Chapter 25 – The Third Form of Currency: Physical Labor
"Hi! That'll be $982.63."
The cashier's voice rang a little too loud in the cavernous, late-night supermarket.
Rose swiped her card with fluid ease, a satisfied smile on her face as though she'd just pulled off a major coup.
Sean's gaze, however, snagged for a heartbeat on the silver-wrapped box of Trojan Ultra Thin that Rose had casually plucked from the rack beside the register and tossed into the cart.
He sighed inwardly, the corner of his mouth twitching in a barely-there smile.
Sure enough, there's no such thing as a free lunch—Rose's "generosity" in paying the bill would ultimately be repaid with his own physical labor.
Tonight was clearly going to cost him both time and effort.
They pushed the overflowing cart toward the parking lot. Under the dim lights, their shadows stretched long and thin.
The young male cashier, as Sean passed, looked at him with pure admiration and shot him a sly, covert thumbs-up, eyes screaming, Dude, you're the man.
Sean pretended not to notice and quickened his pace.
The night air carried a chill and the briny tang of sea breeze. He wheeled the cart up to the dark Crown Victoria; the wide trunk yawned open like a silent mouth.
He stowed the bags with police officer efficiency, every movement brisk and practiced.
After slamming the trunk, he turned to Rose, who stood by the passenger door, and said,
"Wait here; I'll return the cart."
His words cut clearly through the quiet lot.
Rose nodded obediently, leaning against the car as she watched him push the empty cart toward the distant return rack.
Backlit by scattered headlights and the neon of a far-off In-N-Out sign, Sean's retreating figure looked tall and dependable.
Moments later he strode back, long legs eating the distance. He opened the door and slid into the driver's seat; the leather creaked softly beneath him.
The cabin still held the cool breath of the A/C and the faint, familiar cocktail of leather and motor oil.
Sean turned the key; the deep, throaty growl of the V8 shattered the night's hush. Just as Rose reached for her seatbelt, Sean—as casually as handing her a tissue—produced a small, gleaming silver chain bracelet and held it out.
"Here, take it."
His tone was flat, his eyes barely leaving the windshield, as though he were doing something utterly mundane.
Rose froze. She instinctively took the cool metal links, delight bursting like tiny fireworks inside her—only to be nudged aside by a flicker of doubt:
I checked every item when I paid; how did I miss this? When did he slip it in? Could it be…?
But the question lasted less than half a second before a tidal wave of sweetness and gratitude swallowed it whole.
She didn't even manage a "thank you," let alone wonder why he'd offered the gift so off-handedly.
Her body moved ahead of her brain—she practically lunged, cupping Sean's face in both hands and, with possessive gratitude, pressed her lips hotly and unreservedly against his.
The kiss came sudden and fierce, carrying all of Rose's trademark fire—equal parts claim and thank-you—allowing Sean zero room to resist.
He'd spent Rose's money to buy Rose a gift, and now she had to thank him for it!
God… I didn't ask for this! She's the one who insisted! ran his silent howl.
Only because Sean had stayed on guard did he keep her from breaching the final line right then and there.
'A guy's gotta protect himself out there!'
"Rose, we'll talk about this tonight."
Unfazed, Rose simply smiled: good things come to those who wait. Tonight, Sean would be… heh-heh-heh!
You couldn't really blame Sean for looking like he was 'taking a stand while giving in.' Imagine a woman from a powerful, wealthy family clinging to you like she's obsessed—how do you shake that off?
Option one: ditch technology and go completely off the grid.
Option two: eliminate Rose!
Otherwise she'd stick to him like superglue.
Option one was impossible; option two, unthinkable.
If Sean kept her at arm's length, Rose might simply sleep with one of his buddies to spark his jealousy and get what she wanted.
No man wants the woman he's slept with to jump into another guy's bed—unless he's into that sort of thing.
Looking after a suitor's feelings and tossing her an occasional hit of emotional validation was simply part of Sean's job as a player.
Sean pulled a tissue and handed it to Rose, who was still breathing hard, cheeks flushed, eyes burning into his. He motioned for her to wipe away any smudged lipstick.
Then Sean shifted into gear, and the black-and-white Crown Victoria glided out of the parking lot, merging into the still-flowing river of night traffic in Los Angeles and heading toward Malibu. Outside the window, the city lights streaked across Rose's still-sparkling eyes.
"Sean! I'll head home and wait for you!"
Having reached Charlie's door, Rose took a box and hurried off without even a backward glance.
Charlie's villa stood on the front line of Malibu Beach; beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows lay the boundless Pacific. The sound of tides and the cries of gulls formed natural white noise.
By comparison, Sean still preferred his own place: neighbors were friendly, no annoying gulls or the constant noise of waves hitting sand, a reasonable commute, and close to downtown.
He also had the System to thank; without it he'd probably have returned to Arizona to become a farmer after finishing college in LA.
Let alone owning four properties in Los Angeles.
Sean knew himself pretty well.
Was he supposed to exploit insider knowledge to strike it rich?
If so, marrying Rose and living off the rich lady would be faster—at least Rose really owned bank shares. In her own words: richer than God.
So why not be with Rose?
Sorry—as a girlfriend or wife…
If the day of vows ever came, Sean would have to bind himself with morality and commitment.
Right now, he knew he couldn't make that promise, so he didn't consider such a relationship.
Better not to swear an oath you can't keep.
Sean arrived at Charlie's gate; a small garden decorated the front yard in earth tones and coastal landscaping. Beside the arched wooden door stood two potted succulents, and a bronze-finish porch light adorned the wall.
The arched door had decorative ironwork; looking at the wooden security door, Sean mused that one solid kick to the lock could probably break it open.
"Ding-dong."
"Ding-dong."
Sean pressed the doorbell and waited for someone inside to open up.
He knew a key was hidden under a particular decorative rock—the only one around—but out of courtesy he chose to wait, hoping he wasn't interrupting anything good.
Footsteps—probably Alan's, definitely not Charlie's.
The steps came from the living room; at this hour Charlie was either at a bar or behind closed doors with company.
The door swung open to reveal a chubby, blond little kid in a purple-and-yellow striped Lakers jersey. Seeing Sean, Jake beamed—this uncle always brought snacks.
"Good evening, Uncle Sean!"
Jake raised his right hand for a high-five; Sean obliged, then hoisted the boy upside-down, sending him into giggles.
Hearing the laughter, Alan rose from the sofa in front of the TV to see who'd arrived.
"Hey, Sean, what brings you—oh! Don't hold kids like that; their spines aren't fully developed, you'll hurt him."
Alan wore his eternal outfit: navy plaid button-down, khaki slacks, and brown loafers.
Everyday life meant eternal plaid, eternal khakis, and occasional dress shoes or sneakers.
Yep, classic Alan—three sentences and out pops a piece of unsolicited advice.
At that, Sean set Jake down.
Once on his feet, the little butterball immediately asked,
"Uncle Sean, do you have snacks? I just bought new ice cream—strawberry, watermelon, even cookies and cream! Want some?"
Looking at the chunky kid, Sean smiled. "Uncle Sean brought goodies, but you'll have to carry them in."
With that he pulled the key fob from his pocket and popped the trunk.
"A whole trunk stuffed with stuff—that's your gift. Go take a look!"
Jake sprinted out joyfully, calling over his shoulder,
"Thanks, Uncle Sean!"
Alan disapproved of Sean's habit and began, "Sean, Jake's just a kid—he hasn't formed a proper understanding of money, and you're—"
Sean cut him off. "There's something in the trunk for you too!"
Surprise flashed across Alan's face; without another word he shouted outside,
"Jake, Dad's coming to help!"
[Power Stone Goal: 500 = +1 Chapter]
[Review Goal: 10 = +1 Chapter]
If you liked it, feel free to leave a review.
20+chapters ahead on P1treon Soulforger