Black Velvet (22) (Patreon)

(A/N: Squint and you can see me roast myself in this chapter.)

"Some people check the temperature with a thermometer, but Ms. Martin is cheap and would rather invest in pretty plates so," I dip a clean finger under the running water until it feels warm enough, filling the measuring cup with it,  "The thermometer here should say 100 degrees. It's typically 110, but the thermometer in question is a piece of shit, so one hundred is one hundred and ten. It has to be warm, but not hot enough to kill the yeast."

Tobias nods around a snort, dipping his finger in alongside mine. He's been relatively quiet the entire training, less broody and more attentive — which is strange, to say the least. Our eyes meet, and it almost feels shy.  I disregard it immediately.

"Anyway."  I clear my throat.  It's weird that he's forced to listen to my every word instead of voicing his usual complaints about the amount that I talk. It makes for a troublesome dynamic that I'm not used to, and I'm already horrible at teaching without that distraction.

"Uh — then after you have the warm water, I add about four tablespoons of sugar, a half-cup of olive oil, and then four tablespoons of yeast." I motion towards where each ingredient resides as I speak, and his dark eyes follow my hand. "Really easy recipe. It looks like a lot of sugar, but it's just for the yeast to feed off, so don't worry about the dough being sweet." I add, absently pouring out the last bit of olive oil into the mix.

"I don't measure the flour," I tell him with an expression that hopefully conveys that he should not reiterate this in front of Ms. Martin. "Just fill it to the rim of the mixing bowl and add a handful of salt. It's the same amount every time — and you don't have to sift it for this recipe."

"Your hands are too small."  Tobias cuts in, surprising me. He hasn't spoken the entire time, and I almost laugh at how genuinely irritated he seems by the size of my hands, "— so a handful for me wouldn't be the same." He tacks on.  His annoyance penetrates his tone when he sees my poorly hidden grin.

"Well."  I falter after a moment of watching his frustration bubble to the surface, forgetting how keen to detail and perfection he has always been.

"I'll make sure to write down the measurements from now on," I assure him. "— I'll even measure my handful."

Tobias' lips twist like he's about to say something snarky, but he nods appreciatively instead.

—
A week passes quietly.  Nothing comes from Tobias' stint at the police station — and it's so peaceful that I almost forget the wretched sort of town we lived in.  I forget about the bored residents and their gossip and their judgment...

Almost.  Because —

It's Thursday. I like Thursdays.

It's slow at the bakery on Thursdays, so slow that I've managed to talk Shelby into making me a hot chocolate.

"How can you stand to drink these?"  She asks as she slips it over to me, her ringed fingers reflecting from the sunlight slipping through our front windows.  "It's like eighty degrees in here.  This is not fall weather."

It's an exaggeration, but not by far.  The end of summer heat is turning the bakeshop into a sticky mess, and she stands above the steam of the espresso maker daily.

"Ugh."

Shelby is alright.  She's blunt and spoiled, but she has a soft spot for me — or maybe my desserts, so in return, her kindness is habitual.

"I need chocolate and caffeine to maintain my  energy,"  I tell her simply, hands circling the mug,  "besides, your hot chocolates are the best."  It isn't empty praise since I'm pretty sure that the brunette's drinks are the only way I convince myself to wake up for work lately.

Shelby makes a show of fanning her face before she twists my nose between her fingers.

"You have enough energy,"  She sighs like she wishes she could say the same about herself, pushing stray ringlets from her bun away from her ears, "you're lucky you're so adorable, or I wouldn't go near the steamed water in this heat.  Abernathy boys are my downfall."

I rub my nose and perch myself on the barstool,

Adorable.  Pretty.  Are you kidding me?

"Well, I guess today won't be too bad." I scan the empty chairs laid out in front of her, "It doesn't look like you'll have to do it again for the rest of our shift."

Shelby rolls her eyes, untying her apron and slipping it over her head.  I've already done away with mine, unable to even function — like I ever know how to function — with the extra layer.

"We're so slow, and she's still hiring people,"  the brunette groans, glancing back over her shoulder like Ms. Martin might pop out of nowhere, waggling her manicured nail about, "and did you know? Her ex-husband paid for this whole remodel."

Shelby motions behind her, where the newly added, and several feet, of fresh building is still taped off — like some creepy horror film taped onto a cup of dyed sugar.

"Everyone in Jameson is convinced that the new intersection is going to bring us in a lot more customers," I shrug,  "maybe she's right."

"She does have quite a bit of money not to be resourceful," Shelby lifts a sculpted eyebrow and leans down onto her elbows, "Well, anyway, I think she should stick to hiring people who are customer-friendly, is all."  She seems thoroughly put off, like Ms. Martin had ignored input she'd already given. "or we'll be out of business.  I don't know when we went from hiring people who needed money to rich kids with daddy issues."

"What?"  I wrinkle my nose, throat burning when I attempt to swallow more hot chocolate than can fit in my mouth, "...Is this another Dawn scenario?"

Dawn was our old barista, Ms. Martin's rich ex sister in law — and the one employee that Shelby quickly replaced.  While Shelby had a way of painting on a flirtatious face for the early churchgoers, Dawn decided the best way to fend off an older man's habitual flirting was to chuck a day-old croissant at his face.

Dawn was not customer friendly. I may have admired her.

"No, not Dawn, thank god."  She lifts her hands slightly towards the ceiling like she is actually in the middle of giving thanks to the big man in the sky, "I don't need to compete for my hours — anyway, nah. She had to go and pull in that golden boy, Amadeus... Can you believe that? Like he needs a job."

I sputter a bit on my hot chocolate because, yes, I can believe that — because I watched it happen.

Yes, he does need a job.

None of that surfaces, though.

Shelby seems to take the lack of swallowing coordination as confirmation of her feelings because she nods eagerly.

"Right?  I heard what happened too, and I was totally just," she shakes her head in disappointment, "Too bad, you know?  He was one of like, the three hot guys we have here.  I'm going to have to move to get married."

"Wait — no, what?"  I tip my head towards her, fingers on the counter in interest,  "You lost me. Was? Isn't he still like,"  I make sparkling, blinding motions with my hands and squint my eyes, "A god?  Not to be looked upon by mere mortals —? ... You were just talking about how you think you guys had a moment next to the clock-in yesterday."

"Mm, no, thanks." She scoffs and puts her hands up in surrender, "That was before I found out that he's a dick.  Bad boys are an ugly 1990's trope."

I stare at her over my cup, wrinkling my brows like she's spouted a third head. I know Tobias can be a dickhead, but since when did other people know?

"Oh.  Maybe we shouldn't talk about this."  I feel uncomfortable.  I replace that discomfort with another mouthful of hot chocolate.

"And why not?" Shelby rolls her eyes and throws her rag into the sink. "Of course, everyone is just going to brush it off, because it's Jameson. Men here treat their parents like shit and get away with it all the time. If it was my dad and something like that —"

"What are you going on about — I trained him over a week ago, and a couple of days ago, you were also smitten with him."  I take another sip of my drink and assess her shocked face, "What?  I'm out of the loop. You're the only person I talk to besides Nic."

"What about Charlie-Anne Petchey?"  She wiggles her brows, and I stare at her quizzically,  "ugh, you idiot, anyway— Nic's been out of town! Oh my God, wow," she sighs, "he'll be in for a shock."

"Oh my god, would you just tell me,"  I yelp, hands encircling my mug as I resist throwing them in the air.  My curiosity is surging almost as much as my annoyance, "as fun as mysteries are, I think I'm mostly just confused — and it's too early to be confused."

"... Okay, okay, so — you saw that bruise on his face, right — a few weeks back when it was real nasty?"  Shelby hops up onto the barstool next to me and turns her knees in my direction. She almost reminds me of Nic in her brief bout of excitement. It's not as innocent, though.

"I'm glad it's healing."  I do, of course, remember the near fading bruise on Tobias' temple, beneath his eye — on his fist. I remember thinking that is somehow looked worse than when it was fresh.

"No, Oliver.  It's not the time to be sweet."  Shelby laughs.  I frown.  "I had a thing with a guy who worked up at the construction site down on Minneapolis Drive,"

"Gavin?"  I cut in.  I thought they broke it off months ago, but hey, guess I'm not as good of a listener as I thought. "Why are you talking to Gavin?"

"Yes, Gavin, don't judge me.  I can see it all over your face.  I need your full attention here,"  she startles as a group of teens pass the windows behind her, but settles when they pass the door, "anyway, a few weeks ago, Toby and them had a couple of drinks after his shift — old baseball pal crap, and next thing you know, Toby's dad is there."

My eyes are saucers, and I know it, unwittingly feeding her excited gossip.

"And his poor dad —"

"Stepdad."  I cut in, and I don't know why I feel the need to correct her.  "That's his stepdad."

"Okay? Does it matter?  Poor guy was just there with a friend from work — celebrating a promotion or something, and Toby lost it, swung at him — his stepdad had to defend himself, you know.  Toby is a fucking tree, how do you defend yourself against that?"

My eyebrows shoot upwards, and I gape openly.

I was right?

Oh no.  Holy fuck, I was right —

It takes me longer than I'd like to admit to gather myself, sleepy brain on over-drive with a pang of deep guilt.  I feel even guiltier as I shrug,

"Do you... Do you know why?  Why did they fight?"

"Well.  Gavin said he heard it was about money or something," she leans closer to me and drops her voice, "then he pulled Toby off of him.  Took Gavin and Lee to do it."

"That doesn't sound right.  Money?"

"Oh, but it does.  I always wondered why I didn't see their family out much, but —  Richard, on the way to the police station, told Gavin that Toby is always like this — Richard's basically terrified of him.  Gives him what he wants.  So is Toby's mom."

"I don't think his mom..."  Something white-hot blooms in my chest — something that feels like a hornet's nest that's been stepped upon, "His mom really loves — "

"A mother's love is fallible, you know?  But, anyway.  Richard loves Abigail so much.  Enough to put up with Toby for her, I guess.  It's a big strain on their marriage."  Shelby sighs.  She leans across the counter.  "...Does Nic know that Toby is like that?"

Fuck.

My stomach turns, drops, something I've never felt. Shit, shit — She continues, her voice static in my ears.

"You should warn him.  I guess Toby blows his lid all the time at home.  Abigail has gotten hurt a few time but won't press charges,"  she waggles her brows to get the point across, "That's why no one ever really sees her around."

"I don't,"  know what to say.

"The police picked Tobias up this time though. The dad was nice enough not to stick him in jail where he belongs.  Nic shouldn't run with a guy like that."

"Breads burning."  I interrupt—  not wanting to hear another word of it.  My stomach hurts.  I turn to Shelby before I leave, eyes on the counter instead of hers, "I've — you shouldn't tell people about that.  It's not right."

I leave a perplexed Shelby at the table, and my unfinished hot chocolate beside her.

--

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