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“Secretly, of course,” he adds with a smirk.
“So secret,” I whisper before sealing our pact with another kiss.
6—OKLAHOMA CITY (MERCH STAND)
VAL
“We’re together.” What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
That tiny phrase has been blaring through my head in a constant loop since what happened on Larinda’s bus a few hours ago. She followed it up with a whole list of ground rules for our secret relationship, mostly related to the “no one has to know” aspect of the scenario. Apparently, “no one has to know” means “never on pain of death and every good thing in this universe can someone know.” What I do know? Within minutes I went from a lonely single guy with a hopeless crush to the forbidden lover of an A-list celebrity.
Operative word being forbidden.
The obstacles standing in our way are colossal and insurmountable. We’d lose everything if the label found out she broke their number one rule, and I wish I could say that fact helped temper our attraction. But it appears adding the word “forbidden” to something makes it instantly irresistible. Every second we’re apart feels excruciating. She’s all I think about. Is she also counting the seconds until we can sneak away and do whatever it is “forbidden” partners do? I still taste her, feel her as I lounge beside Chad at the merch table an hour before doors open. (How I got on merch duty with Chad is a whole other story.)
“What do you think?” he asks, stepping back to admire his work with a victorious grin.
I scan the piles of assorted fan apparel. Other than the consistent lack of order, I can’t make out a single pattern explaining his thought process.
“Um, well, typically, the same items are grouped together.”
“Yes, which is why I grouped them by possible purchase combinations.”
Hmm.
“I meant, by type. So all the blue tees would go in one pile, the gray hoodies in another, the hats in another, et cetera.”
“And perhaps it’s time to rewrite the rules on categoric merchandise sales, don’t you think? Innovative Transmutation, as they say. For example, if someone wants a bumper sticker and a hat, right here. Large hoodie and signed poster? Here. Extra-large hoodie and signed poster? Here.”
He’s not going to list every one of the twelve billion combinations, is he?
“Besides, I needed room for the Sandeke Telecom proprietary Mer-Nut goodies.”
I don’t even try to interpret that sentence.
“Okay.”
He nods, pleased at my agreement and shoves a giant box toward me. “Do you mind?”
“Mind what?”
“I’ll handle the concert-y stuff if you’d be kind enough to take care of the Mer-Nuts? Good care, if you know what I mean.”
When he winks, I know I don’t, but he returns to his incomprehensible sorting of “concert-y” stuff, so I yank open the box. I’m no less confused when I see what’s inside.
The first item is a packaged—I don’t know, actually. It’s plastic and has a shiny tail fin. It’s also wearing a monocle. The text on the packaging reads, “Lord Brighthut.” Also, “Collect all six!”
There are six of these things? Why is there even one?
“Neat, huh?” Chad says with a knowing grin.
“I guess?” The definition of that word is broad enough.
“Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure,” I mumble.
I pull a handful of the weird plastic fish out of the box.
