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“If you can do that,” he interrupted, “then it shouldn’t be a problem. I don’t want a bun. I want fries.”
This had the ring of one of those conversations that had gone on for way too long, and I called up the next person in line.
The redheaded customer cast a sidelong glance at the man before saying just a bit too sweetly, “I’ll have a number three, please… and an extra order of fries for the gentleman there.”
I could’ve fucking kissed her.
As it was, I had to strangle back a laugh as he lifted his head sharply and stared at her. “Ma’am, this does not concern you,” he snapped at her.
“You’ve held up the line for five minutes arguing about a 99-cent order of fries. Leave that poor woman alone.” She tsked, pulling cash out of her wallet. “That’ll be six eight-seven,” I told her, hoping I was telegraphing with my eyes just how much the simple defense meant to me — to us.
She handed over a ten, and I gave her the change.
“Jesus, thank you,” another man in line muttered.
The guy bothering Monique turned beet red, and he turned on his heel — without the fries the woman had graciously ordered for him.
Some people, man.
I glanced at Monique, and she gave me a barely perceptible nod.
I tried to refund the woman her money, but she waved me off. “I’ll happily eat extra fries,” she told me, almost conspiratorially.
I couldn’t help but grin. “I’ll bring your food out to you in a few minutes,” I told her. She smiled at me. “Thanks,” she glanced at my name tag, “Owen.”
Miracle, thy name is random customer of the day.
I snatched an extra piece of pie from the back — which came as frozen as the fries, but hey, chocolate was chocolate — and stuck it unobtrusively onto her tray. I brought it out to her, setting it down.
“You don’t have to do that,” she told me, her voice quiet.
“You didn’t have to do what you did, either,” I replied.
She chuckled. “Have a good day, Owen.”
“You too, ma’am.”
I spent the rest of the day thinking about how much a few nice words, a few nice actions, could make such a difference. I felt pang after pang of guilt when I thought about how I’d been treating Adrian. I vowed to make it up to him — at least, when I got up the nerve to talk to him again. If he didn’t hate me…
Well, even if he did, I wasn’t going to let things stay that way.
Chapter 9 Adrian
I was starting to think this wasn’t such a good idea, but after several more days of Owen and I not exactly ignoring each other, I wasn’t sure I had another choice. I needed someone to talk to, and if the only person that the professor could recommend was a shrink, I was going to take that as a sign from the universe or something.
Not that I was crazy. I was just hoping they’d understand.
When I’d asked the professor if she knew anyone in the lifestyle I could talk to, she hadn’t been able to name anyone off the top of her head. However, she had said a guest speaker who came in to some of her classes might be able to help.
Dr. Sheppard evidently ran a counseling practice with couples who were in nontraditional relationships. She’d finally broken it down when she’d seen that I looked slightly confused: in other words, he mostly worked with people who were in fetish and lifestyle relationships.
Maybe she thought I was shocked or horrified, because she started talking about the statistics behind the number of couples in BDSM and kink-based relationships. As I listened to the mini-lecture, I wasn’t so much shocked as just surprised that there were enough couples in the area to need that kind of specialization.
There were enough people like me who needed someone to talk to.
It wasn’t far away or in some bigger city. It was in my own backyard. I probably ran errands next to people who would understand what I was going through and would never even notice.
Well, some of what I was going through. The whole “my master is my brother” thing was probably unique.
