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Authors: Elizah J. Davis
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Brandi leaned in closer and whispered, “The beefcake at the counter is totally checking you out.”
At first, Brandon thought she was talking about the butcher, who was at least fifty and a little bit frightening. Then he spotted the customer who was none too subtly watching them as he waited for his order. No, he was definitely watching Brandon. The corner of his mouth quirked up when he met Brandon’s eye.
Brandon, in turn, bumped into a display.
“It’s like he stepped out of a J.Crew catalog. Jesus.” Brandi made a show of fanning herself, obviously not caring that the guy could see her. “I would climb him like a jungle gym.” She elbowed him and laughed. “Jungle gym.”
But she didn’t think Asshole Jerk was funny. “Yeah, I got it,” Brandon said, annoyed, but he couldn’t disagree with her assessment. While his preferences tended to be more along the lines of pretty emo boys with long hair and eyeliner, there was something undeniably appealing about the square-jawed yuppie Paul Bunyan standing in front of them.
He was wearing a navy V-neck sweater over a red plaid shirt, the tails hanging artfully out the bottom over his dark-wash jeans. He had just enough of a beard to look charmingly scruffy, and Brandon wouldn’t be surprised if there was a dimple hidden in there somewhere. The guy seemed the type for it.
“Do you suppose he’ll fit in the cart?” Brandon asked quietly.
“He kind of looks like he wants to.”
Brandon’s palms started to sweat as they approached the counter, and he tried to think up something casual and flirty to say to the guy. A cold approach in the grocery store was far outside his comfort zone. It couldn’t be anything meat related.
For the love of God, do not mention meat or packages or packages of meat, Brandon thought as he watched the butcher hand the guy’s order over.
He was still trying to think of something when the guy started to move away. “I like your hat,” he said to Brandon as he passed, and Brandon realized he was still wearing the multicolored stocking cap that had the fluffy green ball at the end. Of course he was.
“You could have told me,” he said, pointing an accusatory finger at Brandi.
“Don’t even. I have begged you not to wear that hat forever. This is not my fault.” She patted his shoulder and added, “If it makes you feel any better, he sounded like he meant it.”
It didn’t. Brandon pulled the hat off and stuffed as much of it as he could into his coat pocket.
“Your hair’s all fucked up,” Brandi pointed out helpfully.
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
“T HE PARTY starts at six o’clock.” Brandon’s mom smacked his hand as he stole a few of the candied pecans she’d made earlier. “Maybe wear that nice green sweater Aunt Karen gave you last year.”
“Mooooom!” Brandon drew the word out, feeling all of five years old again. “Do I really need to come to the party? I haven’t lived in the neighborhood for twelve years. Can’t you just give me the food?”
The look his mom gave him was answer enough. “It won’t kill you to spend a few hours socializing with the neighbors. They’ve known you your whole life, they want to know how you’re doing. Maxine was just asking about you the other day.”
Brandon didn’t know if it was sweet or tragic that his mom continued to insist that the block full of gossips and busybodies really had his best interests at heart. “Whatever,” he said morosely, ignoring her pointed comment about Maxine. Hopefully her jerk-off grandson had managed to find his way around like the adult he supposedly was.
“That’s the spirit.” His mom patted his cheek. “Now go home and get cleaned up. You might want to shave too.”
“I am a grown man,” Brandon said petulantly, ignoring his mom’s sarcastic eyebrow raise. Just because he lived ten minutes away and visited his parents at least once a week didn’t make him any less of an adult. “I will do what I want
At first, Brandon thought she was talking about the butcher, who was at least fifty and a little bit frightening. Then he spotted the customer who was none too subtly watching them as he waited for his order. No, he was definitely watching Brandon. The corner of his mouth quirked up when he met Brandon’s eye.
Brandon, in turn, bumped into a display.
“It’s like he stepped out of a J.Crew catalog. Jesus.” Brandi made a show of fanning herself, obviously not caring that the guy could see her. “I would climb him like a jungle gym.” She elbowed him and laughed. “Jungle gym.”
But she didn’t think Asshole Jerk was funny. “Yeah, I got it,” Brandon said, annoyed, but he couldn’t disagree with her assessment. While his preferences tended to be more along the lines of pretty emo boys with long hair and eyeliner, there was something undeniably appealing about the square-jawed yuppie Paul Bunyan standing in front of them.
He was wearing a navy V-neck sweater over a red plaid shirt, the tails hanging artfully out the bottom over his dark-wash jeans. He had just enough of a beard to look charmingly scruffy, and Brandon wouldn’t be surprised if there was a dimple hidden in there somewhere. The guy seemed the type for it.
“Do you suppose he’ll fit in the cart?” Brandon asked quietly.
“He kind of looks like he wants to.”
Brandon’s palms started to sweat as they approached the counter, and he tried to think up something casual and flirty to say to the guy. A cold approach in the grocery store was far outside his comfort zone. It couldn’t be anything meat related.
For the love of God, do not mention meat or packages or packages of meat, Brandon thought as he watched the butcher hand the guy’s order over.
He was still trying to think of something when the guy started to move away. “I like your hat,” he said to Brandon as he passed, and Brandon realized he was still wearing the multicolored stocking cap that had the fluffy green ball at the end. Of course he was.
“You could have told me,” he said, pointing an accusatory finger at Brandi.
“Don’t even. I have begged you not to wear that hat forever. This is not my fault.” She patted his shoulder and added, “If it makes you feel any better, he sounded like he meant it.”
It didn’t. Brandon pulled the hat off and stuffed as much of it as he could into his coat pocket.
“Your hair’s all fucked up,” Brandi pointed out helpfully.
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
“T HE PARTY starts at six o’clock.” Brandon’s mom smacked his hand as he stole a few of the candied pecans she’d made earlier. “Maybe wear that nice green sweater Aunt Karen gave you last year.”
“Mooooom!” Brandon drew the word out, feeling all of five years old again. “Do I really need to come to the party? I haven’t lived in the neighborhood for twelve years. Can’t you just give me the food?”
The look his mom gave him was answer enough. “It won’t kill you to spend a few hours socializing with the neighbors. They’ve known you your whole life, they want to know how you’re doing. Maxine was just asking about you the other day.”
Brandon didn’t know if it was sweet or tragic that his mom continued to insist that the block full of gossips and busybodies really had his best interests at heart. “Whatever,” he said morosely, ignoring her pointed comment about Maxine. Hopefully her jerk-off grandson had managed to find his way around like the adult he supposedly was.
“That’s the spirit.” His mom patted his cheek. “Now go home and get cleaned up. You might want to shave too.”
“I am a grown man,” Brandon said petulantly, ignoring his mom’s sarcastic eyebrow raise. Just because he lived ten minutes away and visited his parents at least once a week didn’t make him any less of an adult. “I will do what I want
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