by K. L. Hiers
He was startled when Cypress reached out to grab his shoulder, flinching at the strength behind his grip. He let himself get pulled right back in, staring up at him expectantly.
“Stay,” Cypress commanded under his breath, certainly keeping his voice down so whoever was on the line wouldn’t hear him.
Tom was surprised at how easy it was to obey. There was a stubborn part of himself that wanted to argue—who did HFG think he was, bossing him around like that? Tom wasn’t a pet.
They barely knew each other.
And yet…
Tom really didn’t want to be anywhere else.
“Good boy,” Cypress whispered, glancing away as he redirected his attention back to his phone. “I will come over there right now if he doesn’t quit.” His hand was still lingering on Tom’s shoulder. “Okay, good.”
Heart now drumming in his ears, Tom melted beneath Cypress’s touch. His hand was warm, firm, and his nails were so neat and well-trimmed. It was a strange thing to focus on, but he had to do manicures to help get deceased people ready for viewings, and he noticed little things like that.
It was also impossible to escape how good Cypress smelled being this close to him; it was something warm, almost fruity, maybe his lotion or his cologne. It was a new scent, and Tom was dying to know what it was.
Oh, and getting hot and bothered because Cypress had called him a ‘good boy’? That was new, too.
“Yeah, I’ll be by later. If there is any cake missing, tell him I’m gonna know it was him. Thank you. Love you. Bye.” Cypress finally hung up and sighed.
“Everything okay?” Tom asked as casually as he could.
“Stubborn relatives with diabetes and unattended cake is a disaster waiting to happen.” Cypress smiled, but it was strained. “Sorry about all that, but I gotta go.”
“Oh, right.” Tom nodded, missing Cypress’s hand the second he let go. “Of course. You’re still working, and I need to get back, too.”
“You working again this week?”
“Yeah, I’m not off until next Tuesday.”
“I’m sure I’ll see you around real soon.”
“Sure, yeah.” Tom smiled nervously. “So, uh, are you gonna tell me? Or do I have to guess?”
“What?”
“What I look like,” Tom pressed. “You said I don’t look like an embalmer, so… isn’t that why you told me to stay?”
“Maybe I just wasn’t done enjoying your company yet,” Cypress replied coyly.
Tom didn’t know what to say. All he could do was laugh and bow his head. Cypress, HFG, was actually flirting with him. His brain simply wouldn’t cooperate and restore enough function to let him respond in any normal way.
“Hey.” Cypress gently nudged Tom’s chin, catching his eye. “You shouldn’t hide your smile like that. You have a great smile.”
Tom’s heart proceeded to implode.
“You take care, Thomas Hill,” Cypress said with a smug little smirk, “and maybe I’ll tell you next time.”
“Okay, yeah, I’ll hold you to it,” Tom replied dumbly, unable to stop himself from laughing anxiously. “And hey, next time make sure you bring the right flowers.”
Cypress looked confused.
“You know, since Gerald thought you… you’d brought the wrong ones.” Tom’s ears were hot. “It was a joke. A really bad one. I’m sorry.” He tried opening the garage door without punching in the key code, helplessly pulling on the locked knob and drowning in a wave of embarrassment. “Right. Um. I’m gonna go.”
“I’ll see you around, Tom,” Cypress said, offering one last dazzling smile before slipping out the door.
Tom finally got the code in the keypad and slunk defeatedly back into the hallway. He was already replaying the entire conversation in his head, picking apart what he’d said and how lame his joke had been, and he was definitely committing to memory how nice Cypress’s hand had felt.
Oh, and that strange rush of heat when he’d told him to stay.
Was that a thing? Did he have a thing for being told what to do? Why was it so hot?
As he made his way up the hallway, the door on the other end was opening. It was probably Aaron, coming back to demand more lessons in wound filler and to complain about what a jerk Gerald was.
Instead, it was Junior, Gerald’s oldest son and Tom’s worst mistake after drinking too many tequila shots ever. Unlike his father, who was pale, balding, and quite fat, Junior was tan, blond, and gorgeous. Those good looks had been Tom’s downfall, but now the very sight of him made Tom’s skin crawl.
The relationship, if it could even be called one, had ended badly.
Tom wished he could turn right around and hide in the garage, but he needed to get to the office. He forced a polite smile, sliding around the stretchers and trying to pass by Junior as quickly as he could. “Hey, Junior.”
“Hey there, Tommy.” Junior smiled, far too friendly, blocking the office door. “I was looking for you.”
“What is it?” Tom frowned. “Is something wrong with Mr. Corman up front?”
Junior was a funeral director like Aaron and Gerald. Gerald had insisted that his son follow in his footsteps, though it was obvious that Junior hated working there. He would rather be out playing golf or buying big gaudy watches to go with his flashy suits. The only thing he genuinely seemed to enjoy at the funeral home was making people as miserable as his father did.
“We gotta talk.”
“About?”
“About all that embalming fluid you’re gonna sell tonight,” Junior replied coolly.
Tom’s stomach churned. “No, I’m not doing it again. I’m not. Last time was the last fucking time.”
“Not so fast, babe.” Junior smiled venomously. “I own you, remember? If you don’t do this, I’ll tell Daddy and Mr. Crosby all about it. I mean, how many times have you done it now? A dozen? What’s one more, huh?”
“I only did it the first time to help you because I’m an idiot,” Tom hissed angrily. “After that, it’s all on you. We’re not dating. You can’t keep making me do this—”
“I can, and I will,” Junior snapped, getting right in Tom’s face and grabbing his wrist. “You wanna keep working here? You wanna keep your license? Then you’re going to do exactly as I say.”
“Let go of me,” Tom growled, his entire body tensing up.
“Or else what?” Junior scoffed. “You gonna tell Mr. Crosby I was roughing you up? Well, you gotta explain why—”
The keypad sounded the door opening, and Aaron popped back in with a frown. “I thought you were coming back so we could talk about stuffing people with newspaper.” He narrowed his eyes, spying Junior’s hand on Tom. “Hey, what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Tom said quickly, jerking away from Junior.
“Just having a conversation.” Junior scowled.
“Yeah?” Aaron huffed in reply. “How about you go check the fax machine for me? I’m waiting for a death notice confirmation.”
Junior glared, but he wouldn’t dare argue with Aaron. Even though Aaron hadn’t been licensed for very long, he had done his apprenticeship with Gerald, and the crazy ol’ king of dicks loved him.
Probably more than his own dickhole son, Tom had often thought.
“Sure,” Junior spat, backing off with a strained smile. “No problem.” He glanced at his watch, a big and shining hunk of metal that probably cost more than a car. He looked to Tom, saying firmly, “Tonight. Okay?”
“Whatever,” Tom muttered, waiting for Junior to leave and the door to shut before sighing in relief.
“Are you okay?” Aaron asked with a concerned frown. “Is he bothering you?”
“I’m fine,” Tom fibbed.
“Look, I know you guys had a ‘thing.’” Aaron raised his hands to make little air quotes. “But if he’s messing with you, I can talk to Gerald—”
“No, I can handle it.” Tom smiled, trying to exude more confidence than he felt.
Aaron di
dn’t know what had happened. No one had any idea what sort of trouble Tom had gotten himself into.
After several steamy nights together, Junior had claimed he needed help settling a debt with some bad people. He had bought drugs on credit, and now they were coming to collect. Tom had been so smitten that he was willing to do anything for him. All Junior needed Tom to do was help him sell a few cases of formaldehyde, the bulk of which was kept locked up inside the prep room.
It would only be a one-time thing, Junior promised. One time, and then he was going to get clean.
Now six months later, long after he’d dumped Junior for being a raging asshole, Tom was still trapped peddling embalming fluid for his ex. It was illegal, it was stupid, and Tom had no idea how to stop without also implicating himself in the crime.
“I can totally talk to Gerald,” Aaron stubbornly insisted. “If it came down to keeping you or Junior, I’m pretty sure he would be fine with firing his rotten ass kid.”
“I appreciate it.” Tom gestured to the office door. “So, uh, anyway, why don’t we get back to talking about restoration? You still wanna know?”
“You’re totally changing the subject,” Aaron accused, “but I really wanna know how you do that shit so I’m going to allow it… for now.” He opened the door and held it for Tom, smiling again as he cheered, “So, tell me everything.”
“You got it.”
As Tom led the way, he tried to focus on sharing his years of experience and ignore what was ahead of him later tonight. He could spend the rest of his shift entertaining Aaron, avoiding Junior, and daydreaming about Cypress’s bright smile.
He hoped they would get to see each other again soon. He was dying to find out what Cypress thought he looked like.
Maybe a bank teller? An accountant? No, maybe a comic book artist, something geeky but cool.
Maybe he thinks you look like a good boy…
The mere recollection of the exchange made Tom shiver. No one had ever called him that before, and he still didn’t fully understand why it was having such an effect on him.
Although he was sure Cypress hadn’t meant it to be sexual any more than when he’d told Gerald to suck his dick, there was still a flicker of hope that he was wrong.
The main hub of the funeral home was a large room, crowded with desks and office equipment. Although Gerald and Mr. Crosby had their own private offices up front, this back area was where the rest of the staff worked. Tom, Aaron, and Junior all had desks here, as did their dispatcher, Earl Wayne.
It was Earl’s job to organize their part-time employees to work funerals, arrange police escorts, and coordinate removal staff to pick up people once they’d passed. He was on the phone constantly, yelled a lot, and smoked even more. He’d been here long before the Ayers had sold to the Crosby family, and it was said he came with the building.
As Tom and Aaron walked in, Earl was passionately arguing with someone on the phone.
“Now, Steve,” he was saying, “I’m very sorry that you were worried, but you can’t pick up your fuckin’ chicken and put her in the hearse.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, right. Of course, it was a boy chicken, I’m so very sorry—” His voice rose to a shout. “But you can’t have chickens of either fuckin’ sex in the God blessed fuckin’ coach!”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Tom commented, grimacing at the brilliant shade of red Earl’s face was turning.
“You didn’t hear?” Aaron cringed. “The service this morning? The one we thought you were gonna have to cover? After the graveside, Steve took the coach somewhere to pick up his pet chicken.”
“No!”
“Yes.” Aaron cackled. “Put the damn thing right up front with him, and someone saw him. Some lady from Gerald’s bridge club. Called him right up because the funeral home marquis was still in the window, so they knew it was one of ours.”
“Wow.” Tom shook his head, moving toward the corner where his and Aaron’s desks were set up next to one another. “Is that why Gerald was so awesome about the flowers earlier?”
“Yeah.” Aaron paused to grab a cup of coffee. “He’s up front trying to get Mr. Crosby to fire Steve as we speak and probably blacklist Doyle’s Flowers.”
“What?” Tom had just sat down, but he bolted up to his feet again. “He can’t do that. Why? Why would he do that? Because Cypress had the balls to stand up to him?”
“Cypress, huh?” Aaron grinned slyly. “So, it’s not ‘HFG’ anymore?”
“Uh.” Tom tried not to look as bashful as he felt, and he regretted ever sharing his crush’s secret nickname. “I mean, yeah. Cypress Holmes. That’s his name. He has a name. Of course, he has a name.”
“Mmhm.” Aaron slurped his coffee with a knowing smirk, taking his seat. “Well, I don’t think you or Cypress have anything to worry about. Mr. Crosby has been ordering flowers from Doyle’s since the seventies. The old man doesn’t like change.”
“Good. I mean, yeah, totally. And everybody loves the arrangements.” Tom felt a bit weird defending Cypress, but he didn’t want to see anyone suffer because Gerald was a jerk. “Did you know he’s the florist? Not just the delivery guy?”
“So, are we changing his name to Hot Florist Guy or are we on an official first name basis now?”
“First name.”
“Good for you, Tom.” Aaron saluted with his mug. “Get your man! Next step, phone number. Now,” He leaned forward in his chair, “tell me about the damn newspaper in the faces.”
“Oh, right,” Tom said, trying to pick up where he left off. “So, you’ve embalmed the body, cauterized the wounds, and filled up what you could. Old school embalmers would use newspaper, sawdust, all sorts of things, but I typically use wound filler compound or rolled up cotton if it’s really big.”
“Got it.” Aaron leaned forward in his chair. “Next is the wax, right?”
“Yes. There’s different kinds with different textures and consistencies.” Tom cringed when Earl’s screaming hit a particularly high pitch. “There’s really soft ones, like lip wax? We use those if someone’s mouth opens a little or if their lip line is messed up from being intubated.”
“Intubated?”
“Yeah, the tube can leave a mark on the person’s lip if it just sits there.”
“Chicken! Hearse! Bad!” Earl continued to seethe.
“Anyway. Then there’s harder waxes you can use to sculpt features with,” Tom went on, raising his voice so Aaron could hear him. “Most of these waxes get pliable when you work with them, and then they’ll harden back up again when they cool down. I actually use those compressed air cans to spray the wax if it gets too soft—”
“Do you have any idea how much it costs to get a hearse detailed because there’s chicken shit all over the seat?”
“But basically, you start layering the harder waxes on, using pictures for reference if you can, and carve out the missing features.” Tom scrubbed his hand over his face.
It was next to impossible to have any conversation once Earl got going, and Aaron loudly suggested, “Maybe we should take lunch?”
“Good idea.”
Just as they rose to escape Earl’s screeching, Miss Wheel frantically burst in. She was one of the receptionists who worked the front desk and helped handle the phones. She looked very distraught, her wrinkled bulldog face drawn back in a miserable leer.
“I need help,” she pleaded. “I’ve got the police department on the phone with a death call, and all I can hear is the family screaming! No one is making any sense! And he…” She pointed a finely manicured nail at Earl, “won’t get off his damn line! I’ve been trying to call him for five minutes!”
“I thought Junior was supposed to be helping up front today?” Aaron protested.
“He took off!” Miss Wheel threw up her hands. “Mr. Gerald is too busy screaming about something with chickens at Mr. Crosby to help me. Please? Can one of you please take this call?”
Aaron visibly shrank down in his chair.
>
“I’ll do it,” Tom said, already getting up to follow Miss Wheel to the front.
Sure, he was terrified of ordering a pizza over the phone but taking a first call?
That he could do.
Aaron mouthed his gratitude as Tom followed Miss Wheel, bypassing the door that led into the prep area and through another that led to the front of the funeral home.
Viewing rooms and bathrooms were to the left, and arrangement rooms were to the right alongside another hallway that led into the main chapel. Between the viewing rooms and hallway was their lobby, modestly decorated with a small desk where Miss Wheel and the other receptionists would sit to answer the phone and greet people who came through the front door.
Tom quickly sat down at the desk and picked up the phone, taking a deep breath and clicking the blinking hold light. “Hello, this is Tom Hill,” he said, using his most professional phone voice. “I’m so sorry for the wait, how can I help you?”
“Hey!” a male voice impatiently replied. “Look, I’ve got a hell of a situation. I’ve got a dead kid here, and his mama is freaking the eff out. How soon can you guys be here to pick up this body?”
Tom’s blood froze. He could hear someone crying and screaming in the background, and he hoped the mother hadn’t been in earshot for any of that. He cleared his throat, asking calmly, “May I have your name, sir?”
“Lawrence Fester with the Mayfield Police Department.”
“Officer Fester, would it be possible for you to step outside for a moment? I’m having some difficulty hearing you.”
“Oh, sure. One sec.” There was some faint crackling on the line, a brief pause, a door opening and shutting, and then he said, “Okay. Better?”
“Much better, thank you, sir. May I get a little bit of information about the deceased before we go on, Officer Fester?”
“Sure. What do you need?”
“Name of the deceased?” Tom prepared to write.
“Brady Dresser.”
