“Don’t stop, Harry.” I can’t stop the shout as I jolt up. The room is dark, so it takes me a second to remember that I’m in my bed as I try to gasp for a breath of air. The images play vaguely in my head, but the one thing that stands out is the piercing blue eyes.
“Harry?” I mumble, trying to piece together my dream. “Who’s Harry? I was dreaming about…Oh, hell no!” I look down between my legs. Yup. Someone’s wide awake and angry that I interrupted his little happy moment while I was dreaming about…
“Oliver fucking Stark,’ I murmur.
I roll back onto my pillows and fling my arm over my eyes.
Reports from both parties have been positive. Nothing bad from Sam or Oliver since introducing them a little less than two weeks ago. Nothing at all since their second date, really. Radio silence. My eyes jump open, and I grab for my phone. I scroll through my texts and realize it’s been five days since I heard from either of them.
“That’s weird,” I murmur while rereading over their messages. But my alarm goes off and I’m tempted to toss it across the room and call in a sick day. Instead, I groan and get up.
“Sorry, buddy. Not right now.” I look down to the still visibly saluting soldier in my pants and apologize.
“Hey there, dollface. Can I help you?” A woman is standing over the lingerie sets holding up two outfits. Obviously not her first time here, she turns to the mirror and
“Which one would you rather screw me in? The hot pink babydoll or the black crotchless bodysuit?”
“The hot pink. It’ll show off what you’ve got while keeping some parts a mystérieux.”
Her eyes shift in my direction, a smirk playing across her lips. “There’s nothing mysterious about me anymore. I’ll take the bodysuit. Where do you keep your restraints? And not the flimsy amateur ones, but the sturdy, leather ones.”
“Follow me,” I start to head toward the back where a red curtain conceals the real treasure of my shop when I hear someone yell for me. “Just head back there, and one of the associates or I will return in a second.”
I walk to the front of the shop, and I notice the familiar mop of shaggy hair poking above the shelves.
“What now?” I grumble when he calls my name again. I see his head turning until I round a corner and see two red, glaring eyes amidst a sea of blue clothing. “Whoa, sugar. What’s got your panties in a twist? Or did you wear a thong today? I always hate when those things –”
“Cut the crap, Anthony. I’m pissed off at you.”
I feel the playfulness inside scurry away when I realize he’s really not joking around.
“Come to my office.” He quickly turns and somehow, I end up following him inside. I barely have a chance to sit down when he starts going off.
“That man. That man watches the Kardashians like it’s a religion and when I practically begged him to cook for me, I found out that he hates cooking at home which is weird for a chef. And, and…and his nose is too big!”
I just stare at Oliver as his lists off every stupid reason for not liking Sam until I practically beg him to stop.
“Sugar, you’ve been on two dates. Two. You can’t get to know someone in just hours of time together.”
“Nuh-uh, nope,” he says waving his hands at me. “I want another person. You said five potential dates. Just hand me another one.”
I look at him for a minute and see that his mind is set. “Fine.”
I pull the left side drawer open and rifle through until I find the other four files. Shutting the drawer, I toss them on the desk.
“There’s Mikey, Nathan, Pete, and Angel. Look through them and let me know, you stubborn mule.”
He lifts an eye at me, and I scowl at him. “Don’t give me that look! This is my la passion, ma vocation. You’re the first person to ask for seconds.”
He rolls his eyes and tosses a folder back at me. His lips pull up and seeing his mood shift into a lighthearted one raises my spirits. “Mikey, you French-speaking ass.”
“Yeah, yeah, mon amie!” I grin back. I look down at my watch as my stomach rumbles. “How about I make this whole mess up to you? I’m starving, and there’s a nice little bistro down the street I like to go to. Why don’t we walk over there and take a break? Even staring at these order forms is starting to tire me out.”
“Okay, but I’m paying this time.”
“What the hell is the point of me making this up to you if you pay?”
“Shut it, JarJar.”
“And who is that?” I quirk an eyebrow, not sure I want to know the answer.
“The most annoying piece of George Lucas’ creations. Let’s go.”
“Oliver Stark, vous êtes une douleur dans mon cul!” I playfully tell him how I really feel, grinning nefariously at him.
He shakes his head and smiles, leading us out of the office and into the chilly Austin afternoon.
“So how did you come around to owning your own Forbidden Apple franchise?”
I peer over the grilled cheese sandwich in my hand. Little Boy Blue wants story time. I put my sandwich down and wipe my mouth, throwing the crumpled paper onto my plate.
“Sugar, you sure you want to hear that story? I mean, it’s more akin to a Greek tragedy than some Disney princess movie.”
“I’m all ears,” he shrugs.
“Fine, but the short version. And only if you make me a promise.”
“And that is?”
“Oh, no. You have to trust me.” I chuckle when I see his brows furrow.
“O-okay.”
“I was kicked out of my house at sixteen after I came out. I had nowhere to go, no friends that would take me in. I grew up in Alabama and talk about your right-wing politics. My coming out only isolated me more than being in the closet already made me. So, I hitchhiked all the way to Texas. Not that it was much better, mind you, but that was before I discovered Austin. This whole city is like another world. It’s no wonder they say to Keep Austin Weird. It’s the first place that’s ever welcomed me with open arms because here, there are no two people alike. Weird is normal and normal is weird.
“My first night here, I found a shelter. By day three, I had two jobs. I was a waiter by day, and I worked the register at Forbidden Apple by night. And baby, I was fabulous! I worked the store like I was the second coming. Kenny – he owned the store before me – soon had me working all day. I bought me an old junker of a car, got me the dingiest apartment, lived on Ramen noodles and went months without electricity so I could save every penny. For four years I scrimped and saved. Kenny was getting older and was wanting to retire. When it came time for him to leave, I got a loan from the bank and voila! Princess owned himself a store. It was hard at first, but I converted one of the old offices into a small apartment and lived there the first few years. All the while, I turned a profit like no other while adding just a little bit of fairy dust. Add that to the fact that I’m fabulous, I’m fierce, and I’m a horse of another color.” I give him an overly obvious wink, and he gives me a hearty laugh in return. I feel something tug at me inside but ignore it in favor of the rest of my story.
“I’ve won company awards – including the Golden Apple, twice – and I donate to places like the Trevor Project and the Human Rights Campaign. I love giving back to the people who helped me when I needed it. But nothing beats the fact that I overcame a bigoted family and living on the streets to successfully owning my own place that hasn’t seen red in years. I’ve met some of my best friends here. Also, I’m a real-life cupid.” I grin from cheek to cheek, feeling every ounce of pride shining through.
“Just don’t go shooting an arrow into my ass, please!”
“Yeah, well, once I set you up with Mikey, I’m pretty sure I won’t have to. That guy is yummy on a stick. Like, legit lickable. But don’t actually lick him cause then he’ll slap you…Though, maybe you’d like that?”
“Well, I’m more of a homebody type than a slap and tickle kind of guy, but I’m willing to give it a try.”
Somehow, it’s easy to talk to Oliver. Like we’re old friends catching up despite the fact that I’m spilling my fairy guts all over the place. But he listens. Genuinely listens to me and when it comes time for us to go our separate ways, I actually feel…sad.
What the hell is Oliver Stark doing to me?
There is something about the way he speaks – and not the silly French or the flamboyancy of his words, but the confidence woven in them regardless of the ugliness of his teenage years. By the time the lunch hour is over – an hour that felt like only ten short minutes – I’m regretting the fact we have to leave. And, unfortunately, the walk back to my truck outside his store takes even less time than the walk to the bistro.
“I’ll give you a call after I get in contact with Mikey. And please, sugar, give him more than two dates before you go running away. You might actually like his…well, let’s just say he’s got a certain je ne sais quoi that you won’t find in anyone else. Believe you me, darling; he’s worth it.”
I sense a bit of hesitancy on his part in the end as he sighs. Almost like he’s relinquishing me to Mikey.
We say our goodbyes, and I get in my car. I let out a sigh, too. This whole business of trying to find my freakin’ soulmate is starting to get on my nerves and it’s barely started.
“There’s always a bigger fish, Oliver,” I mumble to myself.
I look at the cuckoo clock on my wall as it starts to chime six in the evening. Except, in true Oliver Stark fashion, my clock growls like Chewbacca as a miniature version of him pops out with each chime.
Every hour seems to move slower and slower as I worry over this Mikey guy and whether getting help from Anthony is even worth it. As it is, I’m starting to feel like I’m just done with it all. Lunch yesterday was a nice break from the worry of everything Anthony is doing for me. Just talking to him, getting to know him, was…nice. So much that I almost called him up to ask him to Falcon Seventy-Seven last night. Almost told him to forget about Mikey… Almost told him to come home with me instead.
But someone like him could, and would, never be into a guy like me. The best I can hope for is friends.
I look at my computer and the email I’ve been trying to write for the last fifteen minutes is sitting there with ‘Dear Mr. Ridley,’ and nothing more. I shut my laptop, leaving the email for later. Nothing else is going to get done tonight, and something is urging me to call him. Anthony, not Mr. Ridley. Though, I’d love to see the face on old man Ridley asking him to hang out after work.
I pick up my phone with every intention of calling him to hang out but as soon as I touch the phone, it starts ringing, and I feel like I jump fifty feet in the air. I look at the unknown number a few minutes before hitting the talk button.
“He-hello?” I stutter into the phone as my heart races from the scare of my phone’s ring breaking the silence of my office.
“Is this Ollie?”
Everything in me relaxes only to feel that last shred of annoyance toward Anthony that’s clinging to life, spark. Spark and ignite. I hear the small rumble in my throat before I answer.
“Well, Oliver, actually. You must be Anthony’s friend?”
His robust laughter echoes through the phone and despite the god-awful nickname Anthony insists on calling me, I feel my cheeks begin to lift.
“Yeah, I’m Mikey. Anthony gave me your number last night. I was wondering if you wanted to meet up later tonight?”
I try to think of every excuse to say no, but nothing comes to me.
“Yeah, sure. I can meet you somewhere.”
“Well, um, I’m actually close to your building – I work just down the block – I can meet you there?”
I look around my cluttered office. Mingling with the computer equipment is my life on display. Everything from Star Wars to Supernatural; from Battlestar to Stranger Things hang on the wall or sit on shelves, the floor, and on my desk. Some stuff is signed, some are photos I’ve taken with people, and some are collector’s items that I paid a pretty penny for just to say it was mine. Gunnar tells me it looks like Comic-Con threw up in here and I just thank him. This place is one-hundred percent me. And probably one-hundred percent hot guy repellent.
“Yeah,” I reply, hesitantly. “I’m on the tenth floor. When you get to the reception desk, make a right, and I’m the last office down the hall.”
“See you soon, Oliver.” The soft click tells me he’s ended the call. I look down at my arms and see the small goosebumps. The way his gravelly voice said my name as he hung up gave me a bit of spark. Much more than Sam ever gave me.
I look around my office again and my eyes go wide.
“Crap,” I belt out. I start to straighten the place up, making it look less geek chic and more tech cool. There’s not much I can do, what with a mini-fridge against the wall that looks like a Tardis, and a six-foot-tall Storm Trooper in the corner duking it out with a life-sized replica of Spock wearing my jacket on it.
I hear a knock on the door and look up. My heart starts racing when I see the man standing at my door. Jesus, this guy makes Jason Mamoa look like Steve Buscemi. Besides being freakishly tall, he’s covered in tattoos, has muscles bigger than my head, and the hair. My god, if he takes his man bun down, I’d let him pounce on me like a lion with its shockingly magnificent light-brown mane falling over us both. Anthony needs to update the picture he has on file because it has nothing on the creature I’m gawking at now.
“Ollie?” he asks, leaning on the doorjamb. Arms crossed, one foot over the other, he doesn’t seem to fit the usual standard of men that hang out around here. Or the usual one of men I find myself in the company of. People like him are pretty much found in the minds of men like me, nothing more.
“Hi,” I squeak out, not even bother to correct him on my name. This guy can call me Lucifer for all I care and I’d answer.
When he walks in the door, I look through the windows to my employees and scowl at them. The ones who have stayed late are staring, but none more than Aimee, my assistant. My rubber legs somehow get me to the windows to shut the blinds. Aimee cocks an eyebrow at me with a devious little smirk.
“Can it, Aims,” I whisper to her, walking outside the open door to her desk. She may be one of my closest people, but she’s also a pain my ass who’s been trying to get me a date for years now.
“Can’t help it. The man is God’s gift to humans. Go get em, boss man. Just know that I’m expecting a full report on Monday.” She speaks loud enough for Mikey hear before gathering her bags and heading toward the elevator. The last minute, she turns around, the glint in her eyes more wicked. “If you don’t, I’ll tell Lorraine.”
She walks into the elevator, laughing as the doors shut.
“Who’s Lorraine?”
I turn around, rolling my eyes. “My mother.”
“Oh damn, she knows your mom?”
“She should. It’s her mom too.”