A Bluewater Bay Collection

by Witt, L. A.

  I cut the tape on the box and started pulling out sets of wheels, checking them off as I went. The whole time, though, my brain was elsewhere. Good thing this was mindless work, because I was busy thinking about everything the guy at the sex shop had said earlier.

  Asexual? Since when were people asexual? How the hell did that work anyway? And how the hell was I asexual? I could get a boner. I could use it. I came every time. Almost every time. More often than not. I liked the things my girlfriends had done for me when they weren’t out doing them for other guys.

  Shaking my head, I collapsed the empty shipping box and tossed it on top of a two-foot stack of flattened boxes. Then I opened the next one and started inventorying wheels again.

  And of course, my brain went right back to Red Hot Bluewater. The more I thought about our conversation, the more I kind of felt like a dick for walking out the way I had. Maybe the guy had been a bit blunt, but he was trying to help. And it wasn’t as if he’d laughed me out of the shop or said something was wrong with me.

  “For starters, I think we need to find your kink.”

  How we’d made it from there to asexual—that was the part that blew my mind. The fact that we’d been standing there in a room full of porn and sex toys, having a straight-faced conversation about it, was . . . weird. And he’d said he was asexual too. But he jerked off? And he worked in a sex shop?

  Mind blown.

  Except . . . what if he was onto something? He’d seemed like he genuinely wanted to help me figure out my problem, so I didn’t get the impression he was fucking with me.

  I glanced around to make sure Colin hadn’t wandered back here. Then I pulled out my phone and googled “asexual.”

  My jaw dropped as I stared at the screen. There were thousands of results, and none of them seemed to be about houseplants. Skimming over it, I was inundated with terms I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen in high school biology.

  Graysexual? Demisexual? Cupiosexual? Apothisexual? The fuck?

  “How’s that shipment coming?” Colin’s voice startled the shit out of me, and I shoved my phone into my pocket just before he poked his head into the stockroom. “I’ve got someone looking for Radial Red in fifty-two.”

  “Uh.” I’d seen three sets of those not thirty seconds ago. Where were— There. I grabbed the sets of Radial Reds, double-checked that they were fifty-two millimeter, and tossed them to him. “They’ll be in the system in two seconds.” I held up the packing list. “All I need to do is punch this in.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  Well, the graysexuals and asexuals and whateversexuals were going to have to wait, apparently. When I got home tonight, I’d google this shit and actually read it.

  For now, asexual or otherwise, I had work to do.

  Chapter 2

  Zafir

  Two days after he came into Red Hot Bluewater, I still couldn’t get Brennan out of my mind. Or was it Brandon? Brennan. Brendan, maybe? Pretty sure it was Brennan. I’d only given his driver’s license a quick look, though. Brandon? Brennan?

  Whatever his name was, he hadn’t come back in. Not that I’d expected him to, but I hoped that meant he was finding all the answers he needed. It had taken me months to get my head around the concept of being asexual, and what that meant, and where I went from there. I didn’t envy him, because I’d been there, done that, no thanks, keep the T-shirt.

  I kept wishing he would come back into the shop. I wanted him to find the answers and accept who he was, and if I could help, I wanted to.

  That wasn’t the only reason I perked up whenever the bell on the front door jingled, though. It was probably just the novelty of running into another asexual in this town. Bluewater Bay had plenty of queer people, especially since they’d started filming Wolf’s Landing here, but the ones on my end of the spectrum didn’t seem to be all that common. Or, well, they didn’t come strolling into the sex shop very often, anyway. Big shock.

  It was also possible I’d been wrong about Brennan, and I wanted a second chance to talk to him so I could either clarify things or apologize for screwing with his mind. He’d pinged asexual to me, but I was no sexuality psychic. And the more I thought about it, the more I had to admit there might’ve been some wishful thinking involved. Another asexual in Bluewater Bay? Yes, please!

  And what would I do if he did come back? Direct him toward a few more answers, then clock out and wave good-bye because I wouldn’t have time for anything else before I sprinted out the door to go pick up my kid or work my second job.

  Muttering a few curses, I looked at the clock above the door. According to the legs of the leather-clad Tom of Finland character, it was ten fifteen. Only two minutes since I’d last checked.

  Today was going to be a long one. Full shift at Red Hot, then on to Old Country Pizza, where I delivered pizzas for that inflexible asshole who always smelled like cigars. Tomorrow, same deal. My next day off from both jobs was . . . I couldn’t even remember. Too depressing to think about.

  Maybe it was time to ask both my bosses for a little simultaneous vacation time, even if it meant working double shifts to make up for the unpaid days off from Old Country. I needed a breather. Maybe some social interaction with someone who wasn’t buying a pizza or a dildo. As it was, I’d barely had time to go to the asexual social group out in Port Angeles, and hadn’t been to the bigger one in Seattle since last year.

  Between my jobs and my son, there just weren’t enough hours in the day. My social life was nonexistent. The closest I came to one these days was at the mosque we attended. Tariq liked the other kids, and the adults were nice when they weren’t needling me about the lack of a maternal figure in my son’s life. Or my lack of attendance, since “I barely have time to grocery shop or breathe” didn’t seem to fly.

  Finding time to socialize with other people like me? Yeah, right.

  Which was probably why I kept an eye on the shop’s front door, hoping Brandon—Brennan—would come back just so I could talk to someone who got it. Or was in the process of getting it.

  At the very least, it would be a distraction from a monotonous morning of precisely nothing happening. Chin on my hand, I leaned on the counter and scanned the store, looking for something to do. Tuesdays were slow as hell here. They’d be slow at my other job too, which meant not a lot of tips, and the boss might cut drivers loose. Great. A tighter budget. Totally what I needed these days.

  But at least working at Red Hot was relatively low stress. As far as retail jobs went, it didn’t suck as hard as it could have, and Violet was a saint when it came to being flexible for a single parent.

  The only real downside? Slow days. Like this one. When there was nothing to do but stand around.

  And wait.

  For something.

  To happen.

  I drummed my fingers on the counter. So . . . fucking . . . boring.

  The UPS driver came. The FedEx driver came. The mailman came.

  No customers, though.

  I shifted my gaze toward the shelves of sex toys I’d restocked this morning. How many dildos would it take to build a tower all the way to the ceiling? The Tower of Dildylon? The Leaning Tower of Phalluses? The Eyeful Tower?

  Please, someone, come through that door . . .

  No one did. Of course.

  I took out my phone and started browsing. Violet didn’t mind as long as my daily task list was done and there were no customers in the store. And it passed the time.

  I’d just started reading some clickbait article about celebrities and their pets when the bell on the door jingled.

  Oh yes. Finally! Someone’s—

  I nearly dropped my phone.

  “Oh hey!” I set the phone down so hard, it slammed against the counter and I startled myself. “Uh, hey. How are you?”

  “I’m good.” Brennan smiled shyly as he tucked his skateboard under his arm. “Didn’t catch you when you were busy, did I?”

  “No, not at all.” I cleared my throat, folding
my hands on top of my phone. “So, um, you’re back.” Smooth. Real smooth.

  “Yeah. I . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been thinking about everything you said last time I was here. And, uh, I was on my way to work, so . . .” He gestured up the street. “I don’t work very far from here. So, you know, thought I’d swing in.”

  “Oh.” I paused. “I, uh, I’m sorry if I threw too much at you the other day. It’s—”

  “No, it’s cool.” He waved his hand. “I did a lot of thinking afterward. And looking around on the internet.”

  “Did you?”

  He nodded, scanning our surroundings uneasily. Then he met my gaze. “One minute, I think you’re right. The next, I . . .”

  “Don’t know what to think?”

  “Yeah. That. How’d you know?”

  “Been there.” I grimaced. “I can probably relate more than you think.”

  “I figured. That’s, uh, why I came back, actually.” He pulled in a deep breath as he gave the shelves and merchandise another sweeping glance. “I have . . . so many questions.”

  “Well.” I flattened my palms on the counter and stood a little straighter. “That’s what they pay me the big bucks for, so ask away.”

  He gulped, rolling his shoulders. “Man, I’m not even sure where to start.”

  “You said you did some looking on the web, right?”

  Brennan nodded. “A few hours’ worth, yeah.”

  “Anything in particular you want to know about?”

  “Is ‘all of it’ too broad?”

  “It’s kind of hard to know where to start, but I get it, believe me.” I whistled. “It’s overwhelming.”

  “Seriously.”

  The bell on the door jingled, and I glanced over as a couple of guys strolled in, hand in hand. About three seconds later, a redheaded woman walked in looking like she was on a mission.

  Really? Now you all start coming in?

  Brennan glanced at them, then turned to me. “I guess I should, um, let you get to work.”

  Disappointment tugged at my chest. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s just me for the next few hours, so . . .”

  “I need to get to work myself anyway.” He swallowed. “I was mostly coming in to see if I could buy you a drink or something later. To apologize for being kind of a dick the other day, and to ask you about all of this.”

  “Oh. I . . .” That wasn’t what I’d expected. We had customers ask us out and offer to take us for drinks all the time, and the creepy undertones were enough to make my skin crawl. But nothing about Brennan’s request pinged as anything except innocent and genuine.

  He rocked from his heels to the balls of his feet. “If that’s not cool, it’s fine. I don’t want to monopolize your time or anything.” He glanced again at the other customers. In a quieter voice, he said, “I just feel completely fucking clueless.”

  “Well . . .” I moistened my lips. “I’m not off from my second job until probably nine.”

  “That’s okay. I’m usually up late.”

  I wanted to jump at the offer—how long had it been since I’d been out with anyone?—but I hesitated. My son was at my sister’s tonight, since she covered for my babysitter once or twice a week, and he was staying overnight. So it really didn’t matter if I got home at ten thirty or midnight. Did it? What was the harm?

  I smiled. “Sure. You know where the Captain’s Lounge is?”

  Brennan’s lips quirked, and he seemed to lose focus for a second, but then he nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I know where it is.”

  “I can meet you there a little after nine if you’re sure that’s not too late.”

  His eyes lit up. “Great. Sounds great. I’ll see you there.”

  “Definitely.”

  He started to go, but hesitated. “Oh. I just realized I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Zafir.”

  “Zafir? Interesting name.”

  I laughed. “Says everyone who ever tries to spell it. It’s Lebanese. And you’re . . .” Was it Brennan or Brandon? “Brandon, right?”

  “Brennan. How did— Right. My driver’s license.”

  I nodded.

  “Well. Um. Zafir, you said?”

  “Yep.”

  “See you this evening.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  The Tom of Finland clock said it wasn’t quite eleven yet, so I still had way too many hours left before I met up with Brennan. Chances were, the time would move even slower from here on out.

  But that was okay. Now I had something to look forward to.

  Chapter 3

  Brennan

  I wonder if this is what a blind date feels like.

  Sitting in a booth on the bar side of the Captain’s Lounge restaurant, drumming my nails on both sides of my glass and staring at the door, I was beyond restless. The handful of other people sprinkled throughout the mostly deserted bar must’ve thought I was crazy. Or hopped up on Monster or something. I just couldn’t sit still.

  Zafir was ten minutes late.

  Then fifteen minutes late.

  As the half-hour mark crept up, I flagged down the waitress and paid my bill. I could take a hint.

  I didn’t know what I felt right then. He was a stranger. He owed me nothing. But I was disappointed. He knew things I was struggling to understand, and asking him face-to-face was somehow less intimidating than posting behind the cover of a screen name. I wanted a human being to talk me through this shit, so I could maybe believe I wasn’t fucked up. It was a lot easier to believe there was nothing wrong with me if someone was looking me in the eye and saying, “Don’t worry, dude—I’m just like you.”

  Kinda hard to do that if he didn’t show up, though.

  The waitress thanked me for coming in, and as she left with her tip, I picked up my skateboard and started to stand.

  And right then, Zafir flew in through the door. I froze. He saw me and hurried toward the booth.

  “I am so sorry.” He took off his hat, which matched his embroidered black Old Country Pizza shirt. “We got crazy busy tonight, and we had to do a huge run to one of the soundstages, so . . .” He groaned. “Anyway, I realized a bit too late I didn’t have your number, so I couldn’t text you and—”

  “It’s okay.” I smiled and eased myself back onto the bench, gesturing for him to take the other. “I don’t have anywhere to be tonight.”

  “Okay.” He exhaled and dropped onto the bench. A few strands of black hair had fallen out of his ponytail, and he brushed them out of his face. “Anyway. Sorry I’m late.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I appreciate that you came at all.” I gestured at the bar. “Can I buy you a beer?”

  “Well, not a beer, but I could go for a Coke.”

  “Not a drinker?”

  Zafir shook his head and tapped a small pendant hanging below his collar. “Muslim.”

  “Oh.” I straightened and gave the pendant—a crescent and star—a double take. “I didn’t realize . . . I guess—”

  “Relax.” He smiled. “You met me where I sell sex toys and porn. Most people don’t immediately guess that I’m Muslim.”

  “You did say you were . . .” I winced. “Damn. You told me where you’re from, and I—”

  “Lebanon. I was born in Lebanon.”

  “Right. You said that. Sorry, I—”

  “Brennan.” When I met his gaze, he patted the air with both hands. “Chill. I’ve thrown a lot of info at you. I don’t expect you to be an expert at Zafir trivia.”

  “Fair enough. Uh . . . drinks. Right.” I flagged down the waitress again. She gave me a puzzled look, but didn’t comment. She just took our orders—Cokes for both of us—and left again.

  “So . . .” I hesitated, not wanting to sound like an idiot. “How long have you been in the States?” Eh, it was a good enough icebreaker as any.

  “I’ve been here since I was three.”

  “Explains why you don’t have an accent.”

  Laughin
g, he nodded. “Yes, it does.”

  The waitress came back with our sodas. As Zafir took a deep swallow from his, he looked around at the maritime-themed restaurant—the weathered driftwood; the faded black-and-white photos on the walls of boats, fish, and seagulls; and even an old helm suspended above the bar.

  He set the glass down and wrapped both hands around it. “Man, I haven’t been here in ages.”

  “I’ve never been here.”

  “Really?” He shifted his attention to me. “You’re missing out. My ex and I used to come here all the time.”

  “Yeah?”

  Zafir nodded, a faintly nostalgic smile on his lips as he gazed around the room again. “He was a fish-and-chips junkie, and this is one of the best places to get them in this town.”

  He?

  “I didn’t know that. Might have to try them sometime.”

  “I’d order them now, but . . .” He made a face. “I can’t eat anything after a shift at Old Country.”

  “You can’t?”

  “Ugh. No. Everything tastes like grease and garlic. I mean, except . . .” He raised his glass. “Coke or water usually tastes fine. Half the time, the first thing I do when I get off shift is shotgun a bottle of water or two.”

  “That I believe. I worked in a burger joint for about six months, and I don’t think I’ve ever drunk that much water in my life.”

  “Right?” He took another drink. “So which burger place was it?”

  “Oh, a little locally owned shop out in Port Townsend. They folded a few years ago.”

  “Seems like a lot of the best ones do.” He gestured at our maritime-themed surroundings. “Aside from this one. It’ll probably be here till the end of time.”

  “Probably, yeah.” I ran a finger around the rim of my glass. “So you came here with your . . . ex-boyfriend?”

  “All the time.”