“Hi, sir, the dining room’s closed, but—holy shit. You’re Tyler Jaeger.”
I nod to the teenager mopping the floor, who’s probably actually college-aged, but he looks about thirteen, like all the college kids do these days, despite my own college years not being that long ago. “Just need to talk to Muffy.”
“Your fish is frying,” she calls from somewhere beyond the counter. “The dining room is closed. Go back and wait in your car.”
“What are you doing here?” I yell back.
“Working.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone needs a job, and every job is worthwhile. Please return to your car, sir.”
“Quit calling me sir.”
Fuck.
Did my dick twitch because she called me sir?
Or am I having a phantom hard-on?
I yank my waistband out and peer down at it, then remember I’m in a public restaurant, with a teenager mopping a floor behind me, and wonder if I actually drank something tonight and forgot.
I don’t think I drank anything. It’s November. I might stay out late at the bunny bar, but I eat and drink clean during the season, with few exceptions when I need a shot of Jack or a bundle of fish and chips.
Which means it’s the Muffy factor driving me utterly insane.
And my dick is soft and limp as ever.
“What the hell are you doing?” Muffy’s peering at me from around the fake stone column between the ordering counter and the kitchen, clearly horrified.
For the record, I did not whip my junk out. I gave myself a view of it, and no one else. “Taking you home,” I reply.
“Muffy. You know Tyler Jaeger?” the teenager asks.
“No,” she replies.
“If you need a job—” I start.
“I have a job. Clearly. It’s for research, not that it’s any of your business. And you will not speak of this to anyone, because whoever this Muffy person is doesn’t deserve you spreading rumors that I’m her. Your fish is almost ready, okay? And then you can leave. Immediately. Also, leave a nice tip for D’Angelo, since you’re getting footprints all over his clean floor. And if you ever, ever speak to anyone about seeing a woman you keep calling Muffy here, I’ll tell Nick Murphy you asked to see my boobies.”
D’Angelo laughs. “She’s so hilarious.”
Hilarious?
More like a walking disaster.
And if my junk wasn’t already malfunctioning, now it’s shrinking back into my body.
Telling Murphy, aka the Thrusters’ number one goalie, aka Muffy’s overprotective-to-a-fault cousin-in-law, that I asked to see her boobies?
Murphy is legendary for what he’s done to his sister’s ex-boyfriends.
He’s mellowed since he got married, and even more so since his son was born, but I don’t need to be the one to re-spark that wrath over something I said wrong to his wife’s cousin.
Also, Muffy still trying to pretend she’s not Muffy while threatening to have Nick disembowel me?
Classic Muffy.
See again, I’ve jacked off to thoughts of that smart, hilarious, nonsensical mouth more than once in the last year or so.
Back when I could still jack off.
“Is my fucking fish ready yet?”
“Don’t use foul language in front of the crew, please.”
She’s still half-hiding in the kitchen, and I’m not having this anymore. I march myself behind the counter, making D’Angelo mutter a reverent Whoa behind me, and Muffy squeak out a protest in front of me. “What are you doing?”
“We need to talk.”
“I’m none of your business.”
“Tell that to Murphy. What the hell are you doing working here?” I know she dropped out of medical school pretty far into it a few years ago. She runs her own matchmaking service, which isn’t all that great, but she does it. And she lives with her mom, who’s terrifying on a completely different level. “If you need a job—”
“I have a job, which you’re well aware of.”
The fish smells stronger back here, and my mouth is watering. I can see it frying, with a red digital timer counting down. My fish and chips are almost ready. “Then why are you here?”
She’s a manager.
She’s a damn manager. Her nametag says so. She didn’t pop in to Cod Pieces for research or whatever it was she said she was doing here. She’s been working here a while.
“Go away, Tyler. We need to serve your fish and close up for the night.”
“Bruh, yeah,” D’Angelo calls. “I got a test in the morning. But can I get a selfie?”
The fish fryer beeps, and Muffy turns to lift the basket, and fuck me, my backstabbing dick is twitching again.
I pull out my waistband.
Shit.
He did grow.
Like not even half an inch, but he grew. At this point, I recognize any change in his appearance.
Is it the fish?
Or is it Muffy?
Or is it Muffy making me fish?
Or do I need to get my head scanned because Athena and Cassadee were right and I might have a neurological disorder preventing me from popping a boner?
“Put your junk away! Oh my god, do your neurons even fire in your cerebrum? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Jesus. She’s hot when she uses big words to fling insults. “I’m not flashing my junk.”
“You’re looking at it!”
“I like it!”
“We all do, man.” D’Angelo pushes his mop cart around the corner and slaps me on the shoulder, then goes deer-in-the-headlights and shrinks back. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to touch you. Can I get a selfie? For real?”
Muffy shoves a bag at me. “Take the mother-forking selfie and go away so we can close up, please.”
“I’ll take care of it, Muff,” D’Angelo says.
He smells like fish when he loops an arm around me and leans in to snap a pic.
I feel fish grease settling all over my skin and hair and beard, and I shouldn’t have taken the bag the way I did, because instead of grabbing it by the top like a normal human, I let her set it in my palm and all of the just-fried fish and chips are still dripping oil through the brown paper.
I’ll probably have blisters tomorrow. Pretty sure she was supposed to put it in a thicker paper tray or something before she dropped it in the bag to prevent this.
Probably I shouldn’t poke a woman who’s clearly not having the best day of her life.
She works at Cod Pieces by night and runs a terrible matchmaking service called Muff Matchers during the day.
She’s probably had several not-the-best-days-of-her-life.
And yet I still wish I could go home and rub one out while thinking about her frying fish for me.
D’Angelo gets four selfies, pockets his phone, and then claps me on the shoulder again, except this time, he doesn’t let go.
Nope.
The guy hits a nerve in my neck that almost has my knees buckling as pain rips through me from scalp to ankles. “Sorry, bruh. Hate to do this to you, but it’s protocol. If you don’t leave, I gotta go ninja on your ass. Can’t have the boss-lady upset or she’ll make me clean the toilets. You know? Then I go home smelling like a dead fish with diarrhea, and you can’t get that smell out for days.”