by Wright,Lulu
My Hamilton’s duties—already a physical challenge on a regular day—can be brutal when hungover. And this morning I have been instructed by the Archduke of Awesome via a pub waitress to be there bright and early.
There’s a part of me that wonders if he sent the barmaid over so I could see her gush over him. Does he want me to be jealous? Was he making the same move I was when I felt up the bicep of that Dutch tourist? Hmmmm …
When I scroll through my email, I find another message from him.
Miss Brook,
In the future, please consult me before setting sale signs on the selling floor. You used signs with the large font for the Fab Fall Event. This is incorrect. Hamilton is in process of upgrading all sale signs to the classier, smaller print.
Going forward, you need to get approval from me before setting any sale signs. Your cooperation is appreciated.
Jack Stewart.
Fuck that guy. He could have dropped a compliment about our stellar sales yesterday somewhere in that dreck, but no.
What the hell is wrong with him? Last night he was a hot guy sucking on grapes and buying everyone drinks. Now he’s back in control freak mode nitpicking about font size on a sale sign.
Is he this bad with everyone, or just a particularly huge control freak with me?
Revenge time. After a quick shower, I sort through my endless selection of black yoga pants and find my tightest pair. They’re practically see-through if you wear them with a big enough booty—and I can definitely fill these suckers out. Especially if I rock them commando.
Jack Hammer, you aren’t going to know what hit you.
I put the naughty lycra bottoms on and bend over in the long mirror on the back of my bedroom door. Yep. 110% inappropriate. Only slightly veiled by thin lycra, I see everything my mama gave me. And so will Jack.
I need to add a safety layer to today’s wardrobe though. I am def not going to walk around Center City, the store or even my own apartment with my booty busting out of my drawers. Private show. Hammer only.
I dig into my closet and find my long black tee shirt which comes down to mid-thigh. It covers my behind, but the vee of the neckline is deep. I gather my tits in my black lace demi cup, put the tee on and zip a tight track top over it. I’m prepared to alternately tease the fuck out of Jack or attend a church sponsored event with elderly folk. Game on.
I arrive at Hamilton’s early with a cup of coffee in hand and larceny in my heart.
As I enter the selling floor, my ears are assaulted by an off-key rendition of one of my fave tunes, David Matthews “Crush.” Who the hell is that kind of chipper at 8am? Squinting my eyes around the dark floor, I zero in on the singer.
Oh, my stars.
It’s Jack.
Straight-laced Jack is warbling a frat boy mating song at the top of his lungs as he pulls down sale signs from yesterday in the Sock Department. The boy can’t hit a note to save his life, but what Jack lacks in talent, he makes up for in passion. With his eyes shut tight and his fists punching the air, he belts out the lyrics like his life depends on it. Like last night’s smile, it’s surprising to see this other side to him. Maybe he’s not just an asshole hell-bent on torturing me every waking minute. Maybe there’s more to Jack Stewart than meets the eye.
He doesn’t see me yet. And his dance right now is so adorably, unabashedly geeky that I can’t remember why I was angry. Without thinking about it, I join in the song, right at the chorus, singing every bit as loudly as he is.
He stops mid-line and drops his hands, his face turning beet red.
“Good morning, Jack,” I say. “Don’t give up your day job.”
He smooths back his hair, though his face remains red as a stop sign. “Thank you for coming early,” he says as he adjusts his tie, which loosened what with all the dancing and singing.
Also, what the hell. Did he just say thank you to me?
Who is this man and what has he done with Jack Stewart?
“That’s one of my favorite songs.” I hand him a pair of socks.
Still blushing, he accepts the socks. “I know I can’t sing. But you know, sometimes you just want to belt at the top of your lungs, and you don’t care whose eardrums you’re about to break.” He tosses the socks toward the nearest fixture, and utterly misses his target. They sail across the floor, then sit lonely and abandoned in the next aisle over. “Whoops. Sorry.”
Thank you and sorry all in one day. Who’d have thought it possible?
Jack stands so close to me I can smell the light trace of his aftershave. “No worries,” I tell him, and that’s not like me, either. Normally I’d berate him for giving me extra work—he’s making no move to pick up those socks, so I’ll have to later. But I’m too distracted to worry right now. Our eyes lock and, oh god … Is he leaning toward me or am I leaning toward him?
Kiss me.
Kiss me.
Kiss me.
He is definitely leaning. I can smell way more than aftershave now; I catch a whiff of his breath, minty morning fresh. His eyes graze mine, then dip down to take in my lips.
Do it, I will him.
He still doesn’t move, and I’m about to give up, close the gap between us myself and press my lips against his sexy mouth, when those lips of his curve up in a smile.
“I’ll go get your flat,” he says almost in a whisper. He’s still standing so close that his breath tickles my cheek, and I swear the hair on the back of my neck rises. I rise up on my tiptoes, closer to him, and I swear that grin of his widens.
Then he turns away from me, and my heart seizes in my chest. I watch him jog away toward the freight elevators, my head spinning.
Why is he acting so different suddenly? Smiling, singing, joking. Thanking, apologizing.
Leaning toward me, his eyes locked on my lips …
I glance around to see who else is on the floor this early. But the store stands empty at this hour. Not even housekeeping have arrived yet. Jack and I are alone. And I’m still dressed to kill, although my lust for revenge has all but vanished, with Jack acting so uncharacteristically unguarded.
A different kind of lust has overtaken me. I can’t stop picturing us, alone in the store together. All the places he could take me. He could press me up against the wall of the dressing room again, or bend me over his desk and use those belts on me another time.
Hell, I’d jump him right here in the middle of the sales floor if he offered.
This must be what going mad feels like. But fuck it. The libido wants what the libido wants. And that’s all I want right now. A quick fix. One good fuck to get this insane lust out of my system.
I unzip my track jacket to just below the middle of my torso, making my boobs spill out of my pre-planned sexy top. I hike up my long tee to above my ass just as Jack returns with the flat, its wheel squeaking as he pushes it over. Being almost naked turns me on a little. Not to mention the sight of Jack’s sexy, muscular body. Warmth surges through my veins, and pools between my legs.
He goes back to his sock markdowns which is about ten feet away from my sale set up. I gather my courage and position my back to him and start small, easing into the tease by pulling the top tray from the top of the tower first. As I work my way down the towers, I keep my legs straight and spread them to bend over to get to the bottom trays. With each tray I collect, I feel a little more turned on. His eyes practically burn where they graze my body, he’s staring so intently, and that only makes me hotter. When I pull the bottom tray off the tower, I peek between my legs to see upside-down Jack approaching me, clipboard in hand, grinning like a school boy.
He rests his foot on my flat and rocks it back and forth. I watch the muscles of his thigh flex against his black pants. “Will you be able to get this done in time?”
“Are you going to help?” I stand up straight and steady the flat with my own foot, turning at just the right angle to aim my cleavage at his wandering eyes.
Sure enough, his gaze darts to my chest immedia
tely, and that cocky grin of his falters. I can read the heat in his eyes. He wants me every bit as badly as I want him. Right here, right now.
His eyes lift back up to my face and his jaw pops like he’s chewing rocks. “Wish I could,” he mumbles. “Holiday hire interviews to do in HR.”
I lift an eyebrow and shift my stance, just enough to swing my hips. Yep. That catches his eye again. “Likely excuse,” I tell him, injecting my voice with the usual sting. I’m used to bantering with him, not all this nicey-nice talk. It’s weirding me out.
Jack leans past me to reach for the mannequin beside us. The heat from his body washes over my skin. We’re only inches apart. I can hardly remember to breathe properly.
Then he yanks the plastic bag I stuffed into the mannequin’s underwear out. “This is completely inappropriate. We can’t have porn star mannequins on the selling floor. You really need to …”
But as hard as he tries to keep up the stern boss act, his dimples give him away. He’s suppressing a smile so damn hard right now.
Asshole. I knew he was taunting me on purpose. I snatch the plastic bag from his hand. “I need to do what? Keep it clean around here?” I step closer to him, challenging. Our chests are almost touching.
He closes the distance between us, so his hard pecs press against my breasts. My nipples are so hard they ache where they rub against my tight push-up bra. “Do you think you can do that, Miss Brook?” His voice is filled with doubt, and he lets his gaze drift up and down my body again for good measure.
“Depends who I’m cleaning up for,” I respond with a smirk. “Sometimes, the customer prefers it dirty, you know?” I lower my voice to a purr at that, and lift one hand, letting my fingers lightly graze his arm as I drop the plastic bag on the mannequin stand.
That seems to push him over the edge. His hands find my hips, wrap around them. Without warning, he pulls me toward him, crushing our hips together. These yoga pants are so thin, I can feel every inch of his hard cock through his work pants. His hard length digs into my stomach, and my breath catches in my throat. Well, now we know his pants wouldn’t need any stuffing.
“You’re a complete tease, do you know that Miss Brook?”
“And you’re a hardass,” I counter, slipping my hand down to grip his ass tightly, for emphasis. Mm. Hard as a rock. “What of it?”
His hands follow my lead, and drip down my waist, until his long, strong fingers grip my ass cheeks. He lifts me off my feet, he pulls me toward him so hard, and on instinct, I raise one leg to wrap it around his waist.
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.
“You do this on purpose, don’t you.” He buries his face in my neck, his lips, unlike his tight hands, feather-light where they brush my neck. “You wore this outfit just to drive me insane.”
I grin and rock my hips against his slightly. “Are you complaining?”
Dammit, why won’t he take me.
But suddenly, with almost superhuman resistance—I can see from the pained expression on his face what it costs him—Jack releases me and steps away. I stumble and catch myself on the nearest fixture, thrown off-balance by his sudden retreat.
“Put some clothes on before we open,” he says, and I can already see the wall closing over him again, the one he locks himself behind every day.
“What the hell, Jack.” I put my hands on my hips, narrow my eyes. He can’t do that—can’t get me all hot and bothered and fucking desperate, then just walk away again.
But my temper melts away as quickly as it rose, when he meets my gaze. He looks … sad, all of a sudden. Like he’s in pain. “Please, Miss Brook.”
Thank you, sorry and please all in one day. The man is going for a record.
In response, I zip my jacket higher, and yank my T-shirt back down over my ass.
He closes his eyes for a second, his lips a tight, thin line of regret. Then, without another word, he turns and walks away.
By noon I have taken the towers and mannequins off the floor and restocked my department through the fog of my unfulfilled horniness. Jack hasn’t visited the floor since he abandoned me here this morning, and yet I haven’t been able to stop hallucinating him at every turn. Not to mention, it’s been difficult to keep my head on the stocking, fixing and selling with constant memories of his hot hands on my body replaying in it.
What happened earlier? Why did he run, just when things were finally coming to a head?
Every time I think I have Jack Stewart figured out, he throws me for a loop again.
Luckily, distraction arrives just in the nick of time. Ricky texts to let me know he got new Gala dresses in, and I take my lunch break up on his selling floor, where Ricky looks like the prince of formalwear. Always a trendy dresser, he is especially dapper today in his black suit, appropriately gayed up with cropped pants, a purple print pocket square and hipster glasses. There is no holding back Ricky’s astute fashion sense. He’s one of those guys who could glam up a burlap sack.
“Hey, girl,” he calls as he spots me approaching his register. Just like Jack, I feel his eyes run across my body. Unlike Jack, he’s not turned on.
Well, maybe a little.
“The girls look especially plucky today. Got a new bra from Jen?”
“Just bouyant boobies.”
His eyes travel farther down my body. “And where did you find those pants, Yoga for the Exhibitionists?”
I huff. “They’re comfortable.”
Ricky lets out a giant hmmpf in response. “Honey, beauty is pain. Didn’t your mama teach you that?”
My mother was an EMT who gardened in her spare time and helped my dad build an extension to our house. When she wasn’t in her work uniform, she was in sneakers, jeans and one of dad’s old tee shirts. “Can’t say she did, no.”
Ricky clicks his tongue at me and gives me one of those fierce gay stare downs.
I remind myself I love him and I would regret kicking him in the balls.
“Come with me, Lily. No way you’re gonna wear no gym lycra to the ball. We are breaking you out of this fashion rut.”
I follow him to his stockroom. And it is just his stockroom. No stock associates, managers or other sales associates are allowed in Ricky’s Dress Dungeon.
“I feel honored,” I say at the door. It’s not just anybody he’d allow in here, even for a buying session.
“Don’t touch nothing.” I can’t tell if he’s joking because his expression is dead serious.
He opens the door and I gape. The boy makes Jack Stewart look sloppy. The beautiful dresses are arranged by designer, fabric, color and size in an almost OCD dedication.
He stands in silence next a covered rolling rack. Once I’ve stared at him for several awkward seconds, he draws off the tarp with a ‘ta da’ flourish.
“Holy shit,” I say.
Ricky has cobbled together an impressive private dress collection from the design house he works with. These dresses are New York showroom samples, so not only will the dress I pick be haute couture, it will be my second favorite four-letter f word: FREE. I reach out to touch one of the satiny red ones, but Ricky grabs my wrist. “No touchy, girly. I need to keep this shit pristine, and you look like you just went five rounds with a dust bunny.”
My fingertips are covered in stockroom gray grime. I pull back my hand and wipe it on my pant leg. “Sorry. Breakdown this morning.”
Ricky smirks and shifts through the rolling rack dress by dress to show me. Bold colors, Soft colors. A couple of crazy prints. Simple silks and satin. Beads and jewels and ribbons. And every color in the Crayola big pack except one. “Ain’t no black in here, ya hear? We are breaking that Bikram bullshit fashion rut you have been in since I’ve known you.”
A lump forms in my throat. I knew Ricky loved me, but until now I didn’t know how much. He’s actually willing to lend me one of his prized collection, one of his babies. One of his so precious dresses I can’t even touch them with my grimy stockroom hands, yet he trusts me with one out for the
night of the ball. I think I might cry. “Thank you so much, Ricky.”
He hugs me tight and kisses the top of my forehead. “You gonna be the prettiest girl at that shindig. You can trust me on that.”
As I put my head on his shoulder, he folds me in his warm arms and I gaze upon those gorgeous evening gowns with a sigh. “I’m not wearing underwear. So I can’t try them on today.”
Ricky breaks the hug and laughs at me for a full minute. “Of course you aren’t, you naughty little freak.”
“I try.”
“And don’t worry, you aren’t trying anything on today.” He recovers the rack with the cotton tarp. “I have more coming in. More samples from the buying office and a couple one-of-a-kinds from some local showrooms.”
“More?” I can’t believe it. It’s too much, of course, but this is Ricky. “Too Much” is his middle name.
“Hell yeah, more. We need to find the perfect one. Ricky’s gonna make you the Queen of that ball.”
11
Lily
It’s my day off, and I can’t get freaking Jack Stewart out of my head. I keep replaying his hands on my body, his eyes on my ass, his sexy little smirk, before he went all serious-business on me.
Why did he stop? We were alone in the store. I was practically begging him to take advantage of me—and from the size of his hard-on, he definitely wanted to.
Ugh.
To get my mind off of things, and because the only thing left in my fridge is a half-empty Nutella container and an XL bottle of Brothers Gallo wine (and I’ll need to squeeze into some of Ricky’s Gala dresses in under a week’s time), I head to the farmer’s market. Okay, so I haven’t cooked anything harder than pasta in about a decade, but the least I can do is buy some veggies. Maybe if I have them in the fridge, I’ll actually eat them and not leftover takeout instead.
On the way to the market, I look up recipes for simple veggie dishes. Ratatouille sounds easy enough, plus the cartoon was cute. All I need to buy for it are some zucchini and squash.
Dilworth Park is crowded with locals soaking in the unexpected warm weather. I dip in and out of the vendor stalls set up in front of City Hall, feeling up ripe zucchinis. I’ve just landed on the perfect specimen—not too firm and not too soft, not to mention the perfect color—when a shirtless guy jogging catches my attention out of the corner of my eye.