Candy Boys

by Raven, Jo

  I mean, presence.

  Despite my righteous anger last time about his comment, I have trouble gathering my wits as he strides confidently into the shop and directs that megawatt grin right at me.

  “You’re the girl who helped me the last time, right?” God, that melted-chocolate voice and that dimple…

  “The nerdy chick,” I say helpfully, pushing my glasses up my nose, and freeze.

  Oops.

  His brows go up. “Right.”

  Disengage. Disengage. Shields down.

  “Uh, I remember you, too.” My brain engages, but I must have chosen the wrong program because my mouth opens, and words spew out that should have stayed in, locked up with a high-security protocol. “You’re the bananas guy. Banana book guy. The guy who…” Crap, shoot me now. “The book. Recipe book.”

  Finally he nods, and my mouth stops flapping. “Yeah. The cookbook for my friend.”

  Cookbook. Right. There was a word for it, a word I know when my brain isn’t busy misfiring due to hot guy proximity alerts going off all over the place.

  The book you got for your hunky friend, Jethro, whom I met at the concert and now can’t stop thinking about. Between the two of you, I’m getting sexual whiplash. Can’t decide who is hotter.

  Shouldn’t have to.

  “Did he enjoy it?” I ask, and he’s staring at me.

  “Huh…” He blinks, pushing dark hair out of his eyes, and dear God, his scruff is a shade darker today, and a golden suntan on his face makes his blue eyes brighter. “Enjoy what?”

  What, indeed. The scene I’ve been brainstorming for the past two days flashes through my synapses like an electric storm, burning out what connections were still live.

  “Enjoy you. Your gift. Enjoy your…” Don’t say it, don’t say it. “Your banana gift. Oh God, I mean your cookbook gift.”

  Why did I say it?

  I would like to be buried under this spot, please, with a sign that says, “Here lies Candy who could never put her mouth to good use. But given the chance, she would have given good head.”

  “Haven’t given it to him yet. Hey, I’ll need your help again,” Joel is saying, and I blink to find him gesturing toward the nearest shelves stacked with books.

  “Anything.” I cough. “You need. Book-wise. Obviously.”

  He gives me a long look under which my cheeks warm, heat, burst into flames and blister. “Yeah. I need a book.”

  Of course he does. Of course that’s why he’s here. In a bookshop.

  I can’t be trusted to speak with handsome guys in public. Or private. I mean, I’ll either stare open-mouthed, like it happened with Jethro at the concert, or talk until every stupid thing anyone on earth has ever come up with has seen the light of day.

  “No bananas this time?” I ask and bite my tongue so hard my eyes water. “Or other fruit? Other recipes, I mean. Other…”

  Shut. Up. Now.

  I wait for him to speak, gritting my teeth.

  “I’m looking for something about… history,” he says.

  Come again? “History,” I make myself repeat. “What period?”

  “Ancient.”

  All right… He’s joking, right? Star athlete, graduated with a business degree, party animal and serial one-night-stander, that’s who he is. Not a history nerd. Is this… is he trying to impress me?

  Haha, good one, Candy.

  “An overview, right.” I tap my fingers on the shelves, unable for the life of me to remember if we have any such book. “Or did you want something specific?”

  “Middle Eastern,” he says firmly.

  “Mesopotamian?” I want to see how far he’ll go. “Assyrian, maybe?We have this one here.”

  “What?”

  When I turn back toward him, the blue of his eyes seems darker, and a light flush colors his cheekbones.

  Right. He has no clue.

  I’m disappointed.

  And once more, what the heck, Candy? Expectations, again? Didn’t we decide they suck? Did you expect real-life Joel to not only be a hunk, but also interesting, interested in topics you like, sensitive and all-around perfect? Hello? Real life?

  A threesome sex act probably sucks, too, in reality. I mean, you’re only just trying to imagine the logistics. In your head. With your imagination. Because it turns you on.

  Doesn’t mean you’ll like it when you’re faced with the real thing.

  I’m also flustered. I mean, here I was, thinking about threesomes, really filthy threesomes, involving the guy standing right in front of me, and his friend. Chances are, they’ve never ever thought about joining forces to please a girl, much less each other.

  Of course not.

  “I’ll try this one,” Joel is saying, pulling from the shelf the book I pointed out. His mouth twists in a lopsided smile. “It sounds good.”

  “Doesn’t it?” I quip, and God, stop it, Candy. “Brilliant. Um.” I smile, giving him my full shark smile.

  I’m still disappointed that he tried to impress me without considering I’d see right through him, and that it’s probably a technique he’s used before and it worked, but hey, he’s still eye-candy.

  “You all right?”

  “Oh yeah.” I wonder what my expression looks like for him to ask. Is my tongue hanging out? Am I making panting noises? “I haven’t had my coffee yet. It’s an addiction. Really bad. Withdrawal symptoms.”

  My throat is clogged up. I hack, trying to clear it.

  “Well, then,” he says and—wow, his biceps again. His thick biceps flexes as he turns the book to read something on the back cover. “I guess I’m done here.”

  Right. Done.

  Good that he took the first book I recommended, and he’s on his way so that I won’t have to drool over him any longer, or get my hopes up.

  “Hey,” he says, “name’s Joel, what’s yours?”

  “What?”

  Cocky grin is back, and so is that dimple in his left cheek.

  Hi, dimple. Missed you.

  “Your name,” he says. “Can’t always call you Nerdy Girl, now, can I?”

  “No. Yeah.” I almost choke on my own tongue. “Candy?”

  “You offering?” He glances down at my hands, then around, as if expecting a basket of candy to materialize.

  “No. I mean, Candy. That’s my name. Candace Riley. Candy for short.”

  He blinks long dark lashes over sky-blue eyes. We thank you, God, for this boy and his awesome genes. Keep up the good work.

  “Candy,” he repeats. “I like it.”

  “You do?”

  He just said so, Candy.

  And he seems to be waiting for something. A reply? A smile? A clue? Me to jump him in the middle of the store?

  I totally would if I thought there was any chance of him letting it happen and not calling the cops.

  Here, baby. Let me wrap my legs around you and ride you into the sunset.

  “Ride me into the sunset?” One dark brow goes up, disappearing under his floppy dark hair, and I stare at him, horrified.

  What in the actual fuck? I said that out loud? I didn’t… Did I? What’s wrong with me? My heart is pounding, fit to burst through my chest, and my face is on fire.

  “The register is over there.” I point with a shaky finger. “If you don’t need anything else.”

  “Candy—”

  “You misheard, by the way. That wasn’t what I said at all. About the riding stuff.”

  “No?” That damn brow is still playing hide-and-seek in his hair.

  “No. And besides, it was an expression. Like, well, knock me over with a feather. Ride me into the sunset.”

  His mouth twitches like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

  You’d better not, you awesome piece of man-candy. Go and leave me in my misery.

  He doesn’t call me out on my bullshit, and that’s wise because I’m a second away from throwing a book at him and bolting.

  My book throwing aim is pretty lethal. I pra
ctice all the time with books that piss me off. My walls have dents from where I throw them repeatedly when I’m in the mood.

  “So,” I say brightly when he doesn’t move from the spot, smirking at me. “If that would be all…”

  “You know, you’re cute when you’re flustered,” he says, and my mouth drops open. “And mad.”

  “What?”

  His baby blues do a slow once-over, his gaze sliding from my face to my boobs to my legs. “With those glasses, and if you wore a mini skirt and heels… You’d totally fit my librarian fantasy.”

  Now the flush is spreading down my body. My breasts are tingling, and in the land down under, there’s a fire burning.

  Joel Kingsley is checking me out. And he has a librarian fantasy. Jeez.

  I open my mouth to say something so stupid and embarrassing I’ll never live it down, when his phone dings, and he whips it out of his pocket to check his messages, his brow furrowing.

  “Oh fuck, sorry,” he mutters, “gotta go.”

  And that’s it, ladies and gentlemen. Playtime is over.

  Clutching the history book against his side and murmuring a thanks, vaguely directed at me, Joel Kingsley turns in the direction of the register.

  He just goes.

  After checking me over and tricking me into thinking he finds me pretty.

  Who? Me, with my nerdy glasses and nerdy leggings and nerdy hobbies.

  Donna’s already at the register. She rings up the book, and he tells her something I can’t hear, too busy pretending to be rearranging the books on the shelf.

  Then he’s gone.

  ***

  Donna’s shrewd gaze follows Joel as he leaves without a backward glance, broad shoulders stiff and back rigid.

  The door chimes echo in the empty shop.

  “Now spill,” she finally says. “What happened? Why did he look like his cat ran away to join a dog kennel?”

  I honestly wish I knew. Wish I knew who called him, what was said to make him react like that.

  “So this is Obi-One, huh?” Donna puffs out a breath. “He sure is hot.”

  “J-One.”

  She is an avid reader of my blog—that was actually how we originally met online, and how I got this job—and has more inside information on the story than most people.

  Though, let’s be real: any girl with a brain who went to college with Joel and has read my blog has to know who the two Js stand for.

  “He is hot,” I agree. No doubt about it.

  That was the whole point of getting him in a threesome with me. Even if it’s an imaginary one.

  “Do you like him?”

  “I’m sorry? I’m practically panting with my tongue hanging out, and you’re asking me—?”

  “That’s sexual attraction, Candy-girl. I mean, do you like him? Is he boyfriend material? Or do you only have the hots for him?”

  “I have the hots.” I lick my lips. “The only thing we have in common is Jethro. A pity Jethro’s not a hobby we can share.”

  “Tsk.”

  “Plus, Joel wants someone else.”

  “But he’s not with her.”

  “You’ve been eavesdropping. Donna, shame on you.”

  “And he’s flirting with you.”

  “Why, because he asked for my name?”

  “Because of that bit with the mini skirt.”

  I roll my eyes. “He’s Joel Kingsley. Serial flirter. He’d flirt with female cats if no human girls were available.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “Hm.” Donna is wearing her I-am-seeing-right-through-you expression. “Say, what about that nice boy you used to date? He was sweet. Liam, right?”

  “You said it. He was sweet.”

  “Too sweet for Candy?”

  “Not a Candy kind of boy.”

  “Not imaginary, you mean.”

  I bite my tongue. What if she’s right? What if I shouldn’t have broken up with Liam, settled for what he offered?

  Quiet, slow sex. Light kisses. Flowers. Chocolates. Romantic movies.

  He really was a sweetheart.

  But I never came with him. Not once. I had to fake my orgasms, and come on, that’s not a good basis for a relationship, is it?

  Probably not his fault, though. I seem to need more. More work, more foreplay, more roughness in order to come.

  More boys. Two boys, ideally, doing me and doing each other.

  Nothing turns me on like the fantasy of two men together. Masturbating. Doing each other as I watch. Big hands on muscular asses, on hard, straining dicks, hard mouths slamming together in savage kisses as they chase their release.

  Not just any men. Two men in particular, two men I have now met and hot damn… I’m throbbing, excited just from the mental image.

  Okay… Time out.

  Chapter Five

  JOEL

  I glance at Jet as we run along the park.

  The tradition of running together started back when we first met. I was on the track team of the school, and he said he wanted to give it a go, so we began running together two, three times a week.

  That’s also the time we started wrestling. I was into all sorts of sports.

  He said he wanted to be stronger. He was kinda scrawny back then, way too thin and gangly, all limbs and joints.

  Not anymore. I glance at him as we round a corner and cross the street to enter the park where we often end up in our evening jogs. He’s filled out, his shoulders wide, his frame muscled, his legs strong. He’s as tall as me now, too, and can take me out at least one time in two on the wrestling mat.

  The thought makes me grin and give him a shove as we jog into the park. He gives me the finger, and I only grin wider. He’s always been a prickly motherfucker, but he seems more confident now than ever before. I got to see that transformation from awkward boy to a damn strong man, and I’m proud of him.

  If only he told me what happened to him before I met him…

  “You okay now?” I ask for the third time, and Jethro sends me a pissed-off look.

  “I’m fucking fine.”

  “Need help?”

  “Fuck you.”

  I clench my jaw, forcing my gaze away from Jethro who’s limping beside me down the street toward my car, away from the bruise darkening his jaw and his split lip.

  “Didn’t know you changed jobs,” I mutter. From a bad and seedy bar, to an even worse and seedier one.

  “You don’t know everything about me.”

  “Don’t make me punch you, you assface. You want me to pick up where those guys left off?”

  He stops, fists clenching, eyes flashing. “Try it.”

  “For fuck’s sake.” I grab his arm and haul him toward my car, scowling at everyone unlucky enough to step in our path. “Tell me you started the fight. Tell me you wanted the pain.”

  “And if I said yes?”

  I let go of him to unlock the car. “I’d call bullshit.” He may be brash and moody, but Jet’s not an asshole. “What happened to the previous job?”

  “Got fired, what did you think?”

  “Why?”

  A silent beat. “Freaked out.”

  Shit. It’s been a while since he had an episode. “Wanna talk about it?”

  “No, I don’t wanna fucking talk about it.”

  Heh, right. That’s the Jet I know. Farting rainbows.

  The ride home is too damn quiet. I should have punched him for not telling me he was fired. Damn, that bar where he’s working now seems far worse than the previous one. For one, it appeared full of junkies and psychopaths. And for another, he was beaten up.

  “You should quit.” I’m driving on autopilot, stealing glances at his still profile. “Find something else.”

  “This is what I know.”

  Not sure whether he means the job or the violence, and it makes me wanna slam my head against the wheel.

  “You worked other jobs. You can change again.”

 
“Not everyone has your confidence, Joel Dickinson.”

  “Shut up.” I elbow him and he lets out a startled huff. “Jethro Jackasson.”

  He snorts. “Jackasson?”

  “You don’t like it? How about Fuckwittison?”

  “Fuck off.”

  But he’s grinning, and it eases the tension in my chest, although his split lip is bleeding again. He elbows me back and wipes at the blood on his chin with the back of his hand.

  “You’re not really a dick,” he says. “Not all the time.”

  “And you’re not always a motherfucking pain in the ass. Like, not every single minute of every hour.”

  “I’m so fucking touched.”

  “You should be. I’m being magnanimous.” I turn into our street. “Wanna work on the comic tonight? I got some cool ideas from this Viking history book I’ve been reading. Man, you should see the descriptions of the armor!”

  But he shakes his head. It’s not often he’s not in the mood to work on the comic we’re putting together. He loves that project, and he’s an amazing artist.

  Then again, he looks really tired.

  Change of track.

  “How about we chill out, watch a movie tonight?” I glance at him.

  “Sure.” He chews on his lip, and I wince when fresh blood wells. “Will you help me out with something?”

  I nod.

  Dammit, I’d do anything for this guy, doesn’t he know that? Him and my sis, they’re the two people I’d fight anyone for. I have no secrets from him.

  Well, apart from one. Could I tell him, ask him for advice, too? Would it be weird? Could I tell him I’m dying to ask this girl, Candy, out, but I’m not sure it will work out?

  Can I confess to him that I’m hesitating to ask a pretty girl out because nothing seems to get me off anymore?

  ***

  Jet is quiet as we enter the apartment. He doesn’t vanish in his room like usual, but hangs around and even allows me to clean up the blood from his face.

  Does he realize it eases my worry for him when he lets me take care of him once in a while? Is it weird that I want to? Is it not manly enough?

  Fuck that. I don’t fucking care. He needs this, and so do I.

  He says nothing when I march to the kitchen and whip up some pancakes with maple syrup and fry some crisp bacon.

  Jet’s favorite food, besides banana dishes. Need to buy some. Maybe that will lift his black mood.