Tell Me It's Real(32)

Sandy found me sometime in the afternoon. “What the hell are you doing?” he hissed at me, shutting the door behind him. “Are you trying to get fired? I’ve been covering for you all day! I’ve had to tell management you have explosive bowel issues from eating Los Betos!”

“Don’t you speak badly about Los Betos,” I said with a scowl. “And why did you have to say it was explosive? Can’t it just be normal?”

He waved his hand in dismissal. “Makes it sound more believable.”

“Yeah, but people are going to be looking at me weird now.”

“As opposed to when they find out you’re hiding in here with Post-it Notes?”

“We need to order more of those. Almost out.”

“Why are you in here?”

“Bike shorts,” I muttered, my brain shorting again at the memory. “Ass in bike shorts.”

His eyes widened slightly. “What? Who?”

Shut up, mouth, shut up, mouth! “Vince.” Dammit!

Sandy grinned the biggest shit-eating grin in the history of the world. “Really?” he said gleefully. “That good?”

“The ass to end all asses,” I said, unable to stop myself. “The Holy Grail of asses. If we lived in a world with fairies and elves, there would be epic quests to go get that ass. I wanted to bite it.” And that’s not something I can unsay. Yeesh.

Sandy started laughing so hard I thought he was going to pop a few blood vessels. He started to choke on his tongue, so I patted his back carefully a few times because I didn’t think my employer would be appreciative of a dead drag queen in the supply closet. That has a tendency to look bad on a company.

Sandy got himself under control (sort of), wiping the tears from his eyes. “You’re going to cave,” he told me, still giving these wet-sounding chuckles. “You’re so going to cave.”

“I am not!” I crossed my arms, trying to look indignant, but probably looking petrified instead.

“Well, you have”—he looked down at his watch—“twenty-eight more hours before I do it for you. But it looks like you’re making some headway.”

“I don’t want to be friends anymore,” I told him seriously.

He sidled up to me, all slinky-like, bringing out some Helena in the roll of his hips. I tried to move away, but he backed me into the shelves against the wall. I was cornered. “Oh, sugar,” he purred, dropping his chin on my shoulder, watching me with those big eyes, curling his hand into my hair. His breath felt hot on my ear. “You should know by now that you’re stuck with me. For life. There’s no way, come hell or high water, that you’re ever going to escape me. I’ve got my claws in you, and I don’t plan on letting go.” He fisted my hair and gave it a little jerk.

I shivered lightly.

Then, when I knew things couldn’t get any worse, things got worse.

The supply closet door opened and Vince walked in. And, of course, I knew immediately how it looked, me pressed up against the shelves, Sandy all but wrapped around me like he was getting ready to eat me whole. If I walked in on something like that, I’d have assumed the two people were about to play a game of Dick Up The Butt.

You could tell it took him a moment to take in what he was seeing. There was a blank look, then surprise, then recognition. Then came that scowl again, just like the one he’d given me yesterday when he’d asked if Sandy was my boyfriend.

Sandy knew exactly what was happening too, and pressed himself against me just a tiny bit closer, his gaze never leaving Vince. He curled his fingers through my hair again, pulling me toward him, giving me a lingering kiss on my cheek. I felt my face grow hot, but I didn’t say a damn thing for fear of squeaking. I don’t know of anyone who thinks squeaking is cool.

After what felt like a decade, Sandy (or was it Helena?) finally uncoiled himself from me with an evil smirk and sauntered his way slowly past Vince, whose scowl had only become more pronounced. He reached up and dragged his finger along Vince’s shoulder, just a light touch, but noticeable. He moved past him and turned and glanced down at his ass, giving a low whistle.

“You weren’t kidding, Paul,” he said in that throaty Helena voice of his that almost drove me up the fucking wall. “Remember, you have until five tomorrow.” Then he moved out the door, closing it behind him.

I could feel Vince’s gaze on me, but I couldn’t look at him for some reason. “What happens at five tomorrow?” he finally said, his voice neutral.

“The end of the Mayan calendar,” I muttered.

“Isn’t that supposed to be when the world ends?”