2. Blaise

TWO

I wouldn't mind workingSundays so much if I weren't in a dead-end job. Sorry, not a dead-end job—as my manager has informed me so many times, he'd love for me to go into the management training program. In a year, I could be assigned to my very own store! One day, I might even be an area manager.

Which is fine, and I guess I'm glad he thinks so highly of me, but working retail is not what I want to do for the rest of my life. Four years of college focused on garment design and marketing with a minor in theater and performing arts was supposed to get me closer to a career in costume design and styling. I'm not na?ve—I know wardrobe supervisor on a movie or TV show isn't a job the newly graduated just stroll into. I'm prepared to put in the effort. I just wish all that effort was resulting in some kind of progress.

Stop being a whiny loser, I chide myself. Things could be worse, after all. I live in a nice two-bedroom apartment with a roommate who's hardly ever home, thanks to his job as a steward for a charter plane company. His dad bought him the apartment for graduation, and my rent is super low, since he doesn't want it sitting empty most of the time. Plus he's always got the best gossip, even if he can't name names. This job isn't my dream, but between it and the side work I do tailoring, plus part-time gigs as wardrobe assistant for a local theater company, my bills are covered. I'm slowly adding to the experience section on my résumé and saving up to apply for a wardrobe internship at Joy Inc.

So my life isn't that bad. I'm twenty-three, I have a job, a home, friends. I've cut the toxic parts of my family out of my life, and I've got goals. I've got a plan. The internship has a top-level reputation: do the year with Joy Inc., and even if they don't offer you a job, you're almost guaranteed to find work with other studios.

I've got an in, too—the guy who runs the program saw my work on Franklin U's film production my senior year, and he actually reached out to invite me to apply. When I said I couldn't cover my living expenses for a year, he gave me his number and told me to call him when I was ready to apply. It's not a definite acceptance, but it's a positive sign. I can deal with working retail for a while if it's going to get me where I want to be.

Even if it is mind-numbingly boring.

Focus on the end goal. Focus on the— Well, hello.

I eye the scrumptious snack that just walked into the store and is gazing around, slightly bewildered and, if I had to guess, very hungover. He turns slowly in a circle, taking in the racks of suits and separates and tables of knitwear, and his expression turns skittish, like he's about to bolt.

Hell, no. A customer is exactly what I need right now, and a good-looking one is even better. Pasting on my customer-service smile, I approach, sizing up his outfit. College uniform of jeans and a sweatshirt, but they're in good condition and not cheap ones. Beat-up Converse on his feet, but one of last year's styles.

"Hi! Can I help you find anyth— Okay, I'm going to take that as a yes," I say as both his hands latch tightly onto my forearm.

"Please," he begs. "Help me."

For a second I wonder if this is more than a shopping emergency—is he in actual danger?—but then he adds, "Why are there so many? I only need one," and I relax. Being in a college town, we get this type of customer a lot. Living away from home for the first time, needing to shop without their parents or older siblings to guide them, they have no idea what they actually need. I get to don my superhero cape and be all, Blaise to the rescue!

"If it's the right one, sure," I agree. "Don't worry, I got you. I'm Blaise, by the way."

"Jordan," he introduces, still looking a little terrified. "How do you know which one is the right one?"

"Well, first tell me what you need. We can go from there."

"A suit. And my dad said I should get shirts and ties and shoes too."

Aw, his dad said. "Job interview?"

He shakes his head. "Sports. School says I have to wear a suit on game day."

"Easy." He needs something that will survive having a jock shove it into his locker and weekly wear, not too ostentatious, and—since he doesn't strike me as the type who wants to buy a new suit every year—nothing too trendy. "Thirty-four waist pants?"

Jordan blinks, getting that same surprised look most men do when I accurately estimate their clothing size. It's kind of my job, and I'm damn good at it. "Ah… yeah."

"No problem. Come and tell me what you think of this." I lead him across the store to a rack of mid-range dark blue suits. They're suitable for any event a college student might need them for, durable, and not that expensive. Plus, the blue will look great with his eyes. "So, you're a freshman?"

He shakes his head, fingering a jacket sleeve. He doesn't reach for the price tag, which confirms my guess that money's not something he worries about. "Sophomore. I ripped my suit this week, and my dad said to get a new one since I'd had it so long."

I frown. If he's a sophomore, how long could he have had it? Most teen guys outgrow their clothes regularly. "Makes sense. So, do you like the blue?"

"Yeah, it's nice. Not too blue, y'know? I don't want anything that stands out too much—I'd rather let my game stats be what people talk about."

Of course he would. Typical jock. Myself, I want my outfit to be on everyone's lips.

"Okay, then these pants should fit, and…" I eye his torso. It's hard to get a good estimate with the sweatshirt. "Are you wearing a T-shirt under that?"

He blinks. "Yeah?"

"Mind taking the top layer off so I can get the right jacket for you? And some shirts, you said." I love a customer who needs a whole outfit. "Commission" is my favorite word.

He obediently strips off the sweatshirt, mussing his brown hair, and boosts the scrumptious factor up by a hundred percent. He's lean, but those arms… yum. "This one." I grab a jacket from the rack. "Let's get you set up in a fitting room, and I'll find you some shirts and ties… and shoes." I lead the way across the store, and he strides beside me all loose-limbed and confident.

"Thanks for this, Blaise," he says. "I'm sure you can tell I'm a novice at suit shopping."

"We all have to start somewhere." I hang the suit in an empty cubicle—which is easy, since they're all empty at the moment—and wave him in. "Start with the pants, and I'll be back in a second."

He flashes me a smile, all white teeth against tanned skin, and I resist the urge to fan myself as the curtain whisks shut.

Shirts, Blaise. The man needs shirts.What a pity.

I find him three—white, cerulean blue, and pale blue—in different styles and fits, then get a pair of black dress shoes. The ties can wait—they don't need to be sized. When I get back to the fitting room, the curtain is open again, and Jordan is standing in front of the huge mirror, turning to the side to get a better view.

"Nope," I declare, and his head comes around.

"No? I think it looks pretty good."

"Oh, it does, but that jacket's too small."

"It is?" He turns back to the mirror with a doubting look.

"Trust me. Here, do this." I put the shirts and shoebox on the big ottoman where friends and partners usually sit, then lace my fingers together in front of me and lift my arms, elbows out. My jacket, which is the right size and perfectly tailored to fit by me, tightens but still gives me decent range of motion.

Jordan mimics my movement, but freezes before his arms get too high. "Uh… I think if I keep going, I'll need to pay for this jacket."

"Too tight?" I try not to sound smug. The sleeves are definitely restricting him too much.

"Yeah."

"Take it off, and I'll get you a bigger size. We might need to tailor it in some places, though." Because this one is perfect around the waist.

He looks alarmed. "Can that be done before next Saturday?"

"No problem. Your pants need to be tailored a little, too, but it can all be done by Wednesday."

Visibly relieved, he takes off the jacket and hands it to me. "Should I try on the shirts now?"

"And the shoes. We might need to adjust the length of the pants. I can get everything pinned today for the tailor." Who is me. I mean, the store does have another tailor we use when things get busy, but since I graduated and started working here full-time, I'm the one who does most of the tailoring. Being able to sew is kind of a requirement for garment and costume designers.

He sits on the ottoman and opens the shoebox, and I take the jacket back out to the front of the store. The next size up isn't where it's supposed to be on the rack, and before I start a storewide search, I check inventory on the computer. We supposedly have three, which probably means Rob sold one and didn't restock the rack. He's notorious for that. A quick foray into the stockroom later, I head back to the fitting room.

And stop.

Jordan's gone back into the cubicle, but the curtain is half open, and I can see him as he unbuttons the white shirt and strips it off. His pants are open, probably because he wanted to tuck the shirttail in, and my eyes trace his six-pack alllllllll the way down to the beginning shadow of his pubic hair just above the band of his underwear. I swallow hard. His torso is just as tanned as his face, making me think he must have gone somewhere warm over the holiday break, and all that smooth skin is begging for my tongue.

"Is that for me?" he asks, breaking my trance, and I muster a smile, pretending I wasn't just ogling him unprofessionally.

"Sure is. How are you going with the shirts?"

"The white one was too tight, but the blue ones were good. Especially the light blue."

The white was a slim fit, and I didn't really think it would work. He's not broad, but he's got some muscle. "If you prefer white, I can get that color in the same style as the pale blue."

He shrugs, and sweet baby Jesus, all those muscles flex. "Yeah, my dad said to get a few shirts. And I like the dark blue color too."

"We'll sort you out," I assure him. "Uh, if you put one back on, you can try the jacket too, get the whole picture." Though it's a real shame to cover all this up. My eyes drift back down to his torso.

He chuckles, and for a second I'm worried I might have said that last bit out loud, but when I jerk my gaze up, I realize I didn't have to. I'm being kind of obvious.

I pull a rueful face. "I'm so sorry. I hope I haven't offended you."

"Nah." He shrugs again. "My dads are gay. I'm not offended that a man finds me attractive."

That's reassuring. "So I'm guessing there wasn't much need for secret experimentation in your early teens," I joke. "Equal opportunity dating endorsed." I regret the words immediately. What a stupid thing to say.

To my surprise, he pulls a face. "I mean, sure, nobody would have batted an eye if I'd started dating guys," he says, "but how do I know if I want to?"

Uhhh… is that a serious question? I study his face, but it doesn't look like he's kidding. "Usually the first sign is that you're attracted to a guy. Um… are you into women, or…" Is this an ace or aro situation? Because I might not be the best person to guide him on that.

"Oh yeah," he assures me confidently. "I like dating and sex with women. And, like, some men are hot, right?" His face goes red and he looks away, then sneaks a peek back at me.

It might just be embarrassment about the conversation, but maybe…

"I'm gay myself, so I don't have any experience in being attracted to women," I begin, moving closer to the cubicle and stopping right outside. "But I've been told the feelings are the same regardless of gender. When you're into someone, being around them makes you a little warm. They get close, and you get tingles. Your stomach fills with butterflies; your mouth gets dry." I lean in closer. "Your heartbeat picks up and you breathe a little faster."

Fuck, my dick is so hard right now. If he looks down, he'll see exactly how into him I am.

He swallows and lets out a shaky breath. "I think," he croaks, then stops to clear his throat. "I think it's safe to say I'm attracted to men, then."

I smile. Safe to say he'll be open to me slipping him my number later. "Welcome to the club." Stepping back, I half turn away to grab the new jacket from the ottoman but freeze at his next question.

"But how do I know if it's just surface attraction? Maybe I like the idea of liking guys, but don't actually want to have sex with one."

Again, I'm not sure if that's a genuine question. Sure, romantic attraction and sexual attraction are different things, and it's absolutely possible to be romantically interested in a particular gender but not sexually. But somehow, I get the feeling that he's not as confused about this as the question makes it seem.

Sure enough, when I look at him, he meets my gaze boldly, a smirk on his lips and challenge in his eyes.

Never let it be said I walked away from a challenge. Especially not when it has full, kissable lips, messy dark hair, and washboard abs.

Grabbing the jacket, I walk back to the cubicle, and this time, I step inside. Hopefully nobody comes into the store for a while. We should be safe—Sunday mornings are quiet, hence me being the only staff member here. "That's something else I can help you with, if you like." I hang the jacket on a peg and quirk a brow at him. We're close enough that I can see the pale freckles on his high cheekbones.

"Oh yeah? How?" He's full-on grinning now.

"Well…" I reach out and put my hand, palm flat, between his pecs. The grin falters, and his chest rises as he takes a deep breath. "How does that feel? Still attracted?"

He nods, and I slowly slide my hand downward, pausing on his abs when he shivers. "What about now? Any ick feelings?"

"Uh, no. No, this is… good."

I mock frown. "Only good, huh? Okay… so what if I…" My fingers dance over the sensitive skin below his navel and tease along his waistband, the heel of my hand pressing lightly against the bulge below. "Hmm… I'd say this answers your question."

He coughs lightly. "Yeah. So. Definitely. Sex with men."

Looking him in the eye, I toy with the fastening of the suit pants and say, "It's such a shame to waste a hard-on like this…"

"I… yeah. Maybe… uh… could…"

The store is empty—and likely to stay that way until after lunch—so I take pity on him and sink to my knees, keeping my gaze locked with his. "I could take care of it for you."

He nods so fast, I'm surprised his teeth don't rattle. "Yeah. That would be great. Thank you."

Smiling, I open the waistband and unzip, then free him from his underwear. "Don't thank me just yet." His cock is gorgeous, not too big but more than a mouthful, flushed red, fully hard, and throbbing after just a little teasing, and it makes me feel like the sexiest man alive. I blow lightly on the head, loving the way he twitches, but I don't really have the time to tease him. The store is open, someone could come in at any time, and I didn't even close the curtain to the cubicle. I definitely can't afford to lose this job.

So I mentally farewell the thought of anything fancy and take him in my mouth as deep as I can. He sucks in air and reaches forward to brace himself against the wall, and I glance up to see his gaze fixed on me, hectic color on his face.

"So hot," he breathes, and if I needed any more encouragement to blow his mind, that would be it.

It's gotta be fast, but it's gonna be good.

I work him with my tongue for a moment, then bob forward, taking him into my throat—which makes him swear—then easing back until he's almost all the way out and my tongue is just toying with the head. His hips jerk in an arrested thrust, and I take pity and get down to the serious business of sucking cock.

"God," he moans, and I pinch his thigh—harder than it looks, no pun intended—to remind him to be quiet. Slapping one hand over his mouth, he stifles the delicious sounds of pleasure, and then his breath catches and his hand drops to tangle in my hair. Jaw clenching, tendons in his neck standing out, he comes.

I swallow as much as I can and fumble in my pocket for a tissue to catch the rest. Even if he's buying these pants, we can't risk cum stains on them.

He collapses back against the cubicle wall, panting hard, and I stand.

"Why don't you try on that jacket while I find some ties to go with those shirts?"