Ivy

Prologue

My job at Home Depot was as entry-level as jobs got. For eight hours a day, I was a cart wrangler, car-loader, direction-giver, and mess picker-upper. It sucked, but it was still better than working fast food. I might not get discounted meals, but at least I didn’t go home reeking of fry oil.

Besides, I got to learn all sorts of things about hardware and tools. Those were the kinds of things a guy ought to know, and my knowledge in those fields was sadly lacking.

I still didn’t know how to apply most of that knowledge, but even knowing that there were different kinds of screws for different purposes was valuable information. And that they were in aisles 26 and 27, depending on type.

I was on a roving patrol in the store, constantly vigilant for a spill someone might slip on, shelves in catastrophic disarray, or rogue carts that needed to be herded back to their corral when I saw her around the end of an aisle. Younger, curvy, wearing a white tank-top.

She was cartless, and examining bags of Quickrete. Most people weren’t interested in cement unless they needed it for something—and if she needed cement for something she would have brought a flatbed cart.

Or not. She grabbed a bag and hefted it up on her shoulder, then leaned down and picked up a second, then a third. Two bags on one shoulder, one on the other.

That girl’s built like an ox. Each bag was fifty pounds, and I remembered elementary school math well enough to multiply fifty by three.

“I can get you a cart,” I blurted out, and she turned to face me.

I’d been so gobsmacked by her nearly effortless bag-lifting that I somehow hadn’t noticed immediately that she wasn’t human. The tail should have been a giveaway, or barring that the ears, or the horns, or the furry legs.

An Equestrian minotaur . . . minotauress.

“Don’t need one.”

Lots of guys tried to show off carrying lumber over their shoulders and they risked hurting themselves or other customers. Usually trying to impress their girlfriends or wives. If I’d been interested in any of my co-workers, I might have tried to do the same, but I was being paid minimum wage and that bought minimum work.

“Well, if you’re sure,” I finished lamely as she walked off. Her footsteps had a stiletto-like clip on the industrial tile floor, which I realized as she rounded the end of the aisle was on account of her having hooves.

I stood there mentally processing what I’d just seen. Plenty of contractors, built like proverbial brick shithouses, piled the cement bags on a flatbed cart like any sensible person would.

Minotaurs were strong, I knew that. I’d seen one male minotaur before and he made me really understand the phrase ‘barrel-chested.’ He’d obviously skipped leg day a time or two; he’d put all his skill points in upper body strength.

She had a more conventional, pleasing chest. I’d only gotten a glimpse as she turned to face me. Very human breasts filling out her tank top, a coying reveal of cleavage, Daisy Duke cutoff shorts . . . very short, now that I thought about it. And tight—I could see the outline of her cell phone in one back pocket, and her wallet in the other.

I couldn’t imagine her doing more shopping with a hundred fifty pounds of concrete on her shoulders. No matter how strong she was, unless she was an idiot she’d have picked up the small stuff before she got the heavy stuff.

That meant the checkouts, a wait in line—it was a Friday afternoon, and the weekend warriors were stocking up for their home improvement projects. And it was about time to get back out to the parking lot and check for shopping carts.

•••

I timed it perfectly; she was two back in the queue for checkout 6. Even better, there was a nearby endcap that needed attention, so I started putting things back on the pegboard like a good worker drone while keeping an eye on her. Even when she wasn’t walking, the weight of the concrete knocked her off-balance, giving her a sexy cock to her hips. I wasn’t the only one who noticed; an older gray-haired man was laser-focused on her ass, also suddenly aware that quality crossed the species barrier.

Look up, you fool. She’s got most of your weight in Quickrete on her shoulders . . . she could crush you between her thighs like a watermelon.

Somebody on next shift was going to be pissed. As the customer in front of her fumbled with a credit card, I started stuffing items back on the pegs with no care where they belonged. I had to make it look natural, an employee doing his duty, had to time it just right—

—and I did, finishing with the last discount drill bit as she slipped her wallet out of her back pocket, keeping the concrete balanced through the whole process.

“Checking carts,” I muttered into my radio before turning the radio off. I didn’t know if they could check that or not, but if my vein-popping supervisor came out to lay a tirade on me for not responding to a call, that would be at least some cover. Accidents happened.

•••

The automatic door hadn’t even started closing as I followed her through, subtle as a train wreck in my company-issued hi-viz vest. I was following too close, so I paused to scan the parking lot and identify all the errant carts, as a good employee would. That it gave me another good look at her butt as she walked by an abandoned cart in the handicap parking was just a bonus. She flicked her tail: maybe she didn’t like lazy customers, either.

She headed in the direction of a cart corral, and I followed. The excuse was making itself; I could get a nice look at her as she loaded the bags of cement into the back of whatever it was she drove and spend the rest of the shift thinking about her.

I hadn’t expected her to be parked right next to the cart corral, nor had I expected there to be a couple flatbeds in it—ones she easily could have grabbed if she’d wanted to.

She had an old Jeep CJ-7, topless like I wished she was. It wasn’t built into an extreme rock-crawler, nor was it a pavement princess—it had rust and scratches and faded paint, a proper working vehicle. She slid one bag off her shoulder onto her waiting forearms and dropped it behind the rudimentary backseat, then she looked over at me and frowned. I’m just a worker drone; I don’t have thoughts or motivations. More than one customer thought that.

I was looking away, fumbling with a cart, as the second bag dropped, but I got to see the third one go. She leaned down and slid it off her shoulder, easily catching it and stacking it on top of its sisters, the Jeep settling on its springs as the last bag was placed.

“Hey.” Her voice was not what I expected, more lilting and feminine than her strength would suggest, tinged with an exotic accent I’d never heard before. “Why are you following me?”

I wasn’t expecting to even be noticed. Unless people wanted something, roving workers usually faded into the background. At least I had my lie ready. “Following? I’m not following you, I’m doing my job. Gathering carts.” I motioned to the flatbeds in the corral.

She looked me up and down, and I realized I might have made a minor miscalculation. She wasn’t the type to complain to a manager or try to get me fired; instead she was the ‘beat the shit out of me and leave me for dead’ type. “I can leave, if I’m bothering you.”

“Hmm.” She studied me thoughtfully and then nodded. “Should I call you cart boy?”

“That’s my job.”

“Cart boy.” Amusing contempt. “Are you a cart boy, or a cart man? Because I’m going up to my cabin all weekend and it’s lonely up there.”

I crossed my arms. “What are you saying?”

“You think you’re man enough?” She tugged the collar of her shirt down, revealing a lacy red bra.

“Try me.”

“Get in.” She grabbed onto the roll bar and slid into the driver’s seat.

“Uh . . .” I glanced back at the store.

“You got ten seconds.”

I twisted the knob on my radio. “Hey, Mark, it’s employee number 1319901. Just want to let you know that I quit effective immediately, my vest and radio will be in the cart corral by the garden center, and you can send my last check to 69 Fuck You Avenue care of Your Mom.” I stripped off my company hi-viz vest, apron, and radio, tossed them into a shopping cart, and kicked it all the way into the corral—I wasn’t a monster. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll break you.”

“Risk I’m willing to take.” I grabbed the rollbar and pulled myself into her Jeep with less grace than she’d demonstrated.

“I’m Ivy.” She tapped a thumb to her chest.

“I’m—”

“You’re cart boy until you earn your name.” She pumped the accelerator pedal to prime the carb, twisted the key in the ignition and the Jeep roared to life.

“Yeah.”

Her eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror, and she let off the parking brake, shifted into reverse and backed out. Always liked a girl who knew how to drive a stick. No hesitation or shuddering as she went into first, or upshifted on her way through the parking lot, clutching in and coasting as a battered pickup cut her off.

I had a moment for reflection as she slowed at the intersection. She’d loaded a hundred fifty pounds of cement into the back of the Jeep and that was more than enough to give me a proper set of cement overshoes if that was her ultimate goal. The light ahead was red, I could jump out—easy in a Jeep with the doors and the top off.

I could, but I wanted to see how this would play out. She thought she was going to break me?

I welcomed the attempt.