Black Velvet (8) (Patreon)

My alarm trickles through my half-formed dream around three am.  When I first took the baking shift, I remember being absolutely horrified at leaving my house at that hour of the morning — and also because it was absolutely the worst sleep schedule for an eighteen-year-old.

I guess I don't have a social life to ruin, regardless.

No.  It wasn't that.  It was because three am was that time of the night in horror films when something always went wrong.

It's the hour that calls for spooks, ghosts, and ax-murderers — and that's why I left my lamp lit, fully prepared to take on any deity that may challenge me on my way to bake heavenly pastries.

I could always bribe them with pecan pie.

This morning, however, the lamp serves as a subtle reminder that I'd yet to learn to sleep without dousing my pillow in slobber.  Which, gross.  I wrinkle my nose in disgust, smearing the palm of my hand over my face like it would wake me up.  I try to think of exciting things, things like food and hot chocolate — anything to make me leave the warmth of my covers.

Unfortunately, the embarrassment still courses through me — makes me want to retire into some sort of sheet-dwelling hermit.

It'd taken me quite some time to fall asleep — because hello, I made an asshole out of myself in front of everyone because my mouth and my stupid empathy does things I ask it not to do.  The reminder of that unsightly situation sends a bout of nerves to my stomach that work better than the shrill hum of music on my smartphone.

I grunt to myself, clumsily working my way to the closet and pulling on a pair of jeans, my non-slip shoes, and blue 'The Sweet Spot Bakery' shirt —

Because my whole life is a joke.

I run my hand through my hair several times to make it presentable and lessen its wildness, so maybe I can get away with not wearing a hideous cap at work today, brush my teeth, and decide —

Wow, I look like the nine layers of hell shit upon me.

My eyes are still puffy and bright from sleep, and my boss is definitely going to tell me to wear a cap.  My mood, however, isn't dampened — because if I leave right now, I'll be able to make myself a cup of hot chocolate behind our espresso counter before my shift starts.

I beam widely, teeth feeling minty and slick against my tongue.  I grab my wallet and keys, swiping a quick hand over my dog, Lupo's grey hair.  He stares at me expectantly, hitching his head against my lap until I give in and fetch him a treat.

"Be good,"  I command, finger out.  He pouts.  Two weeks ago, he'd decided it would be a good idea to trespass into Nic's holy space and tear up a good half of his baseball card collection.  If I'd ever seen my brother full out sob, it had been in their soggy remnants.  "No delectable baseball players for you, okay?"  I pat his had happily, twisting the lock on the door.

I'm still particularly on guard in the mornings, whether it be from sleep loss or superstitions—  since I will forever and always believe in ghosts — all of my heavy-handed research in science absolutely didn't mean shit to my subconscious fear meter.

That leads to this moment.

I feel my heart jump three inches in my chest at the sight of a long, lean body standing in the center of my mildewed lawn.  I gasp, a short intake of air — fearing demons and ghouls — maybe even freaking aliens

— before I recognize the stance, and I know that it's none other than Tobias himself.

"You scared me,"  I breathe, pulling my keyset from my back pocket, "What are you —"  I feel my sentence break and dissolve into the chilly air; Tobias stalking forth on heavy boots that fill my ears with the sound of sloshing, wet grass.

He crowds into my space, enough for me to watch the porch light cut across his strong jawline.  His eyes are fierce, but tired, narrowing as he lifts his lips in something that resembles a snarl,

"I need to talk to you,"  he says, the words carrying a slight, wafting scent of Black Velvet whiskey.  He's unusually composed to be reeking of liquor, but I can't count the number of times that I've known him to be drunk when no one else had.

"Maybe when you haven't been drinking, yeah?"  I try to reason, eyes squinting with what I hoped to look like compassion and not pity.  He scoffs, long throat baring as he throws his head back in a mean laugh.  "— You're drunk,"  I repeat the fact steadily, careful not to offend him.

"Of course you'd know that," his dark gaze falls on me, the corner of his lip curling in a mean smirk, "you think you know everything there is to know about me, right?  'Cause you hide behind your rose hedge —" He waves off towards the flowery installment that divides our households.  "Minding everyone's business but your own."

"We're neighbors; I leave at three am,"  I lift my palm to his chest to push him out of my space, feeling crowded against the porch gate.  "I'm bound to know your drinking habits."

"Oh, habits?"  He grabs my hand that's on his chest, leaning over it to bend down to my eye-level,  "You know my habits, now — am I some sort of lab rat?  One of your projects?"

I ignore the escalation of my heartbeat — try to ignore the heat of his body wafting up against mine and the size of his hand that covers my own.

"— are you trying to assert your dominance like one?"  I spit back, before realizing just what I've said.  He doesn't even flinch, a smirk growing as he rolls his eyes heavenward.  "I won't look at you, okay?  Just drop it.  I'm not gonna tell anyone —"

"Don't act like I'm being unreasonable,"  he spits, "I just want you to mind your own fucking business for once in your life."  The words are snipped and hurtful, slapping against my childhood self that used to adore him as some sort of idol.

"I'm done here."  I exhale loudly, skirting around him and marching towards my car.

Tobias snakes out an arm to wrap around mine an attempt to keep me there, to solidify his doubts.

"Go home, Tobias!"

I spin around, and this time — I lift my other hand in an attempt to shove him physically away from me — irateness and humiliation overcoming my common sense and peaceful nature.  My hands do hit the firm build of his chest, but my foot slides against the wet grass, and we both lose our footing.

Non-slip shoes, my ass.

His weight falls against mine, legs trapped between the gap of my own as he scrambles to flip us and lift me above him instead — and this is the day that I find myself bowed over Tobias Amadeus, straddling him like an arrow.

"Your work clothes —"  He starts, before snapping his mouth shut with an irritated glower. I think it to be oddly considerate of him, seeing as how he just started an argument in my lawn at three am about my staring bothering him, to be worried about my work clothes getting wet.

"What is your deal?"  I yelp, color flooding to my cheeks as I realize the proximity, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm sprawled out on his lap, one of his large hands splayed across my thigh.  I try not to focus on the warmth of it.

"I don't want my family's business being everybody's fucking business —"  his gaze flickers to his hand, and then back up to me, blinking.

"You think that's what I'm gonna do — start rumors?  You've been coming home drunk for over four years now, Tobias."  I yelp, indignant, before slapping a hand over my mouth — praying against all the odds that my parents had slept soundly through the outburst.

His hand tightens on my leg, and I sum it up to instinct,

"Then why are you fucking watching me?"  He hisses, eyes hovering over the expanse of my body that's arched above his.  His legs are warm, under mine, but my knees are soaked from the grass underneath them.

I swallow at his question, leaning back on my haunches as I blink.

Watching him the way that I do, it isn't normal, is it?

I feel my heartbeat in overtime, anxiety building.  I think of him and the man from the diner, their lips interlocked — the jealousy that had budded in my chest.

Tobias' hard glare falls with a raise of his brows, a knowing chortle leaving his throat as he leans his torso forward.

"You're not being nosy at all, are you?"  He breathes, the heat of it dances across my coloring cheeks.  The corners of his lips are lifting, predatory, dark — and my stomach turns with that hornet's nest again.

"I —"  I duck my head, averting my gaze to the wet grass before interest pulls it back.  "I've got to go to work."

He chuckles, that same low pitch that normally chills my skin and sends my frazzled brain into overdrive.  His hand slides against my thigh as he leans closer to my ear.  The warmth of it is distracting, and the buzzing hasn't ceased.

"Scared?"  He asks, tone genuinely curious.  I nod in the affirmative, because whatever surge of want that has settled in my gut, is surely terrifying enough.  "— yeah?  I think you like it."  He slides out from under me, but his breath is still hitting my neck as he speaks,  "I think you watch me, because you think I'm dangerous.  I know you, Oliver — you like the fucking thrill of it."

"No, I —"

I what?  I what?  His hand pushes through my hair before he parts, tangling like the thorns from the rose bush had when I was small.

"I'm not a mystery you want to solve — or one of your little science projects — understand this,"  he whispers, "we've all got our issues, sweet boy, Oliver.  Stay out of mine."

Tobias is gone; his hand has untangled from my hair — but I sit there in the wet grass in a haze for long enough after to be late for my shift.
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