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It’s been weeks and weeks since his fingers were tangled in my shirt in that darkened hallway.
When my eyes lock on his mouth as he takes a bite of his sandwich I remember how they felt when they touched mine.
I’m known for flirting incessantly, and there was a time in my life where I sought out company nearly every night of the week. I’ve slowed down in that department, understanding with the help of therapy with Dr. Alverez that seeking the company of someone else was my way of avoiding the difficulty of being alone with my own thoughts.
Maybe I’m hyper focused on Boomer because it’s been so long since I sought something sexual with anyone else.
Boomer does his best to avoid looking at me as conversations swirl around us. I try my best to keep up, despite him distracting me just by being near. Despite the Cerberus members living in such close quarters and seeing each other every day, they seem to be able to carry on many lines of conversation, surprisingly not one about their jobs.
I try to keep my eyes on Ugly as he speaks when Boomer stands to leave. I reason with myself that anyone sitting around a table would look up when someone gets up to leave as I watch him stand, his empty plate in his hand.
“We’re going for dessert,” Alyssa says as she too stands. “Do you want us to grab you something?”
“That’s very sweet of you,” I say, slow to pull my eyes from Boomer. “But no thank you.”
I regret not asking her to grab me a funnel cake or an ice cream cone, because I imagine that they won’t come back now that I haven’t given them a reason to.
I’m distracted by conversation with Ugly and Grinch when I feel a presence beside me.
I jolt a little when I turn my head to find Kincaid standing directly beside me.
There’s just something unsettling, being in the presence of the man. Despite his age, I imagine he could still snap my neck with his hands if he wanted to.
His wide smile as he looks down at me doesn’t seem intimidating, but it still doesn’t stop my heart from pounding in my chest.
Is he here to tell me to leave Boomer the fuck alone? Would I be able to listen if he is?
“It’s… umm… been a while since I’ve seen you,” I say as I stand.
Ugly chuckles from the other side of the table, but I don’t pull my eyes from Kincaid.
“I don’t get out to the bar very often these days,” the club president says.
“He has a hard time seeing at night, with the glaucoma and all,” Ugly says.
Kincaid’s lip twitches.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know you—”
“I don’t have glaucoma,” Kincaid says, his voice full of humor. “Ugly thinks he’s hilarious. What he doesn’t realize is that eventually he’ll get older as well. I wanted to ask a favor of you.”
Here it comes.
“We’re going to have a club event, and I want everyone to enjoy themselves rather than having to worry about cooking, cleaning, and making drinks. That’s where you come in.”
“I’m not a very good cook,” I say, praying the man doesn’t want to hire me as a janitor.
Kincaid laughs. “But you’re a great bartender.”
Ugly laughs as if me being flustered around his boss is hilarious. I make a note to water down his drinks for the next month.
“I’d like you to bartend. It’s a paid job. It’s in two weeks.”
“I can do that,” I tell him, knowing I’m going to have to beg Rochelle once again to cover another shift for me.
Missing an event at the clubhouse, which comes with a chance to see Boomer, isn’t going to happen.
“Perfect, I’ll have Emmalyn email you a contract,” Kincaid says before walking away.
“A contract?” I mutter as I watch him stride across the park.
“He’s a very official guy.”
I spin around, shocked to see Boomer once again sitting beside Ugly. I swear on everything holy that the man is purposely trying to drive me insane with the ice cream cone in his hand.
I look from him to the place I was sitting before Kincaid walked up several times, trying to decide whether I should take a seat. If that man licks that cone any sort of way, I’ll be stuck, the boner I know I’ll have, keeping me locked in place.
I guess I’m a glutton for punishment because I swing my leg back over the picnic table bench and take a seat.
“I wonder what a contract with Cerberus looks like,” I say.
“Normally about eighty pages, and full of rules and regulations you never would’ve even considered,” Ugly says, but he doesn’t sound annoyed with the information.
“I’m sure it has more to do with you keeping your mouth shut in case you hear stuff you shouldn’t while serving drinks at the clubhouse,” Boomer says, rolling his eyes at his teammate.
