Page 1 of Toy Shop

CHAPTER ONE

Nola

Fucking Roger and his fucking substandard products.

The pending order I printed out an hour ago is laid in front of me. The logo of the sex shop where I work, Toy Shop, is printed in neon pink at the top.

Below is the customer’s unfortunate list of items.

Another sucker who purchased overpriced and possibly poisonous products from us. A rabbit vibrator, a cheap knock-off vibrator listed as the original Rocket Pocket, and a butt plug. The three—among another quarter of our shop’s supply that Roger profits off, significantly—are branded as high-end items in our little high-end shop.

In fact, the whole shop is branded as such, and Roger, my boss and shop owner, makes sure we don’t have to say a word to get the message through. The walls are crisp white, shelves sparkle with how clean they are. Don’t get me started about the too-rich-for-anyone’s-taste prices and the flashy website.

Last but not least, though—the A-list influencers. Roger gifts them high-quality toys, and in turn, they visit Seattle and upload selfies at Toy Shop. They’re practically screaming to the public: This is an honorable sex shop, run by honorable people and frequented by the elite. You should trust us.

They really shouldn’t.

Because, really, some of the toys are a health risk, and to top it off, Roger isn’t the man to file insurance claims or own up to his mistakes.

He lies, accusing the customers they used the products wrong, suggesting their hygiene sucks. Most of our clients are either wealthy, famous, or both who prefer their private business not to be outed.

So, they drop their accusations, scurrying along to treat themselves privately. And while it doesn’t happen often, I’d say maybe five to ten percent of the orders we sell get that sort of reaction.

Too bad I need the money, otherwise I wouldn’t spend another minute under his employment. He pays more than most non-sex-industry retailers, so mostly I turn a blind eye to these things, like when they choose one toxic product out of a larger order.

I send it over or ring in the order for the walk-in customer, crossing my toes they don’t have sensitive skin or allergies.

Here though, with this order, it’s not one faulty product. It’s not even two out of three. Every single thing this dude ordered isn’t safe. From a place he trusts.

He chose products manufactured from chemicals I’d avoid like it’s the plague. God forbid anyone suggests putting them inside my vagina. Or my ass. Na-ah. No.

Not that my lady parts or any parts of me have experimented with any of those, safe or not, but that’s totally beside the point. I’m not the one my heart hurts for right now.

It’s for the client.

“Gross.” My throat gags uncontrollably; my body shudders.

So many things could go wrong if he uses these three exclusively for a long period of time. Rashes, tissue damage, lasting effects on the nervous system.

If this guy’s wife or girlfriend is pregnant… I shudder again.

Hell would have to freeze over before I package these and send them to him. He’ll use it on himself, or his partner, and… Gah, shivers ransack my body the third time and I just can’t. Nope. Not happening.

What I could do, what I actually do in these irregular cases when I can’t with good conscience send the order, is call him. To do a little trickery on Roger. I lower my voice to not be overheard by the CCTV mics, spilling out a white lie about running out of the item they ordered.

Eventually, I suggest a similar product for the same price, regardless of what’s written on the price tag, minus phthalates or other chemicals. My boss has never caught me.

Should it happen one day, I’ll apologize. Whoops, sorry, honest mistake while packing the order. Everyone’s allowed to one, especially me. I’ve been an exemplary employee during my four years of working my way through college here, so it’s pretty safe to say he’ll believe me.

Okay, here we go. The line rings.

I hold, sneaking glances at the CCTV cameras. I try to act casual while I run a hand through my long, voluminous, wavy hair to cover my lips.

Can’t be too careful.

“Hello?”

The voice that answers is thick like molasses. The kind that’s unintentionally sensual and winds your core tight, an electric wire ready to either snap or electrocute you. Intoxicating in a Charlie Hunnam kind of way.

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