Page 24 of Employing Patience

His lips twitch, and those loose strands of hair that always fall around his face taunt me to reach out and touch them. “Am I receiving one of the great Art de Almeida’s come-ons?”

“If you were, straight boy, you’d be on your knees by now.”

Joey unconsciously licks his lips, and damn does that mess with my head. There are moments like these that make me wonder. That drive me goddamn crazy with want. They’re the moments that force me out at night for a quick fix, but then I find myself back in the exact same place.

There is no cure for Joey Manning.

And I fucking hate him for it.

7

JOEY

Another day, another restless night’s sleep, sexually frustrated over my boss, followed by an early morning argument with Hannah. What the hell she was doing up at four thirty, I’ll never know, but hopefully, she followed my big-brotherly advice to “get your entitled ass back to bed.”

I’m killing it at this pseudo-parenting thing.

Despite the lack of sleep, I’m enjoying these early mornings at Freddy’s. It’s still dark for half of my shift, and people don’t usually start to come in until eight anyway, when people are heading to work and school drop-offs. I help out where I can, even if that means being drawn into long conversations with Freddy so the customers don’t get stuck talking to him.

Sometimes that means my shifts run over, but I don’t mind.

Until today.

The flash of a familiar face on the other side of the front door has me dropping to my knees behind the counter. Freddy blinks down at me, thick glasses magnifying his eyes and wrinkles magnifying his frown.

“Hip give out?” he asks. “Happens to me on occasion.”

“No, just—” I hold my finger to my lips, and Freddy taps the side of his nose. He clearly assumes he’s onto something, but I can guaran-fucking-tee it’s not what he thinks it is.

Freddy wishes Art good morning as he steps into the store.

“Oh! And if you smell something, it was only me. No one else. Side effect of getting old, don’t you know?”

I face-palm.

Art chuckles. “Good to know.”

There’s a high-pitched squeal, and Art mutters something I miss.

“I promised a treat for school,” he says in a long-suffering voice. “Where can I find something that will win me points with the kids but won’t make my sister want to kill me?”

Freddy starts on a rant about chocolate and candy and his day …

I pinch his leg and whisper, “Aisle two.”

“Ouch! Oh! Umm, aisle two. That one.”

Art thanks him, and I let out a breath as I hear footsteps walk further into the shop. The problem now is getting out of here before Art pays because he’s tall enough he’ll be able to see over the counter to where I’m crouching like an idiot.

I’m not even sure what prompted me to hit the deck like I was on storm-ravaged seas, but seeing Art misplaces my brain cells, and while they’re rattling around out of place, I do the dumbest shit.

Which is why, after a glance around the counter to make sure the coast is clear, I crawl as fast as I can into the closest aisle.

Freddy’s wheezing laughter follows me the whole way.

Being on hands and knees in aisle four does not fill me with confidence for the rest of my day, so, with as much dignity as I have left—by my calculations, 0.1 percent—I climb to my feet. Only I get halfway and glimpse what has to be the single cutest sight I’ve ever seen through a small gap in the shelves.

A teeny, tiny mini Art.

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