Black Velvet (47) (Patreon)

(Happy birthday Kanga!)

I've mixed up my mom's soap and mine again.  There's a sugary scent that comes and goes with the breeze, right along with the smell of fresh-cut grass and morning dew.

My window is rolled down to fight the mugginess of left-over southern heat.  Thanks to it and a hasty shower, my curls are still drenched by the time my car rattles up the gravel road.  It trails along The Sweet Spot bakery in a wide loop, and my tires protest the long turn.  The radio hums with static, just out of range of Jameson's morning news station.

I'm late. I've never been late —

The static from the radio matches each stray thought that whips thinner and thinner until it's nothing but black lines out of focus on a tv screen.  I still try to grasp at them, to tie them together, and force them into coherency.

I'm late, and Tobias and I —

We kissed.

The light from the occupied bakery is dim in comparison to dawn breaking. Tobias' dark car strangely reflects the sun, each ray of light lost in the small dips and grooves, like the dips of his rings in my bedroom under the shadow of his body.

Ms. Martin's bright yellow Volkswagen is near gaudy in comparison. It's out of place in Jameson's deep morning silhouettes, created by large old treetops and old, Victorian houses.

Ms. Martin's Volkswagen.

The one thing Ms. Martin asks for is a phone call if her employees are running behind — a phone call that I never made.  My stomach somersaults with the idea of my perpetually smiling, afternoon-loving, boss; who is probably already cranky with the notion of waking earlier than the sun, waiting for my late arrival.

When straddled under Tobias' knees, watching his dark eyes turn wild and startled with heat, with a first burn;  scarring into thick and unforgettable tissue —

It's one of many things that were furthest from my mind.

—

"Great."

My work keys jingle uselessly from my lanyard, unneeded. The employee door is already cracked with Ms. Martin's large flower pot. It's one she uses during work hours as a prop so that Shelby's smoking habit can be hidden away. The barista's ashtray is overflowing, happy little flowers underneath muddled in dewy, smudged ash.

The walk from the corridor to the kitchen feels long.

"Oliver, how nice of you to show up." Ms. Martin is waiting in front of an enormous mixing bowl.  Her arms are crossed, and she's ready to give out a scolding, at least by the looks of her furled brows. It seems a bit dramatic — but given Ms. Martin could easily take one of her show dog's place with the amount of fanfare she carries with her when she's upset, it's not misplaced.

"Sorry I didn't call," I avert my eyes, "Um. I didn't want to wake you up."  That's a lie.  Luckily, and to my surprise, it doesn't sound like one.

"How thoughtful?  Or you could send a text."  Her eyes narrow, thick-heeled dress shoes tapping the ground in little clanking slaps. Her tone is flat.

In situations like these, I can't help but maybe think that Ms. Martin views me as her human child. I feel strangely offended to have a Pomeranian as a hypothetical brother.

Finally, she sighs, breaking her angry facade.

"Sorry,"  I flush,  "I should have — but.  I was frazzled about it.  I guess.  Um, being late.  That is."

"... Oliver.  I was worried about you. Actually, I was more than worried," my boss throws up her hands in exasperation, "it's not like you to be late. Is a call or a text just too much to ask for?"

"...I'm sorry, Ms. Martin."

"You and Toby better be glad I'm not Randy Melville. He's fired people for a lot less than the inconvenience of late breakfast pastries and a near heart attack."

You and Toby.

Toby was late.

"We have a tall order for Tucker Denning's baptism today."

"I know," The mention of Randy has me worried; the thought of my neighbor losing his new job due to me has me more conflicted than me Martin's veiled but mostly empty threat.  It's empty because I have seniority and the benefit of a soft spot.  I hope some softness on her end extends to my neighbor.  "... Where is he — Tobias, I mean?  It would be my fault if he were late."

"I doubt that.  I sent him to the front to help me clean up some of the mess from around the construction. It's punishment." Ms. Martin is still frowning, but it seems like it's taking some effort to do so. She tosses me my apron. "I'm not going to fire him, so don't look at me like that."

"Punishment?"

"... I checked Nicolai's MeBook — of course."

"Did you call him?"

Please don't say you called him.

"Well, yes.  That's why I checked his MeBook."  She harrumphed,  "I called him because he's your emergency contact — and you were an hour and a half late."

"I set my alarm late."

"The number you listed for Nic isn't in service anymore.  I thought maybe his updated number would be on MeBook."

I grit my teeth, giving her my sincerest look of apology.

"Oops."

"Oops, honestly, Oliver.  Anyway, I checked — and then I found other things. I'm only letting you off easy because you were probably the driver for your incorrigible brother and his friend." My boss juts her finger in the direction of the front, and by his friend, she probably means Tobias.

I tilt my head a bit, and she sighs, again, heavily.

"I saw the photos of Nicolai's drunk little ass tagged all over the place.  Including with my niece."  I blanch because Nic isn't a favorite amongst parents — or families in general when it comes to anything they could mistake as romantic.

"Oh — Uh.  I don't think,"  I shrug because I don't know how to finish my sentence. "Well.  I didn't see your niece."

"You can't tell me Tobias wasn't there with that wanna-be Casanova. The two are as thick as thieves — and where that leaves you in this equation, I'm not sure."

"I was the designated driver."

"Mhm.  Raunchy Jameson party and two young adults late for work, looking tired as priests do after confession.  Don't tell me."  She frowns, "especially if underage drinking is involved."

"I don't drink,"  I say it so confidently that Ms. Martin smiles a bit.  "I just drive the others."

"I started the ovens." She pats my head softly as she passes me, "Oliver, you're a good boy. Please.  Act like it."

"...Um. Thank you," I say because I'm not sure what else to say when people tell me that. It happens more often than I'd like to think, and I wonder what's given them that notion.  "I will."

"Get to work, hon. No more parties before work," she sighs, "keep away from that brother of yours and Tobias before you become satan's sinnin' spawns together.  Three is company, and that's probably what they want with reputations like those."

"It wasn't their fault."

"Oh, honey,"  Ms. Martin clicks her tongue,  "you're too impressionable — honestly."  She thinks for a moment,  "... I'm moving Mr. Amadeus up front for now.  I don't want him around you.  After what he did to his father."

"Stepfather —"

"No.  No, no.  I gave him a second chance and now you're late for work after being his personal cab-driver.  I know you can get the baking done on your own."

From the edge, by the bakery wall, I see Tobias' shadow.  I watch it linger and then disappear.  And I just know — know he's heard it all.

--

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