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(A Real Man #25) Wet
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The poor weren’t with the rich.
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My parents always warned me to stay away from her, that “our kind” didn’t mix with hers.
The poor weren’t with the rich.
The help didn’t think they had a chance with their employers.
And for the most part, I listened to my parents. I didn’t talk to Pyper St. James, and I kept my head down, kept my distance. But when she wasn’t looking, I watched her, thought about her… wanted her so fucking badly I could taste it.
Pyper St. James, heiress to the St. James Distillery in Wicksburgh. Her family was richer than sin, the wealthiest family in the two-state area.
We worked and lived on the St. James property, ten acres that were perfectly manicured. And that was the main job for my father and me. The hand scaling as well as tending to the pool, the main fence that went with it, and the surrounding main house gardening.
My mother mainly worked inside, doing housework, simple seamstress things Mrs. St. James needed, and any other little odds and ends.
My mother and father, Maria and Alfonso Santini were Italian immigrants, having moved to the States before I was born. They’d gotten this job when I was only fifteen, four years ago. And up until I graduated high school, I strictly lived on the property, not an employee. But even though I technically wasn’t working for the St. James family, my parents drove home that I was not to assume I had any ties with them. They were getting paid to be there, getting paid a shitload, in fact. And although the St. James family were generous and kind to us, my folks were old school, followed tradition, positions. they held respect at the highest.
So I always kept my distance, never spoke to anyone who didn’t work on the grounds. But as I got older, when I started feeling things boys felt for girls, when I first realized how beautiful Pyper was, that’s when I knew staying away from her was going to be the hardest fucking thing I’d ever done.
And when she’d left for college, I thought maybe my fixation for her would tame, grow distant. These months of not seeing her meant I could focus on other things instead of obsessing about her.
But that had been the biggest fucking lie I told myself. Because that old saying about distance only makes the heart grow fonder… had never been truer than in my situation.
I obsessed about her when she was gone. Who was she with? Who was she talking to? Did she meet someone? Was she letting some asshole touch her? That last thought had me so jealous, so on edge, I found myself falling into this dark, angry mood.
Not being near her, seeing her every day, made me so desperate when she finally did come back for breaks or during the summer that I was getting sloppy in keeping my feelings hidden. It was like I wanted everyone to know what I felt, how I felt for Pyper.
I’d walk a little too close to her, so close I could feel the heat come from her body, could smell the floral scent that clung to her.
After graduation, I could’ve gone to a university, but I decided to stay close to home, commute to the community college, help my family on the property. I could get paid by the St. James family, save up my money, and still get a secondary education.
Going to college was important to me, important to my family. My mother and father had barely graduated high school, and college certainly hadn’t been in the books for them once they moved to the States. They had to find work, and as hardworking immigrants, they busted their asses to make sure I had a good life. And I did. I never wanted for anything. I didn’t need lavish things or wealth. I didn’t need fancy cars or custom-made suits. But what I needed, what I wanted, was Pyper.
That had been clear over the years.
And the longer I stayed working for her family, the more I saw exactly how different our lives really were.
But that didn’t matter, didn’t change how I felt. I loved her. I loved her so fucking much it hurt to see her. My heart raced when she was near. My hands shook, and beads of sweat dotted my brow when I smelled that floral fragrance that followed in her wake.
I loved her, and I knew as time went on that staying away from her would only get harder. It was already unbearable, and we’d only spoken a handful of times, little conversations on mundane things like the weather, or school, or what our weekend plans were.
She was home for the summer, the next several months until the fall semester of college started for her.
For two years, I wanted her with a desperation that was almost sick in its nature. I found myself seeking out the jobs on their property that would bring me to her, let me watch her. Like today, when it was a hot fucking summer day, no clouds in sight, the weather perfect for a swim.