Tell Me It's Real (11 page)

I looked in my side mirror before opening the door and saw a bicyclist approaching, waiting until he passed. I think I told you that I’m an ass man, so seeing a guy in tight biker shorts seemed like another good start to my motherfucking Tuesday. His head was bowed, helmet on, sunglasses on his face, and he went by without looking at me, and I caught a glimpse of a hard-core ass, probably in the top ten I’d ever seen, maybe even top five. I looked back into the rearview mirror and grinned again, rolling my eyes. A boy can dream, right?

But no.
Oh
no. God wasn’t done fucking with me, no, sir, he wasn’t!

I got out of the car and walked across the street, looking up just in time to see the bicyclist pull up to the bike rack next to the building. And then everything went in slow motion.

Okay, so you remember the TV show
Baywatch
? How
everything
the beautiful people did on that show always seemed to be in slow motion, be it running down the beach or taking a shower like it was some soft-core pay-cable program? I would always watch it because of the abundance of man flesh, though I don’t know if my twelve-year-old self completely understood that fact. I think, though, that I was very well in tune with the fact that I was far more interested in the slow-motion pecs versus the slow-motion tits. I wasn’t a stupid boy by any stretch of the imagination. “Are you sure you should be watching this?” my mother had asked one time, frowning as Mitch climbed out of the pool, the fur on his chest dripping with water. “I like it for the stories,” I replied, slightly slack-jawed.

So it was kind of like that. My very own soft-core pay-per-view show. The bicyclist stepped off his bike in super slow motion, and I could feel my heart thudding against my chest, the blooding roaring in my ears. The long slow flex of his thighs in those bike shorts made my mouth go dry instantly. The hard curve of his ass pulled against the black spandex and all I wanted to do was fall to my knees and bow in exaltation. I would worship that ass.

And then, in even
slower
motion (it was like time was running
backward
), he lifted the helmet up and off, shaking his head back and forth, brown hair cascading like he was in some kind of fucking pornographic shampoo commercial. I wanted to rub my hands through the hair and scream out, “Yes, yes, yes!” like they used to do in those Herbal Essences ads that they discontinued because no one actually had an orgasm using the shampoo. This thought distracted me, just for a moment, wondering if the
real
reason those people always shouted in the commercials was because someone was actual going down on them and you just couldn’t see it. Then I realized that all those commercials involved women and that would mean someone was munching carpet while the other was washing her hair, and I got kind of grossed out because vaginas have more folds than a pile of laundry.

Blargh.

“Paul?” the bicyclist called out, pulling me out of my Herbal Essences, vagina-induced reverie.

I focused again on that ass. “Hello,” I mumbled, unsure about how the man I’d dubbed Favorite Ass Ever knew my name.

“Wow, is
this
all it took?” He chuckled. “My eyes are up here, sailor.”

Okay,
that
totally ruined the moment, but it made me well aware that I was eye-raping him, which was then made all the more worse when I realized the bicyclist was
Vince
. I blushed furiously and tried to walk away, but it was like
one
of my feet was glued to the ground, because I could take
one
step, but I couldn’t move any further. I was looking everywhere but at him, trying to focus on things like the big tree in the courtyard and the blue sky above and that cloud that looked like a penis going into a butt….

“Oh
God
,” I moaned. “Not a sex cloud! Why would you do that to me!”

Vince got a funny look on his face as he looked up into the sky, taking off his sunglasses. “What’s a sex cloud?”

“A product of high winds, humidity, and atmospheric conditions,” I muttered. “Why are you riding your bike? Don’t you have a car?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, but I
like
riding my bike. It helps with the ozone… and stuff.”

“You’re trying to avoid leaving a carbon footprint? And here I thought bicycles were just for tree-hugging hippie heterosexuals.”

He eyed me seriously. “We all have to do our part to help avoid nocturnal emissions. The planet needs us.”

I stared at him. “The planet needs us to avoid nocturnal emissions?”

He nodded. “Nocturnal emissions are the number one cause for the hole in the ozone.”

“You’re… you….” I sputtered. “You can’t… adorable fucking… it’s cheating, is what it is… bastard… ass… so much
ass
….”

He grinned and pressed a foot up near the seat of his bike, stretching out his leg so it was horizontal and then doing an obscene stretch that outlined his crotch so perfectly I wanted to run away screaming with my arms waving over my head.

“Work,” I said weakly.

“Work?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow as he pressed down on his thigh. His mad-crazy, hot thigh.

“I have to work.” Well, I had to work on
breathing
, because he switched to bring up his other leg, doing another stretch, bending down until his stomach was flat against his thigh, like he was folded in half.

“I’m pretty bendy,” he said casually, his gaze never leaving mine, and what was I supposed to do with
that
?

I tried to remember the pep talk I’d given myself the night before. I tried to remember being Miss Independent while driving into work, sharing that moment of camaraderie with the woman in the car next to me because we didn’t
need
no fuckin’ man. But that seemed like a lifetime ago, because I was pretty sure I was getting an erection while standing outside my work, watching a man who was turning me inside out doing the most erotic version of Pilates I had ever seen (and that’s saying a lot, because I once saw a porno disguised as a nude Pilates video. I tried to follow along on my own floor, but it’s hard to do when you’ve got a boner).

“Bendy, huh?” I mumbled. “That’s… swell.”

“I like this office,” he said, putting his foot back down on the ground before bringing one arm across his chest and grabbing his shoulder with his other hand, continuing to stretch. “You want to know why I like this office?”

“So… sweaty,” I breathed, watching a little trail of sweat roll down his cheek.

“I like it,” he said, switching to stretch his other shoulder, “because they’ve got a small gym here, downstairs. Didn’t have one of those at the office in Phoenix. Do you know what’s in the gym, Paul?”

“Free weights and an underserved sense of accomplishment?” I asked.

He shook his head slowly and walked around his bike until he was standing two feet in front of me. I tried to cover up my traitorous dick with my coffee cup, but I don’t think it worked too well. It wasn’t that big of a coffee cup, even if I didn’t have a huge dong. “Showers that no one uses,” he said in a low voice. “Ever.” He took another step toward me, until I could feel the heat radiating off him in waves. Hot, sweaty manly man waves.

“Oh?” I managed to say, trying to force myself to take a step back, but unable to do so.

Biker Vince nodded, eyes glinting. “Except….” He bit his bottom lip, then let it go. “Except for me. I use them.” He took another step, until his chest brushed against mine. He leaned in and I could feel his breath on my face and my lips parted and—

“Kelly Clarkson,” I said.

He stopped, mere inches from my face. “What?” he asked, that adorable look of confusion on his face yet again.

“Don’t need no man,” I whispered. “She told me to be independent.”

Must… resist… bike shorts….

“Who’s Kelly Clarkson?” he asked, leaning back a little and frowning. “Is she a friend of yours? If you want, I can talk to her for you. Put her at ease.”

“Nocturnal emissions are wet dreams!” I shouted at him and then ran around him and back up the stairs. I tripped, but that’s cool. I meant to do it because it added more drama to my exit.

I didn’t look back.

I
TRIED
to hide from him for the rest of the day. Supply closets are great places to try this out. I got bored after two minutes and started taking an unofficial inventory. We had 262 highlighters. That’s a lot of highlighters. We were running out of envelopes. Someone really should have gotten on that.

Tad came in to the supply closet at some point midmorning, claiming he needed paper clips. I glared at him the whole time, wishing silently that he’d get herpes on his face, right on his perfectly plump lips. I wondered briefly if that was very wrong of me to think, but then he gave me this knowing little smirk and said, “Oh,
heyyyyy
, Vince,” really loudly when he left the closet, so I didn’t feel so bad about it. As a matter of fact, I also included in my wishes for him to have a burning sensation when he peed. And to get eaten by a shark while being set on fire on the surface of the sun.

Sandy found me sometime in the afternoon. “What the hell are you doing?” he hissed at me, shutting the door behind him. “Are you trying to get fired? I’ve been covering for you all day! I’ve had to tell management you have explosive bowel issues from eating Los Betos!”

“Don’t you speak badly about Los Betos,” I said with a scowl. “And why did you have to say it was
explosive
? Can’t it just be normal?”

He waved his hand in dismissal. “Makes it sound more believable.”

“Yeah, but people are going to be looking at me weird now.”

“As opposed to when they find out you’re hiding in here with Post-it Notes?”

“We need to order more of those. Almost out.”

“Why are you in here?”

“Bike shorts,” I muttered, my brain shorting again at the memory. “Ass in bike shorts.”

His eyes widened slightly. “What? Who?”

Shut up, mouth, shut up, mouth! “Vince.” Dammit!

Sandy grinned the biggest shit-eating grin in the history of the world. “
Really
?” he said gleefully. “That good?”

“The ass to end all asses,” I said, unable to stop myself. “The Holy Grail of asses. If we lived in a world with fairies and elves, there would be epic quests to go get that ass. I wanted to bite it.”
And
that’s
not something I can unsay. Yeesh.

Sandy started laughing so hard I thought he was going to pop a few blood vessels. He started to choke on his tongue, so I patted his back carefully a few times because I didn’t think my employer would be appreciative of a dead drag queen in the supply closet. That has a tendency to look bad on a company.

Sandy got himself under control (sort of), wiping the tears from his eyes. “You’re going to cave,” he told me, still giving these wet-sounding chuckles. “You’re so going to cave.”

“I am not!” I crossed my arms, trying to look indignant, but probably looking petrified instead.

“Well, you have”—he looked down at his watch—“twenty-eight more hours before I do it for you. But it looks like you’re making some headway.”

“I don’t want to be friends anymore,” I told him seriously.

He sidled up to me, all slinky-like, bringing out some Helena in the roll of his hips. I tried to move away, but he backed me into the shelves against the wall. I was cornered. “Oh, sugar,” he purred, dropping his chin on my shoulder, watching me with those big eyes, curling his hand into my hair. His breath felt hot on my ear. “You should know by now that you’re stuck with me. For life. There’s no way, come hell or high water, that you’re ever going to escape me. I’ve got my claws in you, and I don’t plan on letting go.” He fisted my hair and gave it a little jerk.

I shivered lightly.

Then, when I knew things couldn’t get any worse, things got worse.

The supply closet door opened and Vince walked in. And, of course, I knew immediately how it looked, me pressed up against the shelves, Sandy all but wrapped around me like he was getting ready to eat me whole. If I walked in on something like that, I’d have assumed the two people were about to play a game of Dick Up The Butt.

You could tell it took him a moment to take in what he was seeing. There was a blank look, then surprise, then recognition. Then came that scowl again, just like the one he’d given me yesterday when he’d asked if Sandy was my boyfriend.

Sandy knew
exactly
what was happening too, and pressed himself against me just a
tiny bit closer
, his gaze never leaving Vince. He curled his fingers through my hair again, pulling me toward him, giving me a lingering kiss on my cheek. I felt my face grow hot, but I didn’t say a damn thing for fear of squeaking. I don’t know of anyone who thinks squeaking is cool.

After what felt like a decade, Sandy (or was it Helena?) finally uncoiled himself from me with an evil smirk and sauntered his way slowly past Vince, whose scowl had only become more pronounced. He reached up and dragged his finger along Vince’s shoulder, just a light touch, but noticeable. He moved past him and turned and glanced down at his ass, giving a low whistle.

“You weren’t kidding, Paul,” he said in that throaty Helena voice of his that almost drove me up the fucking wall. “Remember, you have until five tomorrow.” Then he moved out the door, closing it behind him.

I could feel Vince’s gaze on me, but I couldn’t look at him for some reason. “What happens at five tomorrow?” he finally said, his voice neutral.

“The end of the Mayan calendar,” I muttered.

“Isn’t that supposed to be when the world ends?”

“Yeah.”

“So the world might end tomorrow?”

Oh good Lord.
“It’s always possible.” Because it
could
. For all I knew, right now, somewhere in space, a group of ragtag oil workers were trying to stop an asteroid from hitting and destroying the earth by drilling deep to place a nuke inside. They could fail. We could all die.

Damn you, Michael Bay!