Fruitbat

6. 6

6

Danny

11:59

Who is this guy?

Si hums and shimmies, bouncing on one hip and tapping his toes, while water gushes into the thermos. He glances back at me, with that pretty grin and fluttering eyelashes.

“Good?” he asks, nodding toward the coffee station, waiting to be directed to the next course of action.

He’s so fucking cute.

I wave an arm and bow my head, inviting him to pass. I follow his proud trot, with my eyes glued to his tight little ass, swishing and swaying with each step, it’s hypnotic.

I need him to leave .

He grunts, heaving the container up, onto its perch.

I scoop in to help and the back of my arm grazes his warm naked belly. A blaze consumes me like an arid forest. My face is singed and I can feel it glowing. I jerk away as soon as the thermos is in place, and shuffle back into my clerk cave, to hide the inconvenient swelling in my pants.

“What’s next?” he floats over, drapes himself across the counter—dangling his legs—and beams with excitement.

“That’s it,” I shrug. “We’re done.” You can go now. “I just wait for my shift to end.”

The room blurs and spins for a moment. I close my eyes and sit on the wobbly stool. Holding myself together with a smile.

His eyes are big and his lips bow. “Should we take you to the hospital?”

“No,” I bark out with a short laugh. “I don’t have insurance.” Or the money, to cover a hospital visit . “I’m fine.”

“There’s a clinic a few streets over, isn’t there?” He steps around the counter and places a hand on my shoulder.

I’m on fire again. My bones crackle in flames, sweat condenses on the top of my head and the center of my chest.

“I promise. —I’m good.” I short circuit, rising from the stool, and sweep away from him. I scoop coffee grounds into the brewer, and pour the thermos of water into a reserve, before flicking the machine on.

He’s propped against the counter, watching me with his hip jutted out under that perfect tanned belly, crossing his ankles, and arching a sculpted brow. He chews his bottom lip and stares at me with narrowing eyes .

“Did you go to Hudson Academy?” Si looks puzzled.

“No.” I say with a chuckle. “—I went to public school.”

“Have we met before?” He taps on his lip with the tip of his index finger.

My gaze lingers on the lucky digit, touching that pink pillowy mouth, while his eyes search the ceiling for a clue to the mystery.

The coffee pot gurgles and spits, before settling into a steady drip, stirring me from the trance.

“You’ve probably come in here before.” I’d remember. Now I’m trying to recollect. He is familiar, but I have no idea why. “Do you have a party to get to?”

He pauses studying a pack of butterscotch candies and flicks a confused look at me from the corner of his eye.

“You’re all dressed up, like the walking dead,” I explain. Just minus the gore.

“Oh yeah!” he exclaims and giggles. “I forgot.” He looks down at his tattered clothes, and then into the sliver of a mirror, flanking the side of a sunglasses display. His neck flushes pink, beneath the gray makeup.

I roll my shoulders and grin, as I spigot myself a fresh cup of coffee. The first sip clears my swimmy mind.

“I left the party, actually.” He spins back over the counter, propped up on his elbows.

I perch on the stool, waiting.

“It’s my birthday,” he confesses quietly. His pretty face drops and the gleam in his eye dims. His elbow bumps the energy drink he had clearly forgotten for a minute, and he raises it for a sip.

“Happy birthday.” My curiosity is piqued by his sudden mood shift. A knot twists in my gut and I have an intense urge to hug him, but I won’t.

“Thanks.” His eyes spark again as our gaze meets. “You’re the first person to say that today.”

Now, I really want to hug him. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “When’s your birthday?” he asks and leans toward me, wagging his brows.

His mouth looks delicious. His lips probably taste like candy. I bet he’s sweet all over . I sip the bitter brew in my hands.

His blue-green and gold-flecked eyes are staring through me, waiting for my answer.

“July 5th.” I swallow.

His pupils dilate, “You’re a holiday baby too!” he chimes, then adds, “Almost.”

“Yep,” I chuckle. “—My mother used to tell me the fireworks, on the 4th, were for me.” My throat catches on the sweet memory. I haven’t thought about that in years. Why did I even share that?

“That’s so sweet.” His brows cave over his empathic eyes.

Is he going to cry?

“My parents have never remembered mine, no one does.” He spins away and studies the same package of butterscotch candies. “Halloween is always more important.”

The wisp of curls, clung to the back of his neck, capture my stare .

“Our nanny was the only one who ever remembered.” He props a pair of cheap sunglasses onto his nose and checks his reflection, before placing them back on the display and spinning around. “Is there a bathroom I can use?”

“Sure.” I point to the dark doorway at the back corner, past the mop bucket, “just through there, the bathroom is at the bottom of the stairs.”

“I’ll be right back.” He smiles and trots down the grocery aisle.

Be careful.

Over the shelf I can see his frazzled mop bounce, all the way through the store.

The nanny?