by Anyta Sunday
ST-ST-STUFFED
Anyta Sunday
First published in 2012 by Anyta Sunday,
Buerogemeinschaft ATP24, Am Treptower Park 24, 12435 Berlin
An Anyta Sunday publication
www.anytasunday.com
Cover Design 2015 Natasha Snow
Copyright 2012 Anyta Sunday
Editor: Lynda Lamb
Third Edition 2014
All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced without prior permission of the copyright owner of this book.
All the characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
This book contains sexual content.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
To my cats, who draped themselves over my arms as I wrote this.
1 | The Suit
2 | Darn it and Desperate
3 | Better Than the Lamborghini
4 | Frank and Tactless
5 | Sweet Potato Puree
6 | Among Other Things
7 | Out of the Gutter
8 | Apricot Mango
9 | Bananas
10 | Clutch!
11 | Quick-smart
12 | Variable
13 | Honest Truth
14 | Something about 'fishes'
15 | Green light, right
16 | Let me?
17 | Resolutions
18 | Till Later
19 | Touch Me
20 | Karly
21 | Don't Give It Up
22 | She-Sha
>>The End<<
Acknowledgments
The series continues...
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To my cats, who draped themselves over my arms as I wrote this.
1
The Suit
KARL ANDREWS CHUCKED a box on either shoulder and maneuvered through the crowd to the stall right next to the freshly-squeezed-orange-juice guy. A stroller rolled over his foot, and he veered to avoid a run-in with the back wheel. A dog yipped at his other leg. Jesus.
Sweat dribbled at his hairline. Ticklish. Wouldn’t be long before the sweltering heat made a perfume of everyone’s scent. Yummy. This was so his favorite weekly stint. Honestly. Who wouldn’t like selling mustard-dressings and making limp rocket salads?
At twenty-seven.
Because it was the only way to make rent. And deliver him from a dire fate of two-minute-noodle dinners.
And come on, there was no way he’d live off that! He was a Chef. Well, okay, he didn’t have any formal training, but the food he created spoke for itself. Beef Stroganoff that melted on the tongue, marinated eggplant and walnut pesto with fresh ricotta ravioli, tuna steak dressed with a roasted red pepper and butter sauce. People would drool if he ever got the opportunity to tantalize their taste buds.
But not a single soul knew his talent save his ex, Will—but that hardly spoke for good word-of-mouth coverage. Especially since he’d called the guy a fucker and punched him in the nose the last time they’d met. Not that he didn’t deserve it.
Thanks to him, he had no family to show off to or test out new recipes on. Not anymore. Was the punch thanks enough for that? Probably not.
“Could you do that any slower?” came the gruff and pissed-off voice from behind the stall. “We’ve missed out on two customers already.”
Well, if he weren’t the only one setting up . . . He bit his tongue on the retort. The only reason he bothered, again, was because he needed the dosh. “Nearly there.”
He dumped the boxes of dressings and hurried back to the boss’s van for the lettuces. Arms full, Karl stepped back to shut the doors. His foot caught the curb, and he stumbled, backing into a passerby. “Sorry!” He quickly righted himself.
A grunt came in response. He caught sight of the suit, smoothing out his jacket, and grinned. In a town their size, a guy in a suit on a Saturday morning was pretty rare. Not that he was complaining. Nope-nope, certainly not. But if the dude was annoyed at his little bump, he’d be thrilled by the time he got through to the other side. There’d no doubt be sticky cotton candy stains on that nice—shoot, was that Armani?—jacket, courtesy of the kids he’d have to squeeze past.
He heard his boss yelling over the sea of heads and darted as quickly as he could to the stall.
“Finally. Now I’m going to go have a ciggie. Sell some salads. Prove you’re useful.”
As soon as his boss left, Karl did what he always did. Because, and yes offence, the mustards were average. The dressings?—worse. He snatched an empty vinaigrette bottle and whipped up a mix of the honey-mustard and balsamic dressing. Karl tested it. Not wow-wee, but much better.
“Rocket salad, thanks,” came a rich male voice.
Without looking up, Karl spun to his left and grabbed a plastic bowl. “How many handfuls?”
“Excuse me?”
“Are you very hungry?” He looked up at the customer. The first thing he noticed was the suit. The Armani man was coming to visit. How nice. He swallowed a chuckle. When his gaze landed on the man’s face for the first time, Karl sucked in a breath. The guy really pulled it off. He had such large gray eyes. . . .
“Not very hungry. Two handfuls?”
Karl nodded and kept glancing at the man. He looked familiar. Had he seen him somewhere before? Maybe he worked at the local bank. Yeah, that had to be the case. He prepared the salad and gave it to him. But even after he’d paid and gotten his change, the guy didn’t leave.
“Did you want something else?”
The Suit hesitated. “No.” He speared some salad with the little plastic fork and tasted. “Not bad.”
Karl shifted his weight from one foot to another. People usually didn’t comment on the salad. Actually, people usually didn’t stand at the stall to eat it, either.
The Suit pressed the fork to his lips as if deep in thought. His eyes narrowed on him again. “There is something else.”
He couldn’t help it; he cocked a brow and leaned forward. “Oh, yeah?”
“Your name.”
Wow, usually he was the direct one. Felt weird—and kinda nice—to be on the receiving end. Karl flashed him his charm-smile. “Karl,” and yours? But he never got to the second bit because, as soon as he’d said his name, the man paled. He dropped his salad on the counter, turned, and left.
What the hell?
No other customers lined up, nor were they likely to in a minute. That’s all he needed. Karl quickly ducked around the side of the stall and chased after him. “What was that for?” he said in an irritated voice as he reached his side and, without thinking, clasped a hand on his shoulder.
The Suit stopped, pushing off Karl’s arm. “Leave me a-a”—he took a deep breath—“leave me alone.”
And then Karl realized why his gray eyes looked so familiar. Because they were. He’d seen them before; cold, hard, angry and full of tears.
“Paul,” he breathed the name. Paul, the boy he’d ridiculed. Teased. Hit. Paul. Stutter-pig. St-st-stupid, Pauly. Did I stutter, Paul?
His elementary-school victim.
Paul didn’t respond, but Karl didn’t need confirmation. He remembered. Taking a few steps back, he nodded and watched as the crowds sucked Paul and his Armani suit out of sight.
He traipsed back to the stall, feeling like shit, and— oh fuck! His boss was back. Great. Karl tried fishing for his most apologetic smile, but he wasn’t sure he had one. The boss met his gaze and, without dropping it, he fished in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He handed Karl ten measly bucks. “Now piss off, you’re fired.”
2
Darn it a
nd Desperate
KARL REFRAINED FROM slamming the door of the seventeenth restaurant he’d dropped his résumé at. It was all the same. Currently full-staffed, no work available/temporary position has just been filled, and ‘we’ll keep your résumé on record, should something come up.’ But he knew at least half were secretly laughing at him. What? He wants to work here? But he has no experience.
Eye roll. That would be formal experience.
So he’d sunk lower, applying to be waiters at said restaurants. They’d all but eyed his six-foot-three height and shaken their heads. Should something come up . . . Yeah, right.
Shit, this was the third week he’d been looking. With no job and admittedly already being a few weeks late with the last month’s rent, he’d searched, he’d scavenged for something else in his town. But the place was a dry as an uninterested woman. So he’d packed up all his belongings and driven to the city. His place of residence: his pride and joy 2010 Lamborghini. Reventon Roadster, if you please.
But it didn’t make for great sleeping.
And there was no way on earth, ever, that he’d sell the thing. Yes, homeless and two-minute noodles trumped that. Besides, his late grandfather had willed it to him (before the whole gay debacle, and his parents cutting him off). So, Lamborghini aside, he still needed a job. Pretty desperately.
He stopped at a corner stand and bought a newspaper. After ordering the cheapest coffee he could at Starbucks, he flicked to the jobs section. Mechanic needed (he could drive and knew how to change oil—was that enough? Maybe it was something to learn hands-on?), Lollipop patroller for the South Side school—not happening. History teacher. IT specialist. Accountant. . . .
He scanned down the lists; surely there was something at least marginally relevant to his skills as a cook. He turned the page over. The only job left advertised was for a Girl Friday. He was about to slam the paper shut when something caught his eye. Light cooking involved. Cleaning. Errands. He read further. It came with accommodation. Pay was also negotiable, both of which were definitely plusses. Especially the former. Okay, so no shit he wasn’t a girl, but this was the twenty-first century. A man could do anything, and he was a jack of all trades. Pretty much. And could suffer a bit of grunt work if it paid. This would be a walk in the park. Excellent. He circled it.
* * *
Karl strolled down the main drag, heading toward the center city. He’d rung the number for the Girl Friday job, and an automated message gave him an address and interview time after he left his name. So, at eight the next morning, he headed toward Union Street. At least he hoped he was going in the right direction. He shrugged. He’d find it.
Twenty minutes later, he started to get annoyed. Where the fuck was it? Of course Union Street had to be the longest street ever, and only half the places seemed to be numbered. This was like I Spy. Where are you, 106?
He counted the buildings from the last marked one at 98. He crossed a small road. 105. 106. This should be it. But a hotel? The Pomodrolly at that? He must’ve written it down wrong. Unless this was just where the interview was, and the job was actually somewhere else?
With that thought, he walked through the revolving doors and into the polished marble lobby. He strode up to reception. “I’m here to be interviewed for the”—and then he hesitated. Girl Friday’s job he might be able to do, but he didn’t want to publicize the fact. Specifically, he didn’t want to say the title—“the job.” He internally shrugged. Maybe that’d be enough.
The smartly uniformed receptionist smiled, showing off her perfect teeth. Karl ran a tongue over his own, feeling for the chip at the corner of his front tooth. That night he’d never forget. No.
“The Pomodrolly manager, Mr. Hyte, is conducting interviews for a”—and here her grin widened—“Girl Friday. Is that what you were referring to?”
He coughed over the embarrassment he felt rising to his cheeks. Just how much did he need this job?
“Yes, that’s the one.”
A lot, it seemed.
* * *
He followed the directions he’d been given to Mr. Hyte’s secretary on the thirty-first floor, knocked, and entered. A petite woman with a thick (German?) accent greeted him. “How can I help you, sir?”
Behind her, the doors to the manager’s office were partially open, and from where he stood, he could see the cuff of the man’s sleeve and his hand gripping a pen on an old oak desk. “Um. . . ” He pulled out his résumé from his shoulder bag and handed it to the Frau. “I’m here about the job. I left a message.”
Her lips parted; she looked confused and checked her computer monitor. “I have a Mrs. Andrews for eight-thirty.”
“That’d be Mr. Andrews.” Obviously.
He stepped back as she glanced over his résumé. She frowned. What was that for? And why was she so studiously reading? This was mostly a job cleaning and straightening shit. Okay, so he didn’t have any previous experience with that, but really, how hard could it be? Karl tried not to think of his old apartment, the clothes strewn about the room, the unmade bed, the bathroom that hadn’t been touched with a Scotch-Brite since his ex had been living there. That was just because he hadn’t the time before. Well, that’s the story he was sticking to.
She looked up again, the frown only deepened. “But you’re not a girl.”
As she said it, a little louder than necessary, Karl noticed a movement in the manager’s office. He followed it as he put down the pen he’d been holding. Was he listening to this? Why didn’t he just come out here himself? Lazy bugger.
He feigned a polite smile. “I’m sorry, does this job involve the need for a vagina? That little detail was left out of the job summary.”
The Frau gasped. A chuckle came from the adjoining room. Then, in an amused voice, “Send him in. I don’t need to be sued for discrimination, Maggie. If he’s right for the job, that’s all that matters.”
She stood abruptly and beckoned him in to Mr. Hyte’s office. Before he even got to the door, she’d darted in and dropped off his résumé. Not so hard now, was it?
Karl, scraping together his ever-waning dignity, stepped into the office and froze. “Fuck.” The manager’s head snapped up at his gasp, and Karl found himself staring into big gray eyes. This just couldn’t get better. Really. “Well, hello, Paul.”
The man blinked for what must have been the fifth time. Maybe he thought he was seeing things. Karl took a seat opposite him. He sure wished he was.
“What are you doing here?” Paul’s voice came out sharp, and his eyes narrowed.
He tried to keep cool. “Here about the job.”
“No. The position has been filled.” He stood up. “Good day.”
Karl ground his teeth a moment, then tried for a casual smile as he gestured toward Frau Maggie. “Perhaps you would like to take your own advice, Mr. Hyte?” Leaning forward, he added, “We both know the position hasn’t been filled.”
“I don’t know how on earth you’d expect me to hire you.”
The way Paul emphasized ‘you’ actually made him feel a little shit. Okay maybe more than a little. Not that he’d give that away. The best thing to do would be to walk out of here and try for something else.
But he’d been trying so long. There wasn’t anything else. He couldn’t do another three weeks sleeping in the Lamborghini. And he was running out of both gas and food money.
“Look,” he said frankly. Let him get some joy out of his humiliation. “I really need the job.” The city was being a bit of a stingy bitch. Couldn’t he get a break?
Paul glanced down at the résumé. “No. You’re not qualified.”
“That’s bullshit.” Well, it wasn’t really, but that wasn’t the point. “You and I both know why I’m not getting this stint.” When Paul said nothing, Karl tried a different tactic. He’d kick himself for it later. “We have a history. I was awful to you as a kid. But isn’t this like payback for you? I mean, cleaning and running errands, it’s sort of degrading work. And,
I mean, you have all the power. I have to do what you say, right?” Yep, he’d be kicking himself all right.
Shows how desperate he was. How pathetic. Suck up the self-pity for later.
“Isn’t that retribution enough for what I did? And come on, that was years ago. Surely you can let it go?”
Paul sat back down and scanned the résumé once more. “It says here you ran cooking electives for Treewok Elementary. Did you enjoy the work?”
Karl was surprised at the question, but nodded. That one really had been his favorite stint. The kids were hoots, and they actually listened to him. “Though it was weird being back there as an adult.” He felt a small tug at his lips.
“Maybe that’s because you didn’t have anyone to bully—” Paul slammed his mouth shut as if he’d only just realized he was speaking aloud.
A sigh left him. “I guess I’m wasting your time.”
He reached for his shoulder bag and was about to stand, when Paul stopped him. “I’ve held a grudge for a long time, Karl. In a twisted way, I owe you, though. If it weren’t for your taunts, for . . . those things you did, I mightn’t have tried so hard to improve myself. I practiced every afternoon for hours with a speech therapist. I practiced over and over how to tell you to back-off and leave me the fuck alone. I was seventeen before I could speak properly. Since I was twenty, I’ve never had a problem, either. Until you. At the market, when it happened again . . . I felt like that angry, hurt, stupid Paul again.”
Karl kept his eyes rooted to the corner of the desk. Yes, he had been one hell of a prick. There was no denying that. He’d known it, too. But he’d never really known—not the way Paul spoke about it.
When there was a pause, Karl snatched Paul’s gaze and held it. “I don’t think I can say sorry enough.”
That made Paul pause. Fluster.
He swung his bag strap over his shoulder and made for the door.
“Wait.”
He turned around.
“I don’t want to be that guy.” His frown must have been question enough, because Paul explained, “I don’t want to hold a grudge forever. If you are interested in the job, I’ll give you a three week trial period.”
