Page 5 of Phantom Faceoff
And if I have to put up with Zander freaking Hale, the least they can do is give me some peace of mind.
“Yes, Daddy,” he says softly, and I do my best not to let the discomfort show on my face.
I might be into some shit—theoretically—but other than the word casually being thrown out in the middle of banging, “Daddy” hasn’t been part of it.
I swallow the trepidation and force my tongue to function.
“No adventures with the guy,” I say. “Public places on campus. His dorm or ours—fuck preferably ours.”
At least then I don’t have to worry about who else might show up. Given Hale’s track record I wouldn’t put it past him to talk Julian into an all out orgy with his puck buddies.
“Text me when you’re out with him. Every hour. If I have to call you to check in, I might murder him.”
A peek of Julian’s smile is enough to appease the pit in my stomach filled with worst case scenarios.
“Don’t have too much fun,” he says. “And keep you in the loop. What if I’m mid-blowjob or taking it up the ass?”
There’s a playful note to his words, and I lightly tug his braid, eliciting an honest-to-god giggle.
“Smart ass,” I grumble and hop off the bed. “And yeah. I’ll be at the Den, so if he gives you any trouble …”
Another blinding smile. “I’ll be safe, Daddy.”
There’s a distinct flutter in my chest, one that makes my face feel warm.
This is going to be a long day.
“Malachi. Do you want to stock the new shipment while I man the front?”
There’s some early 2000s soft rock song playing through the shop, with only the occasional soft scuff of shoes across the carpeted floor. A little rustle of vinyl sleeves as deft fingers flip through haphazardly.
One of my coworkers—some hockey jock because I can’t seem to get away from them—leans against the counter while his eyes take a sweep around the room. His fingers tap out the rhythm of the song. Slow. Meticulous.
When I grunt my approval, he holds out a pair of headphones. Thick. Black. Corded. Something lent to us by the owner to make the busy work more bearable.
We don’t banter or chat more than absolutely necessary. I take the headphones and loop them around my neck, popping the cord into my phone jack. There are dozens of playlists on my Spotify, ranging from moods to soundtracks, collections from artists or songs I haven’t listened to in God knows how long.
I’m feeling restless today. There’s a tired ache in my eyes that burns, an unsettled feeling eating away at my insides.
Melancholy Autumn Vibessounds fitting.
Cue the entireEvermoreandRedalbums, starting with’tis the damn season.
An hour passes organizing CDs and vinyls, special requests stocked neatly under the front counter with names and numbers sticky noted to the covers. It’s quick work, and when I’m down to the final handful, I slow down.
Autopilot makes my brain function in overdrive, and with the lack of messages on my phone giving me heart palpitations, I need to drag my wandering mind back to Earth.
Julian thinks I’m a sap for listening to Taylor Swift as religiously as I do. Says it’s an ‘odd juxtaposition’ to the ‘rock band groupie’ vibe I give off. Because the way I choose to present myself is dictated by my taste in music.
In reality, I’ll listen to anything if I connect to it. I’m not some one-dimensional story book character. I have layers.
Like an onion, but they’re there.
The slow piano accompaniment ofAll Too Welldampens momentarily for a quick chirping to play through the headphones, and somehow I’m both relieved and filled with a new sense of anxiety.
Jules
Going for a walk with Z. Promise to be on best behavior.
