Black Velvet (15) (Patreon)

(A/N:  The 'Call Me Maybe' chapter, that happened before I even knew about that music video.  Also, I don't own Barney so don't sue me)

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Tuesday's are my least favorite day.

I know a lot of people who could gripe on and on about Monday, but Tuesday always happens to be that weird — out of place day where it isn't quite mid-week, and I'm not any closer to curling up in my bed for the weekend.

That is if I had weekends off.

I feel sluggish and off-schedule as I part my face from the pillow, running my hands through my hair. I'm hot, and my hair is sticking up like I've stuck my finger in an electrical socket, and my body carries the dull thrum like I actually have.

I blearily eye the alarm clock next to my bed, flashing blue numbers telling me that it's mid-afternoon — which is my first moment of realization: I have work at four am, and now I've slept through the part of the day where I very much should have been awake.

— The second shitty realization is that my stomach is growling earnestly.  I palm the center of it, crawling off of my bed and dropping the floor in a pile of too-warm blankets.

I've avoided the grocery store like the plague, and I know my dad is just waiting for starvation to kick me into gear and an impromptu mission to the local FoodMart. I sit, fog-eyed as I stare at the calendar across from my bed, frowning at the words in red,

Find an apartment by summer's end.

I won't be leaving Jameson, and I know that.

It's more about independence, and a new goal — knowing that I would be able to sleep through the day without my dad yelling TOUCHDOWN on Sunday afternoons and my mom's Wednesday book club meetings overlapping with my need to study for my online exams.

Part of me feels less eager at the thought of leaving my childhood home now, most of that summing up to finally put a crack in Tobias' other-worldly ability to bitch-face and never converse for more than a breath's worth with me.

I lift to my feet long enough to scratch out summer with a bold blue strike and write in winter above it instead.  Winter is a more realistic goal, I think, and if I mean for moving out — or for cracking into Tobias' shell at full force, well who knows.

—

The fridge is empty, which shouldn't be too much of a shock.  Word still hasn't gotten out about Tobias' escapades, whatever they were, that landed him in the police station.  My mom's interest would've surely piqued at the mention of an arrest — and also, not to mention, the manic amount of texts from Nic.

I click my fingernails against the inner, plastic drawer, mouth dry, and twisted into a frown as I try to conjure food up with sure will.

"Doesn't matter how long you stare, Oli."  My dad's voice carries the hint of a laugh as he waggles my keys from where he's perched against the counter,  "I think it's errand boy time."

"Do we have pop tarts?"  I groan, rubbing the sleep from my eyes,  "Instant potatoes?  Bread?  I will eat anything."

"Oliver.  Store,"  My mom snips from the living room,  "Now.  I'm not scraping your starved body off the floor; we just got done with the refurbishing."

"You owe me for retrieving that sad sack of parts that you call a car," my dad adds. I cringe. "Took me a good three hours. Coulda' died in that heat, and here you are, babbling on about mashed potatoes."

I push the fridge shut and lean against it with a sigh, reluctantly holding my hand out for the keys.

"You had me because you couldn't afford a maid, didn't you?"  I mutter in mock anguish, trudging towards the front door in my sleep slippers. "I refuse to get dressed."

"Oh honey,"  My mom frowns,  "Maids are much cheaper and efficient."  Her hands settle onto her hips with the simper, a satisfied chuckle leaving my dad.

—

I'm barely halfway out of the door when I notice Tobias' half-clothed form.

Of course. Why don't you flaunt your perfect self for everyone to see? It's totally fair.

He stands, barefoot and shirtless in the humid heat of the sun.  His broad back faces me, muscles curling, black hair wet, and pushed back from his face as he leans over a tool kit and his lawnmower's open front end.  His face is still marked with paling bruises — and his jeans are stained with fresh-cut grass.

I can feel my legs turning to the godawful sort of nervous mush that they tend to do around him.  I grimace and shake them discreetly, trying to focus on the task at hand.

Eggs.  Milk.  Bread.  Chicken.  Tomatoes.

Heavy cream.  Clothes for Tobias. Other things that I can't think of at the moment.

The sun is bright, carrying with it a heat that I'm not prepared for — even just in my pajama bottoms and cotton shirt.  I hold my hand, curled around my brow like a shield from the dominant rays of light, and quite possibly as a poor way of hiding myself from my neighbor's son.

I swallow, jerking my eyes down to scope out the lousy paint job of my front deck — tightening my grip on the keys in my hand as my stomach all but bursts with anxiety.

Of course, in my hopes to not be caught with bedhead and weird anxiety over the shirtless man — I nearly trip down the few stairs of my porch.  I find myself, righting my frame against the wood column with an embarrassed laugh,

until I realize I've broken the quietness and swallow the sound completely.

"Trying to break your neck, kid?"  Tobias calls, raising a brow over his shoulder from where he stands on the other side of the rose bush.  He deposits a thin cord into the metal toolbox at his feet with ease, damp trails on his body the only give away that he's affected by the heat.

I will myself to look anywhere but the curve of his hipbones, fidgeting as I try to descend the last stair.  My feet hit the grass, miraculously,

"I don't think you and Nic are old enough to be calling me kid," I counter, resisting the urge to cross my arms over my chest out of insecurity. "Like, at all — but you do you, I guess."

"Yeah?" He scoffs a bit, running a hand through his damp hair, "Put you in a barney t-shirt, and you could pass for one."  There's an air to his tone I haven't heard before, casual and light like he may just be teasing for fun and not for sport.

My stomach turns again when he smirks back at me.

"Kid." 

"Oh, very funny."  I roll my eyes when he laughs.  "Do you normally offer to make out with children?"  I ask him, a broad smile spreading across my face in mock innocence. 

Tobias eyebrows raise.  As soon as the words process better in my sleep fogged brain, I realize I might have stepped a foot too far in the hopes of besting him and more towards sounding flirtatious. Right in my front lawn.  In earshot of my parents.

"That came out wrong."  I justify, wrinkling my nose in mortification. Tobias brings his thumb to his lips and drags it lazily across them.  I watch the movement, and his smirk grows. "So wrong."

"Oh, did it?"

He eyes me with interest, again, and just for a moment — I feel the strangest bit exposed.

"Where are you heading?"  He asks, casually deterring from the conversation before.  I almost face-plant in the dirt from the whiplash of it all.  "You don't work yet."

"Eggs."  I fluster at the awkward response, brain still lagging at the blatant avoidance of conversation, "I need eggs. And milk. Probably other edibles."  I suck in a breath to calm myself, curling my ankle around the other,  "We're all starving to death, so I decided to play the martyr and suffocate in the heat to bring home food."  I shrug, waggling my keys at my side.

"Exciting."

I notice the half-mowed grass and furrow my brows, "Did your lawnmower give out?"  He's digging in the box again but nods in confirmation. "You can use ours, you know —" I jerk a thumb back in the direction of the two-compartment garage,  "If you can use your words instead of the grunts you're accustomed to; My dad's home so just ask him to pop it open."

Tobias closes the toolbox and yanks it up onto the top of the lawnmower.  I most definitely don't watch the muscles in his arms work with the movement.  He pushes past a bald section in the rose bushes with ease, heavy hand falling on my shoulder, and delivering a soft push.

I sway under the force of it, but it's much milder than the way Nic play fights. His hand lingers for a second longer than it should, and I nearly lean into it.

"How kind of you," he jokes coolly, "I'll take a break and catch up with you on that offer.  Have fun getting your eggs."

He passes me and starts up the deck,

"You could, uh —" I start, flushing uncomfortably as I wonder precisely when my brain to mouth filter died, probably near birth,  "You want to get eggs with me?"

Toby quirks a brow as he looks back at me, his hand sliding over the rail near the stairs.

"What?"  But he smiles, and it's bright and nearly blinding.  "What was that?"

"I meant...  I don't know."  My stomach flips a bit, but he stops and turns around.  "Um—"

"When are you going to be back?"

"Uh,"  I pick at the lettering of my shirt, "thirty minutes? Hour tops... Why?"

"Meet me on my porch tonight before you head out."  He shrugs.  "I wanna talk to you about applying to your work."

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