, and in British fucking Racing Green, no less), just vaults his way into the passenger seat and plants a grateful kiss on its driver’s lips.
“Gaila,” Jim announces, “you are my hero.”
Gaila laughs. “You are full of it, Jimmy Kirk. And don’t think I don’t love it. Where to?”
Taking in the bounce of her red curls and that sexy Irish lilt – not to mention a hell of a rack – Jim’s feeling better already. “Anywhere but here,” he says. “If I have to have one more intelligent thought tonight, I swear I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”
“I’ve got just the thing.” Gaila smiles, throws the car into first and hits the gas. “Mrs. McCoy took Joey to see her grandparents in Hartford for the weekend and Doctor McCoy won’t be home until after midnight.”
“You mean I finally get to see The Great McCoy Mansion?”
“I’m thinking a shag in the hot tub could be just the cure for what ails you.”
Jim feels a grin spreading across his face. “Gaila, is it possible that you are the most perfect woman ever?”
Gaila laughs again. “Flattery, Mr. Kirk, will get you everywhere.”
Jim settles back into his soft leather seat, savoring the feeling of the wind through his hair. “God, I hope so.”
Jim wonders if there’s anything in the world sexier than a red-headed Irishwoman driving a manual transmission. One of his high school girlfriends used to drive an old VW Beetle. He cranes his neck to examine the car’s interior and wonders if sex in a MINI Cooper would be more or less difficult. He decides they should try it out sometime. In the name of scientific experimentation.
“I still can’t believe they gave you this car,” Jim says, turning his focus to their surroundings as they enter the wealthy suburb of Wellesley, Massachusetts. His eyes widen. He sure as hell ain’t in Iowa anymore.
“Well it’s not like I get to take it back to Dublin with me. They’re just letting me borrow it for a bit.”
“They bought it for you,” Jim says. “Brand new.”
“That’s how these people work, Jim. It wouldn’t have occurred to them to do anything else.”
Jim thinks about the old Ford pickup he used to drive back at Iowa State. How he’d make the three-hour trek from Ames to Riverside and back, scratchy radio playing full blast as he prayed every five minutes or so for a God he no longer believed in to keep his transmission inside the car.
“Still,” he says, “you’d think a nice pre-owned Focus would do the…” Jim trails off as Gaila turns into a long brick-paved driveway and pulls up in front of the biggest house Jim’s ever been this close to in person. He boggles for a moment. “Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?” he asks at last.
Gaila snorts. “Wait until you see the inside.”
“Oh, hey,” Gaila calls over her shoulder, wandering further into the house – no, mansion – while Jim stands slack-jawed in the center of the entry hall, “you have to try this foie gras sushi Hikaru made today. It’s amazing.”
Jim hears words – and the click of Gaila’s heels on the hardwood floors – but she’s already standing in front of him before he stops gawking long enough to process them.
He frowns. “Wait a minute – did you say foie gras? Isn’t that—?” Jim is prevented from finishing his question by the rice and goose liver that’s just been popped into his mouth. He chews, reluctantly, fully intending to be disgusted…until the flavors burst over his tongue. “Holy shit, this is awesome.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Gaila says, looking smug. “Hikaru is a genius.” She hoists the rest of the sushi tray up next to her shoulder, waitress-style, and tilts her head toward the back of the house. “Come on, let’s take these outside and get naked.”
At the words ‘get naked,’ Jim’s brain and feet snap right back into action.
Most. Perfect. Woman. Ever.
He manages to follow her for a good forty or fifty feet before his eyes – previously focused on the amazing things Gaila’s jeans are doing for her ass, or possibly the other way around – flicker past the liquor cabinet and get stuck.
“No way.” Jim stops in his tracks. “What year is that?” He moves in closer, peering at the bottle’s label through the glass. “Holy fuck, Gaila. This is a 1948 Macallan Royal Marriage. This is a twenty-five hundred dollar bottle of Scotch.” Jim’s eyes drift to the bottle next to it and nearly pop out of his head. “Which is nothing compared to this Black Bowmore. Jesus.” Jim continues to scan the shelf. “Oh my god, this Springbank is actually open. Do you think they’d notice if I just…?”
“Jim…” Gaila gives him a look.
“Aw, come on…” Jim flashes her his most convincing pout, holding his fingers up about half an inch apart. “Just this much. No one has to know.”
“Doctor McCoy would certainly know,” Gaila says with utter conviction.
Jim continues to hover near the bar, trying to look as irresistible as possible. She retaliates with an impressively stern nanny-face, but can only hold it for half a minute before her face softens back into its easy smile. “Try the stuff in the decanter,” she suggests at last. “He drinks that every day and doesn’t mind if I nip some in my off hours.”
Jim hastens to pull the stopper from the weighty crystal decanter and pours himself a generous two fingers before she can change her mind. He pauses, then, watching the way the light shines through the whisky, determined to savor the moment.
“Jim…”
“Hold on,” he says absently as he slowly lifts the matching tumbler to his nose to take a whiff. “I just want to...”
Spotting a flash of moving color in his peripheral vision, Jim’s free hand snaps up automatically, his fingers closing around a piece of fabric.
A piece of fabric he quickly realizes is Gaila’s shirt.
He looks up just in time to catch sight of a long, smooth expanse of pale, freckled skin bisected by a strip of green lace before it slips out between French doors.
He also catches sight of her fingers as they reach back and unhook that strip of green lace, then slide the lacy green bra off her shoulders.
“Christ, Kirk,” Jim mutters to himself. “Focus.”
He hurries out onto the patio after her, knocking back his first swallow of the whisky on the way. He catches up to her at the hot tub, then stops in his tracks as the surprisingly smooth and rich flavor bursts over his tongue.
“Holy shit,” Jim whispers. “This is the everyday stuff?”
Gaila – who has somehow managed to divest herself of both the sushi tray and all remaining clothing, Jim’s brains notes as a sort of aside – rolls her eyes and neatly plucks the tumbler from Jim’s hand before he can locate two wits to rub together. She takes the glass with her as she steps into the hot tub and moves to sit at its far side.
“No fair,” Jim mutters as he strips out of his own clothing – though what exactly about following a naked Irishwoman into a hot tub to get a glass of whisky isn’t fair is a bit difficult to pin down.
As he slips into the softly bubbling, perfectly heated water, Jim’s whole body seems to release a sigh of relief. He slowly crosses the tub, watching Gaila lift the tumbler to her lips and take a small sip before setting it off to the side.
Jim smiles and takes his second taste of the phenomenal mystery whisky from Gaila’s lips.
“Fuck,” Jim sighs, in between sips of his second glass of ‘everyday’ whisky, “I am seriously considering dropping out of grad school to become your kept man.”
With the way Gaila’s body is pressed against him from behind – his back resting against her soft, full breasts and her legs wrapped around his hips with her hooked ankles resting in his lap – Jim can feel as well as hear her soft chuckle.
She flicks her ankle, splashing water against his chest. “And what makes you think I’d keep you, Jimmy Kirk?”
“I’m very pretty,” Jim says. “And I have a great dick.”
“Mmm…” Gaila says, running thoughtful fingers down the side of Jim’s arm.
“I’m clever and hopelessly charming?” Jim suggests.
He feels Gaila shrug behind him.
“And…” Jim sets down the whisky, wraps both hands around one of Gaila’s feet, and starts to knead, “I give awesome foot massages.”
“Well,” Gaila says, after a few moments of Jim’s magic fingers, “I’m not sure how the McCoys would feel about me bringing home a permanent houseguest, but they have been thinking about getting Joey a tutor.”
Jim pauses in his massaging. “Wait – are you serious?”
“They’re hoping to find someone to start next month, after she gets out of school for the summer.”
Jim pulls a face. “What kind of crazy, overbearing helicopter parents make their kid stay in school all summer? She’s what? Seven? Has it ever occurred to them to let her – I don’t know – play?”
“It’s not like that,” Gaila says, wiggling her foot to bring Jim’s attention back to the massage.
“So they’re not crazy and overbearing?”
“Okay, so it’s a little like that,” Gaila admits. “But the tutoring thing was my idea. Joey’s really bright, you know, but she gets bored in school and she doesn’t really talk to the other kids. But when it’s just the two of us, I can’t get her to shut up. I thought maybe if she could get excited about learning here in a safe environment, she might open up more at school next year.”
“That actually does make sense,” Jim concedes.
“Dr. McCoy thought so, too,” Gaila says. Jim can hear the proud smile in her voice. “You’d be perfect for it, Jim. I don’t know why I didn’t think of you before. Mrs. McCoy’s been asking around and taking applications, but she has yet to find anyone she considers up to her exacting standards.”
Jim snorts. “We’re half an hour from Boston. You can’t walk five feet without stumbling onto the campus of an elite education institution.”
Gaila shrugs. “She’s picky.”
“And what makes you think I’d pass muster? Starving M.Ed. students are a dime a dozen.”
Gaila takes a moment to answer. “Let’s just say you have other…relevant qualifications.”
It takes Jim a second, then his eyes widen. “No…really?”
“I’ll make sure you get the face-to-face interview. Trust me, she’ll hire you on the spot.”
“Seriously? I mean, who does that?”
“She’s the lady of the house,” Gaila says. “She likes to…decorate.”
An image flashes through Jim’s head. He’s leaning over a school desk, tutoring a little girl in math while having his ass ogled by half a dozen members of a suburban book club. And, shit, is he wearing a Chippendale’s costume? And baby oil?
Jim quickly blinks the image away. “Oh god,” he says, giving an exaggerated shudder, “I feel kind of dirty.”
Gaila laughs. “C’mon,” she says. “You love it.”
Jim considers this for a moment, picturing it without the faux-leather chaps and replacing the book club with a lone MILF, smiling at him from the doorway. In a bikini.
“How old is Mrs. McCoy again?” he asks.
Gaila splashes him in the face.
Gaila decides to slip into the pool and swim a couple of laps to cool down. They’ve forgotten towels, so Jim ends up patting himself half dry with his tee shirt and leaving it slung over the back of a patio chair while he pulls his jeans up over damp legs and pads his way into the house in bare feet, carrying his empty crystal tumbler.
He heads to the kitchen first to snag a couple more pieces of sushi from a tray in the mammoth stainless steel fridge. He pops one piece into his mouth and takes another with him in his free hand as he pads back over to the liquor cabinet. He sets the tumbler down, swallows the first piece of sushi and shoves the second one into his mouth before picking up the decanter to refill his glass.
He’s still chewing and gazing longingly at the Springbank when he hears the sound of the front door opening. His head whips around, heart jumping in his chest like his Uncle Frank’s just caught him with his hand in the cookie jar.
When a man walks in jeans and a tee shirt, carrying a bag of fertilizer over his shoulder and a rake in his hand, Jim breathes a sigh of relief.
He finishes chewing, washes the sushi down with a sip of whisky and gives the guy a nod. “Hey, man,” he says.
The guy frowns at him, taking in Jim’s bare chest and feet. “Do you work here?”
“Not yet,” Jim says, taking another drink, “but I’m seriously considering it.” He lifts his glass in the man’s direction. “I mean, have you tried this stuff?”
“Once or twice,” the guy says.
“This is my fourth glass,” Jim admits without shame, feeling nice and toasty. “I didn’t even know they made scotch this awesome.”
“It’s bourbon, actually.”
“No way,” Jim says.
“Way,” the man says dryly. “Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve.”
Jim laughs. “You made that up,” he accuses. “But seriously, this can’t be bourbon. In my experience, bourbon is some cheap shit.”
Something about the raised eyebrow Jim gets in response indicates more clearly than words ever possibly could just how little this man thinks of Jim’s experience.
“No offense,” Jim adds hastily.
The man takes a brief moment to roll his eyes before narrowing them at Jim. “Who are you again?”
“Oh, sorry,” Jim says, extending his hand. “Jim Kirk.”
For a second, Jim thinks the guy is just going to stand there staring, but he finally shifts the rake to his left hand and offers his right. The palm is warm and dry, its grip firm and sure. Jim holds onto it just a bit longer than strictly necessary, waiting for the guy to offer his own name, but it doesn’t seem forthcoming.
Their eyes meet and hold and for a moment everything shifts, sending a pulse of awareness up Jim’s arm and down in the general direction of his dick.
Jim blinks and suddenly realizes the man’s fingers are twitching in his grip.
Jim lets go.
The man steps back immediately, readjusting the fertilizer on his shoulder. Jim takes the opportunity to study the guy a little more closely, watching the way the tee shirt shifts and stretches across the guy’s broad, hard chest.
Jim lets out a low whistle, followed by a short laugh. “Man,” he says, “Gaila wasn’t kidding about the hiring policy around here.”
“Excuse me?” the guy says.
“She told me that Mrs. McCoy likes to hire eye candy.” Jim takes another drink of the bourbon and grins. “I mean, it seems a little…I don’t know…but I have to admit, the woman has taste.”
Looking up, Jim notices the sudden appearance of a bulging vein in the guy’s forehead and takes an instinctive step back, holding up his hands.
“Hey, man, chillax. It’s the twenty-first century. Just because a guy admires another guy’s physique doesn’t mean it has to mean anything.” Jim smirks. “You know, unless you want it—”
“Oh, um, hey, Doctor McCoy. You’re home early.”
Jim’s head snaps around to the French doors leading to the patio, where Gaila is now standing, red curls still dripping. He’s not sure he’s ever seen her blush before.
Then her words sink in, and Jim’s pretty sure he’s blushing, too.
“Miss Gaila,” Doctor McCoy says, with a nod. He tilts his head in Jim’s direction. “I assume this one belongs to you?”
“Not as such, sir,” Gaila says. “But I’ll get him out of your way.” She casts her glance to the fertilizer and rake. “What’re you…?”
Doctor McCoy shakes his head. “That damn fool gardener Joce hired left these lying around out front. Do you know what kind of chemicals they put in this shit? And who the hell leaves a rake just lying around near a pathway? It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.”
In spite of his embarrassment, Jim stifles the urge to laugh at the old-fashioned rant. Who actually says that anymore?
“Of course,” McCoy continues, glancing over at Jim, “seems she didn’t hire him for his landscaping skills.”
The urge to laugh quickly dissipates. “Um…sir…I…”
Jim is usually much faster on his feet than this. And since when does he fucking stammer?
“Save your breath, kid,” McCoy suggests. “Ain’t no amount of talking gonna to dislodge your foot at this point. So why don’t you go find your shirt, and your shoes if you brought some, and let Miss Gaila drive you on home before you make it any worse.”
Jim swallows, nods, and does as instructed.
So much for his sweet new employment opportunity.