Amber Austin - Tarotica

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Montana.”

“What are you doing there?”

She laughed. “Believe it or not, I’m working in a furniture factory.”

“Whatever for?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll explain later. First I want to hear about your dream.”

Miranda was so intent on texting Eli about Montana’s peculiarities that she neglected to look around her before she stepped off the sidewalk. She heard tires squeal, then the crunch of metal against metal. She jumped away and screamed. Broken glass tinkled around her.

The man whose car had smacked into the traffic light pole climbed out of his crumpled vehicle, slammed the door, and stamped over to Miranda. His crew cut and erect posture reminded her of a drill sergeant.

“Look what you have done!” he shouted, pointing at his damaged Volvo.

“You’re the one who wrecked your car, not me,” she countered.

“If I had not swerved when you walked into the street, you would be a dead woman now.” He spoke with a clipped, almost formal accent that sounded vaguely German, or maybe Scandinavian.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Miranda apologized. “I should have looked. It was an accident.”

“Are you always so careless with your life?”

She shrugged. “I said I was sorry. What do you want me to do?”

“You must compensate me for the damage to my car.”

“Don’t you have insurance?”

The man rolled his eyes. “Of course, but that is not the issue. Although I must pay the deductible. The important thing is you must realize that your actions affect others.”

Miranda was growing annoyed. True, she hadn’t been paying attention. True, she might have been injured if the man hadn’t swerved to avoid her. True, the guy had reason to be upset about his car. But her negligence was an error in judgment, not a character flaw. This man was turning a mishap into a morality lesson.

By now, a small crowd had gathered to gawk. Trying to remain calm, Miranda pulled out her checkbook. “I’m willing to accept part of the blame for what happened.

Why don’t I split the deductible with you?”

“I do not want your money.”

“You said you wanted me to compensate you for the damages. I’m offering to pay half.”

“That is too easy. You learn nothing from the experience.”

Miranda’s patience was wearing thin. “Look, I’m trying to be reasonable. I don’t have to give you a penny. I can walk away right now and you can’t hang a thing on me.”

“You are wrong, my young friend. You owe me a great debt, perhaps even your life.”

Is he threatening me ? Miranda wondered. “But you refused my money. What do you want?”

The man answered, “You will work for me for one week. In that time, I will endeavor to teach you about behaving responsibly toward others. Do you agree?”

Miranda started to object—the man’s arrogance was maddening—but suddenly something Eli’s friend Sybil had said popped into her head: “There are no coincidences.

Problems are opportunities in disguise.” Could this smug, self-righteous man really teach her something?

“What kind of business are you in?” Miranda asked. I’m not going to pluck chickens or clean motel rooms.

“I make furniture.”

“Okay,” she agreed, to shut him up. If it turned out to be terrible, she could always quit.

The man held out his hand and Miranda shook it. “Okay.” He pulled a business card out of his wallet. “Here is the address. Tomorrow at nine, you will start work. And now, let me see if this poor car of mine can still be driven.”

The next morning when Miranda arrived at the spacious, orderly furniture shop with its brick walls and metal roof, she was surprised to see a diverse group of perhaps two dozen people working there: old men and teenagers, blacks and whites, a few women, even a blind man and one who appeared to have Down Syndrome. Henry Kolb, her “employer,” greeted her with a curt nod and led her to the mill area, where he showed her how to guide boards as they came off the planer.

It was tedious work and soon her mind began to wander. She scoped out the place for attractive guys. Only one, who had the brawny blond wholesomeness of a farm boy, intrigued her, except he didn’t look old enough to buy cigarettes. Everybody in the shop seemed interested in her, however. They probably don’t see many women with purple-streaked hair in this little Montana town, she figured. Her female co-workers were strong, plain, stocky types who did nothing to emphasize their feminine attributes. No need to bother with makeup tomorrow, she decided, especially since the goggles and dust mask Henry had given her hid most of her face.

All morning long, Miranda caught boards and stacked them in bins, with the help of a burly black man named Able. Conversation was impossible over the roar of the planer. By lunchtime she was exhausted. Sawdust covered her hair and clothing. Her ears rang despite the protective headphones she’d been given to block the noise.

She went out to the loading dock, sat down, and unwrapped the sandwich she’d bought on the way to work. Soon the other workers gathered around her like bees on clover, introducing themselves and asking her questions.

“What’s your name?”

“Where are you from?”

Before she finished answering one person, someone else fired another query at her.

“Why did you come here?”

“Do you like working here?”

She shook more than a dozen hands, remembering only a few names. The cute guy told her his name was Josh, that he’d graduated from high school last month, and his father worked in the shop, too. A butch woman with close-cropped hair handed Miranda a Coke. The blind man asked to touch her face. When she explained she would only be working there one week, they seemed disappointed.

After lunch Henry assigned her a new task: oiling furniture. “Josh will show you what to do,” he said.

At least it’s quieter than the planer, she thought. And I get to ogle Josh.

“We rotate jobs a lot,” Josh told her. “That way it’s not boring and everyone gets to take part in the whole process, from beginning to end.”

He dribbled linseed oil on a cherry table and began rubbing it into the pinkish wood with slow, circular motions. As he leaned over the table, his T-shirt stretched taut across his muscular back and his jeans hugged his butt. His biceps bulged. Miranda imagined him rubbing oil into her skin and felt her pussy tingle. When he knelt and began oiling the table’s legs, she envisioned those strong hands stroking her legs. Mentally she stripped him naked, fantasizing about his washboard abs, his tight buns, his hard cock.

“Think you can do it?” he asked.

She smiled at him. “Maybe you’d better guide me.”

Josh handed her a rag, then placed his hand over hers and moved it around and around, until the wood had absorbed the oil. Miranda leaned against him, enjoying his heat and the strength of his body. The tingling in her pussy ratcheted up a notch and she felt herself getting wet. This job might not be so bad after all.

He stepped away and cleared his throat. “Okay, why don’t you try it yourself?”

When Miranda’s eyes met his, he turned bright red. She glanced at his crotch.

Definitely some action going on there.

For the next couple of hours, Miranda oiled chairs, chests, and tables while her imagination transformed them into Josh’s body. Several times he caught her watching him and blushed. When they took their afternoon break, she expected him to join her, but he bolted for the men’s room. Maybe he’s going to jerk off, she mused, wishing he’d asked her to come along.