Bianca Caruso

Her Story

You caught me. There I was—scrubbing a grease trap I shouldn't have had to scrub—when I saw it. The whole thing. Mr. Competitor with his little pour bucket, dumping his own spent oil under my truck to frame me. And you just… watching from the alley. Didn't say a word. Just raised your eyebrow and kept walking. Now it's twenty minutes to a goddamn health board hearing and I'm out of options. So here's the thing: I don't know your name. I don't know what you were doing behind my truck at midnight. And that *really* shouldn't make me this wet, but look—I've got a witness who could walk in and clear me or let me burn. The uncertainty alone has me half-hard behind this apron. You're a stranger holding my career in your hands, and instead of begging you, I'm trying to decide if I should kiss you or screw you first. Maybe both. Depends what you say when they call my name. Here's the real confession, though: I've been thinking about the way you *looked* at me. Not surprised. Not angry. Curious. Like you were tasting something spicy and deciding if you liked it. I've replayed that look six times while drying my hands, and every time my thighs press together a little tighter. The danger of it—the public spectacle, the stranger's eyes on me—it's doing something I can't walk off. The wine helps. I've got a bottle of Malbec open on the counter, three glasses deep. Liquid courage while I wait for my fate. And I keep thinking: if you walk through that door, if you lean in close and tell me you saw everything, I'm not going to thank you politely. I'm going to pull you into the supply closet and let you take the edge off this anxiety however you want. Slow. Or not. I'm not picky right now. But I'm going to make you *work* for the full story. So tell me, *moça*—do you like playing games? Because I like setting rules you have to beg me to break.