2. Roth

"What doyou mean I'm fired?! Just because I mistakenly wrote down the name of a sea witch instead of her real name?!" My boss, ex-boss now it seemed, the pompous lemur turd, tossed my paisley bag at my chest and then slammed the door of Sammy's Coffee Shop in my face. "Cow. You utter cow. No, no, that's a slam to cows. Cows are cute and sweet and you, Samuel Q. Dickerson, are a festering heap of midden topped with a crusty dollop of pig pooh. The stinky kind of pig pooh!"

"All pig shit stinks," some guy walking past informed me.

"Thank you, Farmer Brown." I spun on my heel, stalked off, and did not look back until I had rounded the corner.

Then I had a small emotional moment. A moment that lasted ten moments. Dabbing at my watery eyes with the sleeve of my sunny little frock, I gazed skyward and saw nothing but fire escapes and billboards for Cleo's Caribbean Crack Shack. Crack as in cracking crab claws and not the illegal drug. Someone—not this boy, though—should really mention to Cleo that they might want to rebrand. Not that I knew from eating there. I was too poor for crabmeat. I'd worked there for a week last summer before being let go for slapping a dude who'd grabbed my ass with a crab claw. But he didn't grab my backside with a crab claw. He used his hand. I cracked him with a claw from a platter I was carrying. The claw got stuck in his nose ring, unbeknownst to me. I yanked. He howled. It was uncomfortable. I was relieved of my duties by Cleo's wife as she dabbed at the customer's bloody nose with a dish towel. Which was why I was not telling Cleo or his harpy wife to look into better branding. I had enough on my plate.

Sadly, we have little on our plate.

Ugh, yes, that was true. Sammy hadn't paid me yet, and probably won't so I wouldn't be able to afford groceries. Who knew the raging bitch monster that had called me a simpleton for daring to explain that her latte was already close to ninety percent foam, so she didn't need extra foam was his sister? And who other than Sammy wouldn't think it was funny that I put the name Ursula on her cup instead of her real name, which she wouldn't give me because I was a simpleton. I call that clever thinking. Sammy called it impudent. Honestly, the things that service workers have to put up with…

"Oh gosh, I feel dizzy," I gasped, closing my eyes to let my racing thoughts slow. Sometimes I thought and spoke so quickly that I got winded. I bent over to rest my hands on my knees, a sticky summer wind blowing up the back of my neck, sneaking under my pretty in pink dyed hair. It needed to be trimmed. Perhaps Lyle, my roommate, would do that for me if I offered to take his turn cleaning the bathroom. That was a huge offer since four guys were sharing one tiny bathroom.

Bartering always seemed to work best since none of us were ever making ends meet. If only my damn online shop would take off! I had a few seriously faithful clients, but inflation had put a crimp in spending, it seemed. No one had ordered a new matching combo for them and their puppo or kitty for over six weeks. My student loan was in danger of falling into arrears and my quarter of the rent would be late yet again. Sucking in slow breaths, my sight locked on my zebra print running shoes from Target, I prayed that something would open up for me soon. I'd gone to college, damn it! Those recruiters had fed me a fat loaded plate of caca. Yes, I know how to sew better than most, and I should be working for a fashion house in New York or Milan. But I was stuck in New Hampshire and barely getting by. Honestly, I could be a Gallagher sibling from Shameless. I was that poor.

"Okay, so things are going to get better," I whispered to myself, pulling in a steadying breath. I'd filled out a thousand online applications from fast food worker to fancy escort for some snobby Cold Coast dude with pecker issues. One of my roommates, Kris, the wanna-be fashion model, had passed their number to me a month ago when I'd been crying over my ramen about how shitty my life was. He'd promised that they'd love to have me. I was the perfect twink which some would take as a slam, but I embraced my truth. I was a tiny man with a big personality who sometimes tended to be just a little exuberant. Despite that assurance from Kris, I'd yet to get a nibble from Elite. What a shame employers didn't understand my quirkiness. They always called my quick wit as being snippy. No, no, vivacious dialog was not snip. Ugh. "Ugh!" I shouted, then straightened, squaring my shoulders to check my phone. Which was close to dead. Figures.

Slogging out of the alley, smelling like burnt coffee and utter defeat, I found a bus stop that looked to be relatively clean, so I planted my tiny hiney and sent a text to my dog, Amadeus. I often texted Amadeus to simply dump my worries on him. No, he did not have a phone or thumbs, but the sweet little Pomapoo knew when Daddy was feeling down. We had a bond. Also, several matching outfits. Amadeus was my model for my tiny doggie outfits, and I was the model for my human clothing line. Hiring a real model—even Kris—was just not happening.

"Dear Amadeus," I mumbled while typing and waiting for a city bus. "Daddy got fired again today. I wish you were here. I need kisses badly. Will see you soon. XOXOXO."

I sent the text to myself with a selfie of sad me. Then I checked my online store to see if anyone had ordered any of the new summer combo outfits. No one had. I dashed at my wet eyes. An old Black man with a bag of marbles wearing a Fedora, shorts, and one sandal sat down beside me.

"Hi," I said with a sniffle. He glanced at me with rheumy eyes and then dug into his bag to fish out a pink marble. He passed it over to me.

"It'll bring you good luck," he commented and stared down the street as if he could summon the bus to turn the corner by sheer will.

"Oh. Thanks." I held onto the marble as he rose and ambled off. Okay. No one ever said living in the city wasn't colorful. My phone pinged. I shoved the marble into my shoulder bag because who was I to turn down a good luck token, especially how my luck seemed to run. I checked my messenger and texts, but there was nothing other than an email. Having nothing to do, I logged into my email and winced. So much spam. I needed to sort through this inbox more often. The newest one sat atop the hundreds of other emails. A horn blared. The sound of a Spanish man having a loud conversation in the deli behind me floated out into the street.

My eyes narrowed momentarily as I warily opened the email from Elite. Probably them answering back to tell me I was too freaking queer for their uppity clientele and to stop applying unless I got work to look more like Kris and?—

Dear Mr. Morrison,

We are writing to inform you of your acceptance into the ranks of the Elite Connections employee pool. We are delighted to have you join us.

Please find enclosed an offer from one of our clients that we think will work well for you and him. All tax and banking forms must be filled out with undue haste and returned to us at the email address above. Your signature on the non-disclosure agreement must also be signed and returned to us along with the signed contract of employment.

Details of the assignment are listed on the employment contract. All airfare and hotel expenses are covered by the client as well as any meals that you will take with him in your capacity as his companion for the duration of the contract.

Please read over the contract closely to ensure that you are accepting of all the fees, payment terms, warranties and responsibilities, our rules, confidentiality and privacy information agreements, termination clauses, and limitations of legal responsibility.

We look forward to hearing from you no later than 4 p.m. EDT today. If you have any questions, please contact us at the email address above. If you have any queries of a more personal or intimate nature, the client's executive personal assistant's email is listed below. Please direct any sensitive questions to her.

Elite Connections Midwestern United States Office

* * *

Dee Forsman-Shapiro

[emailprotected]

"No shit," I whispered and shoved my hand into my bag to find my lucky marble. Holding it skyward, I blew it a kiss—I thought to actually kiss it but I didn't know where Fedora Marble Man had last had this marble—so air kissy was as far as that was going. The NDA seemed simple. The contract was pretty straightforward, lots of wherefores and whereases sprinkled around, but the gist was that I agreed to not be a pill while out with this man. Then my wandering eyes fell upon the payment that I'd be getting.

My mind sort of shut down when I saw my salary listed at two hundred and fifty dollars an hour after the fees that the agency garnered. I stared at the estimated pay total for four days—the client may add a tip if they so wish—and nearly swooned.

Twenty-four thousand dollars.

"Oh, Amadeus Peabody, my sweet puppo, we will be rolling in new fashion!" I squealed as I leapt on top of the bench to do an elated Roth dance, which was me shaking my scrawny ass while hooting like a drunken sailor. Panting madly, I jumped down, reread the money part seven more times, and then rushed to sign all the papers with an electronic signature that looked nothing like mine. Not that I would have been able to sign by hand. I was shaking too much. Twenty-four thousand dollars. My take home for all of last year was less than twenty-four thousand dollars!

I sat, fanned my face, and began calling my roomies to see which one would watch Amadeus for four days. Ten minutes later, I was fuming. No one would take care of my sweet little snippets for four measly days. How dare they have jobs and social lives?! The bastards. There was no way I was asking my family. Nope. Burned those bridges the first time they saw me in eyeliner and a little pocket gingham dress. Uptight assholes couldn't even comprehend being gay, let alone being femme. Fretting now that I'd have to back out of all that money. Oh the material I could buy! I could maybe afford some promo and marketing! I touched base with all my friends, but not one of them was available to dog-sit.

After I climbed onto the bus, my previous happy now gone, I sent a quick little note to the PA for the mysterious but sinfully rich person I was going to be with. I poured my heart and soul into the email, telling her I had a tiny dog that I'd have to leave at home alone for four whole days and could I please bring him.

Chewing on my bottom lip, terrified that I'd have to give up a windfall because of Amadeus—which I would gladly do because he was my darling—the ping of an incoming email pulled me back from Fretville.

Dear Roth,

I'm sure your beloved pet would be most welcome. The hotel has a doggie daycare. I'm already making the reservations. Thank you for reaching out to us. Paul is a great lover of dogs and will find this all quite charming.

I've added another ticket for Herr Amadeus Yes He Rocks Me. Your flight leaves this evening at 8:10 p.m. from Concord Municipal. Mr. Rocha and I are in West Palm and I will meet you at Palm Beach International upon your arrival. Please reach out if you have any concerns. I'm the one who made the booking with Elite and am so looking forward to meeting you!

Safe journeys,

Dee Forsman-Shapiro

Executive Personal Assistant Liaison

Forsman Shapiro Sports Agency

[email protected]

Okay, this Dee was absolutely the best person ever! I bet she had a doggo. I danced off the bus, raced up to the fourth floor of a battered red brick building, scooped up my wiggly waggle worm Amadeus, and got several bazillion kisses.

"Okay, Amadeus Pumpkin, we have four hours to pack," I cried, placing his tiny paws on the threadbare carpet in our cramped two-bedroom apartment then dashed to the room I shared with Louie, a nice guy from the Midwest who was thrown out of his house when he came out just like I had been. Louie worked nights, and days if he could get them, his need for cash as crippling as mine was. "Let's see what we can find for Florida! We're going to be so tanned and so rich!"

I had never flown first class before. The only other time I had been on a plane had been to fly to my grandmother's funeral in Ohio. My seat then was in economy next to a kid who kept picking his nose while his father snored away, blithely unaware of his spawn's rudeness.

That was a horrid trip, spent with family who hated me and wished me gone. Something that I was happy to do as soon as they put Grandma into the ground. That trip had nearly busted me financially as well as emotionally. But this was not that trip! This was a trip that was going to save my tight little ass in so many ways. I tucked Amadeus into the wide seat next to me, unzipped his carrier a little, and offered him some water. He lapped it up. I fed him a marrow bone and scratched his head. He curled up in his favorite blankie to nap after I slid him under the seat in front of me. Gods I was glad Paul's PA had said I could bring Amadeus. Passing him off as a service dog might have been tough, although he was a delightful fellow, his skills were more the kissy-hugging type.

While we waited for the other passengers to board, I settled in, wrapping a blanket from a little bag around my shoulders—I'd dressed for the Florida heat—and did a little investigating online. I'd not had time to eaves snoop before now, what with the mad rush to pack and get to the airport, so I started on Instagram. Typing in Paul Rocha brought up a well-maintained page filled with pictures of a gorgeous ginger man with a neatly trimmed beard, bright blue eyes, and dark cinnamon-colored hair cut short. Paul Rocha was hot! Good Lord, the man was sizzling! Like touch your hip and hiss scalding.

There were shots of him fishing on some ocean with no shirt, which made me have to use the blanket to dab at the drool leaking from the corner of my mouth. Stunning! Simply stunning.

A firm, tight body, lots of abs, all covered with dark red hair. His legs were thick as tree trunks and his shoulders as wide as this plane. I never was into jocks really. They tended to be mean to men of my inclination and stature, but this man could change my mind. He didn't seem to smile much in his recent posts, which made me rather sad. I scrolled along, smiling up at the poor folks who had to ride in the back with nose-picking brats as they passed. Yes, I was being a snobby tart. It might be the only time I could ever do so.

I found a few shots of him with a big silver cup. Lots of him making hockey. Nothing much personal, though, other than what looked to be charity events around the Windy City. Then I found the personal shots. They were from a few from years back, but the tone of his social media was vastly different back when he was taking shots of himself with a big rough looking man with a killer smiler. Marshall the other man's name was. They looked content enough in the pictures. Smiles for miles, hugs, pecks on the cheek, that sort of sweet stuff. As I slowly made my way through my date's past, I did notice a lack of sparks in the images. It was hard to define, but Marshall appeared to be playing a role. He didn't gaze at Paul like Paul gazed at him. Obviously, something had happened to break them up or else I'd not be winging my way to West Palm Beach. So too bad for Marshall. His loss was my sexy AF gain!

* * *

We landed just after eleven, Amadeus sleeping peacefully in my arms now that we were on the ground. He'd been such a prince, only whining during take-off and landing. I had my rolling suitcase, a second-hand one from Goodwill that was pink and had little pony stickers on it, thumping along behind me and my happy little tan princeling cradled in my arm. I'd worn something light and airy, a yellow and green tropical print wrap and a matching sun bonnet with lime green sandals. Amadeus was also in yellow and green with a tiny, little sun bonnet of his own. Everyone was looking at us as we made our way from luggage claims. Following the crowds, I paused when someone called my name.

"Roth!" I glanced to the left and there stood a lovely Black woman with close cropped hair next to a tall White woman with kinky brown hair and rhinestone glasses. Both were grinning widely as I hurried over to greet them. "Hello, Roth, I'm Dee, Mr. Rocha's EPA, and this is my wife, Laura."

"Hi! This is amazing. Like a dream come true! Oh, this is Prince Amadeus. He's very sleepy right now but was a perfect gentleman on the flight. Thank you for getting him a ticket. None of my roommates could watch him. He's not a problem at all and he loves playing in the ocean! Well, not that we have an ocean in New Hampshire. I've never been out of my home state but for that one dismal funeral trip, but when we go to Lake Ossipee in the summer he likes to frolic. Oh gosh! I cannot wait to see the palm trees and a real beach. When will I meet Mr. Rocha? He's quite handsome."

Dee and her wife exchanged a smirky sort of look that I didn't quite understand. But maybe it wasn't smirky at all. Maybe it was a delighted expression. Hard to tell. I was running on pure energy and caffeine now. I might be jetlagged. Sometimes when I was tired, I tended to talk steadily.

"Do people get jetlagged on a three-hour flight?" I asked as they led me along, Dee taking my arm and Laura wrestling with my lumpy-bumpy suitcase. "It smells sandy already. Sandy like the beach and not sandy like Sandy from Grease. I love that movie. Does Mr. Rocha like musicals? I read online that he was a hockey player, which is just amazing! That's the sport where Rhianna performs during the middle of the game show, right?"

"Paul is going to love you," Dee said with a smile, then glanced at her wife. Yay! I hoped he would like me because I did not want to get booted back to New Hampshire before I could unpack. I was coming down from my adrenaline rush fast, but that look they shared made me wonder if they were speaking in code.