Black Velvet (63) (Patreon)

(Hey guys! I really hope Black Velvet hasn’t become boring due to it becoming more slice of life than angst filled.  I’m excited for the next few chapters but they do become more mature, because Oliver begins to grow and so does Tobias, and they move forward as adults, etc.   

 I know this version is a lot simpler than previous versions, but I wanted the focus to be Tobias’ growth and healing and moving on from Jameson/his toxic family and friends, and Oliver following along beside him.  It’s a quieter and simpler healing journey.  I hope you guys are still enjoying the ride.

I swear there will be more substance soon, I just wanted to show some fluff too!  they deserve it!)

—

Jameson becomes boring.

Tobias is gone during the weekdays, Nic is at college, and Charlie-Anne has started an internship.  And apparently, movie night becomes a thing between my parents.

Despite this, I'm not entirely convinced they see any movies because I'm pretty sure movie theaters don't serve hard liquor and glow-in-the-dark hand stamps. I'm also pretty sure those stamps belong to  Ms. Labroid's late-night dance pub.

I'm not entirely keen to why a couple in their late forties feel the need to lie about their whereabouts, but I'm chalking it up to the excitement that comes along with acting like a couple of teenagers in love.

They never return earlier than two am on Friday nights, now.  It makes me feel like even more of a loser.

They never take the car, either; a cab picks them up, or my dad's old golf buddy and his wife, and Mom always looks like she might be in a commercial for beach-scented deodorant.  She even sticks a plastic flower in her wild hair.

If not for most of the evidence I've gathered against them, the horrible music that plays when they arrive back home, paired with their inhibited dancing, really clears up anything leftover from my shoddy detective work.

Suddenly, their irritation at Nic's past drunken antics doesn't seem so misplaced — because there's nothing quite like being woken up an hour before your alarm goes off.

That Friday, I was lucky because, though I have two parents going through their mid-life crisis, and my mom is getting weird hot flashes that she insists she needs to lower the house temperature for, I had free-range over the house, and my Metflix subscription had been renewed.

I'd showered, wrapped myself in a very worn sweater, sleep shorts, and my favorite throw blanket, and felt utterly content at the idea of watching a marathon of Cosmos on the couch with the knowledge that I'd get to see Tobias the next two days.

Then.  I fell asleep on the couch.

My phone vibrates me awake, my alarm silencing with an interrupting message tone.  I blink awake to the darkness of the living room, the television muted and playing previews.

Unknown

My phone reads.

Unknown?

I lost all my numbers in a very obnoxious software update yesterday morning, and blink at the area code that insinuates the person on the other end lives in the vicinity of Huxley or Jameson.  Instead of looking at the message, I try to think of who it could be, utterly creeped out the longer I stare at the lit screen.

I have Charlie-Anne's number saved, since she's texted me twelve times in the last hour alone, Nic and my parents are MIA, and Shelby wouldn't be up at this hour.  I'm having a tough time picturing another friend in my head — or even an acquaintance because my social skills are negative one hundred.

So, I panic a bit, think of urban legends and being sent a message in regards to my parents being kidnapped for ransom, because I saw it on Laws and Orders once,

but of course, it's very clearly none of those things,

Unknown Number:
I'm picking you up

What the fuck,  I think, because I'm sprawled out under an ugly periwinkle blanket and a sweater two times bigger than what I should be wearing. 

 I even have on mismatched socks.  I'm pretty sure the polka-dotted one belongs to my mom, but besides the point,

I am, again, not dressed to die.

I try to place together who else it could be, feel my mind wander to Tobias briefly, but texting doesn't seem to fit him quite right,

Outgoing message:
Uh, no, you're not?  Who is this?

That should scare off the mystery recipient, I think, because I asserted my dominance.  I hold the phone in my hands, startle when it vibrates again,

Unknown Number:
Cute

Whatever small bud of hope that it was Tobias — dies.

Definitely not Tobias, who would never probably call anything cute in the history of ever.  So I pull myself up off the couch, nearly drop my bag of popcorn in my scramble for the front door, if only to make sure it's locked.

It is.  So, of course, when I turn it, I unlock it.

Maybe I am made to be murdered —

As soon as I get my hands on the metal latch, it opens.

"Hey,"  I hear Tobias' voice before I see his smirk, probably the only thing that keeps me from punching his face in.  He puts more force than necessary on his shove to the front door, waves his phone a bit at me like, really?

"I thought you were a murderer."  I straighten, try to hide my polka-dotted sock behind my other ankle, grasp the popcorn bag with more force than necessary when he waltzes into my space. "I mean. You never text.  I mean — it's three am."

"You never text me, either.  We have work in thirty minutes.”  The dark-haired man snorts, shifts his foot back to shut the door, and toes off his boots like he hasn't a care in the world.  He drops a heavy, black canvas bag beside them, "Cosmos have a lot of serial killers or something?"

He's closer now, lower body swaying into mine,

"I'm pretty sure not many science documentaries involve someone  being murdered, okay,"  I wave one arm upward.  Tobias catches it by the wrist, wraps his long fingers about it, and tugs me closer, "I mean, maybe someone wants to create one, but that's probably like, cause for concern.  Perhaps a therapy session or something."

Woah, that's his hand on my very naked thigh.  Tobias has his head cocked next to my ear, breathes out a laugh as his fingers spread across my skin,

"Funny,"  He says, plucks the popcorn from my grip to drop it on the counter — and his hand comes back to squeeze at the back of my upper leg, "So.  Movie night?"

Tobias' gaze flickers to the tv, dark and familiar.

"Are you — your hands are cold,"  I exhale when his thumb skirts the front of my boxers, trying to calm the way my heart skitters up into my throat. I push his hand away with the one that isn't locked in his grip, "Did you just get in?  You didn't have to pick me up."

"Yeah."  He smiles against my cheek.  "I know.  Can I, though?"

"Yes."  I manage, even as his lips drag across the dip of my neck,  "Um. But I need to get dressed.  Is my parent's car outside?"

"Got it.  And nope,"  Tobias says but dips his head to the side like he's going to kiss me, "Why haven't you saved my number?"

It doesn't sound like much of a question, especially not when he pairs the words with a step forward, my feet moving in time with his.  His hand is sliding higher, closer to my posterior — so I push back again, ignore when his lips travel the skin of my wrist,

"So I'm guessing this means you aren't freaked out by," Shyness creeps into my tone, past the haze of ministrations.  "...What we did at the lake."

"'Freaked?"  Tobias wrinkles his nose into something akin to confusion.  I swallow, curl my fingers upwards against his palm,  "No. We talked at the bakery. Was I freaked?"

"Okay, so. You're just not good at communication,"  I whisper, but bring his hand close enough to my face to kiss the back of it gently, "we didn't talk about the lake.  I mean — not really.  Uh.  Oh — I need to grab my uniform."

"I'm not freaked,"  His brows gather, following as I take the stairs ahead of him — and ignore his thumbs that keep skirting up the backs of my legs, "and I want to take you to work... Wanna talk about what happened at the lake now?"

"Um," I shake my head, embarrassed, "My drunken parents might dance their way through the door at any minute, and effectively end that conversation.  So?  Um.  At work?"

I turn back to Tobias, from my empty doorway.  His eyes slide from me to the room, and he shrugs with a smile.

"Could call out."  He suggests.  “Try the lake again.”

I fluster, swallowing down a hoard of butterflies —

"I — No funny business."  I grab the handle of my door, "I mean.  We need to talk first?  I think."

Tobias throws his hands up, in mock surrender,

"'Kay. No funny business."  He hums.  "Until we talk."

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