Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology

by Anthony, Jane

  “Uh, what I mean is that—”

  “Mmmhmmm,” I shot back at him. He was adorable when he was flustered. The cockiness from earlier had vanished into thin air. “How old are you, Marcus?”

  “I’m twenty-six,” he revealed.

  “Oh…”

  And here I thought I was getting a twenty-two-year-old…twenty-three tops. He was just now graduating? What did he do, change his major five times?

  “What? Did you think I was older?” Now there was a hint of embarrassment on his face.

  “No…younger.” I crossed my arms over my chest. Glancing up at the clock, I could see I was going to be late if I didn’t wrap this up. I couldn’t believe we fucked so damn fast.

  “So, you aren’t going to tell me how old you are?” He scanned my face with his boyish grin as if his charm alone could make me reveal the answer.

  I squinted at him. “Are you really asking Her Majesty to admit her age?” My index finger popped up, wagging at him. “Surely not.”

  A sheepish smile lifted his cheeks before his gaze fell to his watch. “Oh, shit…it’s almost nine. I gotta run.”

  “Toodle-doo!” I called after him.

  I was thirty-two. Not that it was any of his business. He didn’t need to know anything about me other than my name and how to make me scream his.

  Cy

  “I’m getting close,” I filled my parents in. “If the damn bakery wasn’t so busy, and my boss didn’t watch me like a hawk, I could get around to other parts of the park and gather some more intel.”

  “So, there’s a meeting soon? That’s what you know so far?” my father questioned, scratching at his chin as his eyes bounced between my mother and me.

  “That’s all you’ve found out?” My mother didn’t bother to hide her disappointment.

  I nodded. “No one wants to give up the organizer’s name, but if I can just figure out where the meeting is, I’ll show up and see for myself.” I snapped my fingers as an idea came to me. “Can’t you call my boss out of the bakery for a couple hours? Assign her an administrative duty of some sort? There are two other employees there most of the day. I could slip out and head over to Jellybean Junction or Marshmallow Manor to see if anyone there has information.”

  “The reason we stationed you in Cotton Candy Castle is because we’re pretty sure the organizer is there,” my dad explained. “It may even be Colleen. You’re sure she hasn’t said anything else about the company? Good or bad. We want to hear it all.”

  “It’s clear she’s not happy, but she doesn’t sound like she’s organizing a revolt either.” I definitely didn’t want to pin anything on her, anyway. I’d only worked there a couple of weeks, but I sorta liked her. She was a real down-to-earth lady, and I respected that.

  “You need to get closer to her,” my mother interjected. “Grill her a little more. She’s the ticket. She’s been there long enough that she knows everything going on at the park. Even if she’s not the organizer, she knows who is. I guarantee it.”

  “I met with our PR guy today, and he told me again he’s seen some rumblings of ‘disenchantment’—that’s what he called it—on social media. There’s apparently some secret forum on Facebook or something. You should try to infiltrate that.”

  “If your PR guy knows that much, then why can’t he find out more?” I fired back.

  “He can’t seem to get definitive answers as to the ringleader…or ringleaders, plural. But he somehow discovered that someone from Sweetopia is talking to a reporter at the local television station. We just don’t know who it is.”

  My mother covered her face with her palms as if she couldn’t bear to hear the rest of my father’s statement, it was too alarming. Too upsetting.

  “But I don’t understand why they would go to the media. What is so bad about working here?” It was only my second week, and it was hard work, but there was a sense of camaraderie I already felt a part of, and everyone seemed to enjoy making the kids so happy. Hell, I didn’t even like kids, yet I still got a goofy grin on my face every time I saw a kid’s eyes bug open at the array of sweets we offered at the bakery.

  My dad shook his head. The vein in his neck was pulsating, a sure sign he was at the end of his rope. “I have given these damn employees my entire life! Don’t they know how hard your mother and I work to make sure they have good jobs, fair pay, and a nice environment to work in? Ungrateful bastards!”

  “Now, Corden,” my mother admonished him. “Settle down. Do you want me to call William up here for another scotch?”

  “Yes, please.” My dad rubbed his temples as he paced back and forth between his desk and the huge floor-to-ceiling bookcases in his opulent office. This was his home office, not the equally luxurious one at the top of Cotton Candy Castle. It had almost as many amenities, but not quite as nice of a view.

  My mother pressed down on the intercom and summoned William from the other room. “Please bring Mr. Sweet another scotch. And I’ll take an amaretto sour, please.” That was my mother’s signature drink.

  William nodded curtly and disappeared to fulfill his duties as my parents’ butler or manservant or whatever the hell he was called. All I knew was that William and Maureen, our housekeeper and cook, had been working for my parents in some capacity for as long as I could remember.

  Even in all that time, my parents still referred to each other as Mr. and Mrs. Sweet in front of them. Weird, right?

  “When were you planning to leave for Greece?” My father paced back to his desk and collapsed in the plush leather executive chair. My mother took over the pacing, crossing back and forth in front of the window overlooking their nicely landscaped back yard.

  “In two weeks,” I responded without even thinking. But just after I said it, I got a weird pang of sadness that I would be leaving my undercover gig.

  Even if Marcus was a lame-ass in an apron serving pastries all day, it was still kind of fun to be part of something. I enjoyed Colleen and the other folks I worked with. And sneaking into Jolie’s dressing room every chance I got would certainly be missed. I hadn’t stopped thinking about her once since that first time I saw her sitting on the throne.

  “Well, you better hurry up and figure out what’s happening at this meeting then, Son,” my dad’s voice slashed through my thoughts. “Time is running out. If you can’t seal the deal and identify the ringleader before your trip, you won’t be going. Not if you want to stay on the Sweetopia payroll and keep your inheritance.”

  I didn’t appreciate my father’s threat, but a flash of Jolie’s heaving breasts as I feasted upon her pussy lit up my memory. Suddenly the thought of going to Greece seemed infinitely less exciting. I would have to get my fill of her before I left.

  6

  Cy

  Jolie must have been running late. I couldn’t believe I had actually gotten to work early. I was never early for anything. Obviously that was some prime grade A pussy if I was willing to get out of bed before seven AM for it.

  I ventured to the arcade on the other side of the castle, thinking I might have time to check the throne room again before heading to the bakery for my shift. This was the place where most of the boys who visited the park hung out while their sisters went to meet The Red Velvet Queen. It was named Gumdrop Galley, which I thought was the lamest possible name for what was supposed to be a cool and adrenaline-fueled hang-out spot for little dudes. I was pretty sure my mother named it.

  “Hey.” I waved to the middle-aged guy with the shaggy dark hair who was arranging prizes in the glass cabinets under the counters. He reminded me a little of Jack Black with his curled-up smirk and sizeable stomach pooch.

  “Hey, there. What can I do for you?” He reached his hand across the counter to give me a firm shake.

  “Oh, I’m Marcus from the bakery. Just got to work early and am checking out the rest of the castle,” I lied. “And you are…?”

  I could see full well that his nametag read Buster, which had to be a made-up name. “Wha
t a beautiful baby! Let’s name him Buster,” said no mom ever.

  His lips tilted up as he pointed comically at his nametag. “Buster. And nice to see I’m not the only Brit in Sweetopia!”

  Shit.

  “What part of the motherland are you from?” he continued as his gaze swept from my face down my chest and back up again.

  I choked out, “Oh, London, you know.” I cleared my throat and scrambled for the most British thing I could say. “I bloody miss that place!”

  His brows furrowed as he continued to examine me. I could tell he was trying to decide whether or not he believed me. “What brings you across the pond?”

  “Uni,” I said, cranking up the charm. I had caught a bit of a gay vibe from this Buster dude, and I wasn’t above flirting with him just like I did with that Ellie chick in the gift shop. Whatever it takes, I told myself, images of Greece and twenty-five thousand dollars-worth of cool, crisp Benjamins flying through my mind.

  “Studying anything fun?” His gaze swept down me again, and my gaydar was going off louder than ever. Not that there’s anything wrong with it! my memory echoed with the famous line from Seinfeld.

  “Art history.” I smiled again, knowing this was a topic I could converse on with absolutely no reservations.

  “Favorite painter?” His eyebrows quirked, possibly trying to catch me in a lie again.

  You couldn’t answer this question with something obvious like Monet or Van Gogh. “Bordone,” I said with confidence.

  “Oh, really? I pegged you for more of a modern guy.” The way he emphasized the word “pegged” did not escape my notice.

  “No, definitely not. I prefer the classics. I should have been born during the Renaissance.” I wasn’t going to let his innuendo distract me from my mission.

  Buster’s lips curled into a provocative grin. “Yes, I can see that now.” The way his eyes traveled up and down my body, it seemed he was appreciating a masterpiece himself.

  I could work this to my advantage.

  “Hey, I was just wondering if you know anything about a secret employee meeting happening next week?” Why not just cut to the chase?

  His grin faded quickly, followed by another blatant brow furrowing. “Who told you about that?” His voice dropped at least an octave.

  I shrugged, trying to play it off as naiveté. “I overheard my boss talking about it. I was just wondering where it was so I could attend.”

  Buster was squinting so hard, his two formerly distinct eyebrows were basically one continuous bushy line across his forehead. “You’re a temp, right?”

  I nodded.

  “We don’t typically invite temps to the meetings,” he said rather flatly.

  “Oh.” I studied him, wondering how to get back to the earlier flirty vibe we had established so I could glean something useful from this conversation. “Why not?”

  “It’s not my decision,” he answered. “That comes from higher up on the ladder than me.”

  “Higher up? Who is in charge of it?” I suspected he noticed the little tremble my voice took on when I realized I was this close to figuring out the answer to my undercover mission because his eyes narrowed again.

  “I can’t give out that type of info, sorry.” He reached back down into the glass cabinet to place more prizes.

  “Okay.” There was no way I could prevent my disappointment from coloring my tone. “Well, do you know who I could talk to about getting more info?”

  “Who is your boss?” He scratched at his chin as he eyed me up and down again, just like he had when I’d first introduced myself.

  “Colleen Neese,” I offered, hoping her name would somehow unlock a secret stash of information Buster didn’t seem to want to part with.

  “Talk to her,” he said.

  I wondered if that was a roundabout way of admitting Colleen was the ringleader, the one “higher up on the ladder.” I thanked him for his time and ambled back to the bakery, working out in my mind how to confront my boss about the meeting. Again.

  Colleen actually looked somewhat excited to see me when I swooped into the bakery while simultaneously tying my apron on. I was glad she was in a good mood because I really needed to pump her for some information.

  “Hey, there, how goes it?” I squeezed out a charming smile and waited for her to take the bait.

  “Good, Marcus, good. How about you? You’re certainly looking chipper today.” She set down her rolling pin and went to wash her hands in the stainless steel sink.

  “I wanted to ask you something.” My pitch lowered to a more serious-sounding level, which made her turn to stare at me.

  “Yes?”

  “Why don’t you allow temps to attend your super secret meetings?” My head tilted as I looked for her reaction—it might be more telling than her actual words.

  “Who told you that?” Yep, brows arched, eyes wide, lips pursed. She didn’t want to talk about this topic.

  “Uh, Buster, the guy at the arcade. He said it wasn’t his rule—”

  “It’s not my rule either,” she insisted, drying her hands on a cloth towel. “But I do agree with it. I mean, we want employees there who are invested in the company and who get the health insurance and other benefits. Temps don’t.”

  “Yeah, don’t remind me,” I said, shaking my head, trying to summon a sad, disappointed tone.

  “Why are you so interested in this meeting?” She narrowed her dark eyes on me. “You’ve brought it up almost every day.”

  I cleared my throat, buying myself some time to formulate an answer. “Like you said, I’m probably not going to find a job in art history, so I might end up here for a while—I mean, if I can get a full-time position in the fall. So it seems like company policies might be really important to me here soon. If I can help leverage better pay and benefits in any way, then…I’m all about that.” I shot her a confident grin.

  She shook her head as she expelled a huff of air. When she looked at me again, there was kindness in her eyes, a softness that wasn’t there moments before. “Marcus, you don’t want to work here. You’re a sweet kid and all, but I don’t know if you’re cut out for this place—”

  That was a harsh thing for her to say. Especially since I fucking grew up here. How could I not be cut out for my own destiny? Someday I’d be running this park alongside Clem and Carson, once my parents retired, anyway.

  She must have sensed the sting her comment inflicted upon me because she was quick to backpedal. “What I mean is that you’re a really nice guy. Maybe you’re not very experienced, but you have good people skills and a real charming way about you, Marcus. The Sweets—the people who own this place—”

  Like I didn’t know the Sweets. For fuck’s sake.

  “—they’re assholes, Marcus. They don’t care about their employees. The benefits suck. The wages suck. Like we were telling you the other day, it’s not a family-friendly place, not like you’d think, being a family theme park and all.”

  “Aren’t you trying to change that?” I poked around a little deeper, desperately working to stay in character and not defend my parents. Though I wanted to. The rant my father would go on if he were standing here listening to this conversation was beginning to rumble up inside me.

  “A group of us are, yes.” I could sense her exasperation as she grabbed some dough out of the fridge and began to pound it against the counter a little more violently than necessary before dusting it with more flour.

  I decided to cut to the chase. “Are you in charge of the group?”

  Her eyes rocketed to mine in a flash. “No.” It was a curt and adamant denial.

  I shrugged, trying to play this off as mere curiosity instead of what it really was, an interrogation. “I also heard there was a secret Facebook group for Sweetopia employees. How do you get into that?”

  “Did Buster tell you that too?” She huffed out another long breath before going to work on rolling the dough out thin and flat against the counter.

  “Uh, I can
’t remember where I heard that one…” I didn’t particularly want to implicate anyone I’d conversed with. I needed to protect my sources, and if Colleen was lying about being in charge, she might retaliate against anyone who provided me with information.

  “There’s a secret group,” she confirmed. “But like the meeting, it’s for regular employees only. No temps.”

  Damn it. I was being thwarted at every turn. I could hear my father’s voice ringing in my ear, pushing me to dig deeper, push harder. As if I’d summoned him, the phone began to ring on the other side of the bakery.

  Colleen held up her flour-covered hands. “Can you get that?”

  “Of course.” I nodded to another employee who had raced from the kitchen in the back to help. “Hello?”

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Sweet!” I gushed after hearing my father’s voice. “Yes, of course. I will send her right up.”

  I had suggested that my dad call Colleen up for a meeting so I could snoop around a bit more, but I didn’t think he’d really follow through on that. I guess I was wrong. I relayed “Mr. Sweet’s” message to my boss, and, looking completely flustered, she washed her hands before taking off her apron and rushing out the back of the bakery toward the secret employee tunnel.

  The other bakery employee just looked at me and shrugged. I gave her a polite smile and told her I’d be back in a moment.

  It didn’t take me long to reach the gift shop on the other side of the castle. It was still early, and there was a long line extending out of the throne room, but the gift shop wouldn’t be inundated until that line moved past greeting the queen and back into the main hallway. The other place patrons came from was the boat ride dumping its riders off in the gift shop at the end. Genius marketing tactic, of course, creating a captive audience.

  Ellie, the manager, wasn’t behind the counter, but I soon realized that was a good thing because traffic was already starting to spill in. I shot a smile over at the girl manning the cash register and the one out on the floor helping a kid pick out a plastic sword before letting myself into the employees’ only area at the back of the store. I noticed the light in Ellie’s office immediately.