Page 33 of Cream & Sugar
“Thanks Anna. You too!”
Feeling a bit better, I grab my jacket from the back and head out into the cold.
I don’t feel like going home yet. My gut tells me Rory wants some space. He hasn’t messaged, and I don’t want to risk another row with him. Instead, I catch my usual bus but get off a few stops early and make my way to Sabre.
Andre, the assistant manager, is working the bar. He’s a big-bellied, hairy bear of a man who always seems to have a stockpile of weed handy to sell to patrons out the back. Today he’s wearing a leather waistcoat, pink booty shorts, and not much else.
“Well hello, Freddie,” he says as I take a seat. “A bit early for you, isn’t it?”
“Just finished work,” Isay, proudly.
“Work? Gosh. All grown up now, is he?”
I shrug. “Desperate times.”
Andre places both hands on the bar and looks me up and down. “Oh honey. You know I’d have offered you a job here, if you hadn’t slept with all the patrons.”
I fold my arms in defiance. “Notallof them.”
“Well, no. Not the women.”
Cheeky bastard. I pull a fiver out of my pocket and slap it on the bar. “Rum and coke?”
“You got it, honey.”
Andre gets to work making my drink. Across the bar, a man catches my eye. He’s older, a silver fox with pretty blue eyes and a trim mustache. Ordinarily I’d be straight in there, but I’m not feeling it tonight. I’m shattered, and all I can think about is what Anna told me: how Shaun’s had a hard time of it lately. How he needs support. If he’s already feeling overwhelmed, me trying it on with him definitely wouldn’t have helped. I had no way of knowing, but still, I feel bad.
I drink my rum and coke, wait a bit, then order another.
By the time the club starts filling up, my head is swimming. The drink seems to be hitting harder than usual. Then I remember I haven’t eaten since breakfast. With my last fiver, I order a bowl of spicy fries and scarf them down. The silver fox is watching me from a table in the corner. I know the look. Odds are he’ll ask me to join him and his friends for a drink soon. Tempting, but no.
“See you later, Andre,” I say, hopping down from my bar stool.
“Not sticking around?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
“Nah. Early start. I’ll catch you later.”
On the walk home, I draft a message to Shaun. Then redraft it. Again and again. By the time I turn onto Cherry Street, I have what I think is a decent apology primed and ready to go. As I creep my way inside the house in case Rory is asleep, I give it one last scan:
Hey Shaun. Thanks again for the ride home the other day! You’re probably asleep but I just wanted to apologise properly for my behaviour. I was out of line and you were right to call me out on it. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable and I hope you can forgive me. Looking forward to our next shift together. Freddie.
Satisfied, I hit send.
12
Shaun
Shit,shit,shiiiit!
I toss my phone onto the duvet and get back to the problem at hand: the full-mast erection tenting my boxers to the point of ripping them open.
Waking up like this—on the verge of creaming my bedsheets—used to happen a lot when I was younger, usually following a vivid teenage dream about Scarlett Johansson. Except now I’m thirty-three and the star of my fantasy this time was none other than Freddie-bloody-Young!
I stare at my bulging underwear in dismay.
Comeon. Go away!
I’ve been sitting here for the last few minutes, waiting for it to go down on its own, but my dick apparently has other ideas. It feels like if I so much as touch it, I’ll completely paint the inside of my boxers, and that absolutely cannot happen. Because it’ll mean the first orgasm I’ve had in weeks will have been caused by Freddie. Myemployee, Freddie. The one I’m supposed to be ignoring. The one I told in no uncertain terms to back off.
