Good Girl Gets Dirty

Anna Claire Clouds pulled up to the garage in her boyfriend's Maserati, heels clicking sharp against oil-stained concrete. She was looking for keys and an invoice, nothing else. Then Seth Gamble stepped out from under a lifted truck, grease smudged across his knuckles and collarbone. He wiped his hands on a rag and smirked like he already knew her type. Conversation soured fast. She asked about the car; he asked what a woman like her was doing driving for a man like that. His eyes dragged over her tight skirt, her perfect hair, and he didn’t bother hiding it. Anna snapped back, crisp and polite. He laughed, told her she sounded like she’d practiced that tone in front of a mirror. Said she deserved better than a boyfriend who kept her polished and parked outside. She tried to defend him. Seth didn’t budge. Just tilted his head and called her what she was: a well-trained lapdog in designer heels. Didn’t even flinch when she glared. Told her he didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought of him, never had. He lived dirty, worked dirty, fucked dirty—and liked it that way. Said she might like it too, if she ever stopped pretending. Anna turned on her heel and left without another word. But his voice stuck. That smirk. That filthy suggestion. When she came back for the car, her lipstick was darker. Her skirt was shorter. Seth looked up from the workbench, and she didn’t blink. Just walked straight up, close enough for him to smell her perfume over motor oil, and told him if he was going to talk like that, he’d better back it up. No more smirking. She wanted to see if he could make her filthy too.