Making Up (Shacking Up 4)

His tongue drags across his pillowy bottom lip and his throat bobs. I lift my gaze and meet his eyes. They’re a strange color. Not brown, not green, but some kind of honey-lemon color, ringed in emerald. Like a cat maybe. His lashes are thick and dark, like a girl’s.

I still can’t seem to get my keys out of my pocket, and my ability to think is compromised by his excessive hotness, so I tuck my shawarma down the front of my shirt, between my boobs, and thrust the drink tray at him. “Can you hold this?”

He blinks a bunch of times, gaze darting to where I’ve stored my shawarma and snapping back up to my face. “Sure.”

When he takes the tray, I notice his nails are nicer than mine, short and neatly filed. Often the men who come in here have those chewed-off nail stumps. Or there’s dirt under them. Not this guy, though.

The ching ching ching of the cash register ringing up items is a sound track in my head as I finally manage to get the keys out of my pocket. I dangle them from a finger. “Found ’em.”

“Great.” He gives me one of those half smiles—it’s pretty, like the rest of his face—and looks around nervously. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to be seen here. Unfortunately, my hands are all sweaty, so I have some trouble getting the key into the lock, prolonging his discomfort.

The air-conditioning hits me as soon as I push the door open, sending a wave of goose bumps rushing over my skin. It’s hotter out than Satan’s ball sack in a pair of too-tight briefs, which is unusual this time of year in Vegas. The contrast between the temperature outside and the excessive air-conditioning is amplified. I have a cardigan behind the cash register, but I only wear it when there aren’t customers in the store.

I take the tray back and motion for him to go ahead. As I follow him inside I remove my lunch from its safe place between my boobs. I’m starving and would like to scarf down my delicious shawarma, but I’m aware it’s phallic-looking, so I’ll have to wait until the suit is gone to avoid inviting potential penis-eating commentary, or staring.

He stands just inside the door, wide eyes darting around. He runs his hand over his chest and down his black tie, then slips it in his pocket. I hope he’s not one of those guys who plays with himself while he browses. It’s happened before. Many times. Eugene is a frequent fondler.

“I’m Cosy.” I tap my nametag. “Let me know if you need help finding anything.”

His eyes swing my way and snag on the tag pinned to my shirt over my left breast, before quickly shifting to my face. Possibly because I’m wearing a purple bra with pink hearts under my white Sex Toy Warehouse tank, and the design is visible. I was in a rush this morning, and it was my only clean bra. Also, this look tends to help with sales. Degrading? Maybe. But I can’t pay rent with pride.

He blinks a few times and rubs the back of his neck. “Okay. Thanks . . . Cosy.”

He says my name the way most people do—slowly and with uncertainty. Like he’s unsure if it’s a porn store joke. It’s not. At least he doesn’t make a pervy comment.

Suit wanders through the store, still kneading the back of his neck. He’s so uncomfortable. It’s actually rather fascinating to watch his face turn red as he rushes past the magazine rack of naked people only to stop in front of the Wall of Peen. The embarrassment blushing used to be a problem when I first started here, but once I learned how to put on my “sales mask,” it got easier. People like to stick weird things in their holes.

Suit produces a piece of paper from his pocket. He scans it, shakes his head, and mutters something under his breath. My stomach growls. I ate a granola bar at nine and it’s after two. The longer this guy takes, the colder my shawarma will get. It’ll still taste good, but it’s best right off the panini press. On the other hand, the longer he stays, the more likely he is to impulse buy.

I decide to offer my assistance, even though he hasn’t asked for it. Also, he’s hot, and his awkwardness is both cute and amusing. I check my appearance in the tiny mirror I keep by the cash register—my lipstick is perfect and my mascara isn’t smeared under my eyes, which happens on occasion when one lives in a place hotter than hell. Mission Commission commence.

I strut over to where he’s standing; it’s something I’ve had to practice so I don’t roll an ankle. “Need some help?”