Black Velvet (16) (Patreon)

Tobias wants to talk to me tonight.

A soft sort of smile blooms on my face before I catch the stray thought and stifle it.  He wants to talk about work,  I scold myself, not to you in particular.

We're not capable of just 'talking.'

I go through a brief mental checklist from the past few weeks to remind myself of that fact, and, unfortunately, the list includes drunken (albeit accidental) tackling and voyeurism, broken down cars and police stations — and — ugh.

Right, I frown, chomping down on my paper straw, unfortunate circumstances; the only reason that he's acknowledged your existence. 

... Well, at least if Tobias is hired at the bakery, I'll be blessed with seeing him in The Sweet Spot t-shirt, which is hilarious.  Or at least should be, but my smile falls a second time.

The problem is — I'll likely see the Toby that I'm used to — sober, reserved, and polite.  This will be daily, and surely, during that time, I'll try to tell myself that it's less worrying than this drunken, hateful demeanor that I've been getting very in touch with as of late.

"This is stupid."  I bite my lip and tap my nails against the cup holder, before working at the handle underneath my window until it rolls down. "So stupid — and why is it so hot today?"

I suck in the fresh air like a fish returning to the water, cursing my stupid car's affinity for getting flat tires and myself for not equipping it with air conditioner fluid since last March.

Luckily today's problem is the latter grievance, and the reason for my standstill is not some wheel malfunction in the dead of night after returning from jail with my scarily hot neighbor — but my shot air conditioner.

Hot neighbor?

I wrinkle my nose, shaking away the thought like a spider has crawled over the entirety of my body.  He's not hot. He's scary and a prick — the prickliest.  I hum to myself, well, objectively he may be hot — but, no.  No.

How I'm currently melting and still finding time to obsess over Tobias — well, let's just say that it's an acquired skill.  I run my hand over the dampness of my forehead and groan.

—

My actions typically give the worst consequences.  For example, I bought an iced coffee at the stand next to work, a minor and innocent detour that has me now stuck behind a thick line of cars on the way into the marketplace.

The impasse has lasted over thirty minutes, and the absence of police makes me wonder what the heck could have happened in Jameson for there to be traffic — and of all things to be thinking about, I'm thinking about Tobias.  

Again.

Granted, it's hard not to think about it when I just watched him labor half-naked over a lawnmower — no.

"Objectively hot." I determine out loud, "I'm not attracted to him, but he is objectively attractive, and it is okay to admire other men for their assets to mankind."

I nod abruptly and shoo away the more irrational side of me. Instead, I choose to focus on the issue at hand, which happens to be me roasting away in the afternoon heat — a not so pretty sight. I'm sweaty and flushed pink in awkward spots, hair curling where it sticks to my face.

I didn't think there were enough inhabitants here to line a freeway, much less back us so far out of town that I can't spot Mr. Gaffoy's towering, burnt orange travesty that he calls his home — but maybe it's because I'm half-blinded by the sun, which is currently scorching down and turning my small black car into a furnace, as I sit trapped the blistering heat. 

I glare at my half-emptied espresso beverage, jerking it out of the cupholder and sipping petulantly at the paper straw. 

Stupid eggs and stupid caffeine addiction.

The ice has melted and watered my drink down — the condensation slipping down my wrist as I grip it.  I wipe my hands off on the stomach of my shirt just as the man in front of me cracks open the door to his truck — the same model half the men in town seem to own.

I wonder if his air conditioner is broken as well, silently hoping for camaraderie in my negligence to tend to my vehicle's basic needs.   Smoke drifts from his window lazily. I sigh in defeat when he makes no effort to exit his vehicle, and instead simply peeks his familiar head out and then slams the door shut again. 

The good thing about small towns is that someone has got to know what's going on.

I'm low on gas, and the local radio station has failed to comment on the hold-up.  I sink into my seat, undo my seat belt, shifting into park. I rid myself of my social anxiety before it can blossom, telling myself it's for the greater good — and that if this hold up is going to take more than fifteen minutes to clear up that I'm not going to let myself die in my mini car.

I can feel my shirt clinging to my back, but my drink is still in hand as I trudge up to the truck in front of me, hoping for a friendly Jameson resident.  I tap shyly against the window above my head.

It takes a moment before it rolls down completely, and when it does, I startle, the straw of my drink bumping painfully into my gums.

"Uh, hey,"  I blubber,  "— sorry to bother you. I was just wondering if you knew what was going on?"  I wrinkle my nose, curling my hand around my eyes like a visor in a poor attempt to shield my eyes from the bright sun overhead.

I squint to make out the face leering down at me.

"The road's held up, they're doing construction on the bridge by Red Apple." The man tells me, gruff as ever, cigarette smoke wafting in my direction.  I sputter and wave it away from my face. 

"Hm," he snorts, "tried to put it out before you got to the car — but that'd be a waste of a cigarette." He adds, motioning towards his ashtray as he rolls down his window a bit further.  I shake my head,

"No, no big deal."  I try to shrug it off, play it cool — eyes adjusting to the light, "so how long do you think —" I glance upwards as I speak, sun disappearing behind a small cloud, just for a moment, and I recognize the face immediately. 

My voice flickers and dies in my throat.

It isn't that it's Richard. 

I'm sure he knows exactly who I am, and I'm sure it's less than polite that I know so little about my small town neighbor.

What startles me into silence, is that Tobias' stepfather has a yellowing bruise on his left cheek.  I swallow, the corners of my lips playing downwards, taking in a few flicks of healing cuts on his forehead.  

Tobias' bruises were a similar color today —

and...

Oh.

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