29. Data

TWENTY-NINE

Data

"Cracker! Cracker!"

Approaching the building's stoop, Camilla's tiny, shrill voice trumpets from Horton's apartment window. Even with the mild January temps, it's still barely above freezing, but the radiators in our building are hit or miss, and Horton's always leans tropical, and he let's everyone know.

"I don't have any crackers!" Shouting at a bird in a window isn't my finest moment, but I'm not in the habit of carrying crackers around with me. One of these days, I'm going to stop at the corner bodega and hand her a stack of saltines. A beautiful African Grey, Camilla, a rescue with apparent ‘parrot trauma,' has never learned the ‘Polly wants a … ' part of the phrase, so now the residents are all her humble cracker minions.

"Sorry about that." Horton appears in the first-floor window, clutching a mug of something steamy, his bald head glistening from the overactive radiators, the vapor from his mug, or both. "Hot as hell in here."

He works from home, although we're not exactly sure what he does. Bryce is convinced he's running a meth lab, but Horton doesn't appear to be the illegal drug lord type—unless he's dealing Xanax. He doesn't go out much and shows no interest in any building shenanigans. According to Marsh, it's high time we played matchmaker and found Horton a complimentary big boy, but he seems completely satisfied with his current arrangement alongside Camilla.

"No worries. I appreciate her tenacity." I give Horton a nod and unlock the entry door.

Marsh and I are on the second floor, which thankfully means only one flight of stairs. When I open our door, I come face-to-face with my face. Lots of them. All over Marsh's ass.

Ever since we came back from the cabin, those damn boxers have been his de facto garment. The whirr of the vacuum fills the room and he diligently drags it back and forth. We dog-sat Bobo recently, and his thick coat made permanent residence on our floors. Marsh does his best thinking in the shower and while vacuuming. This provides me with both a spotless boyfriend and apartment. Lucky me.

I plop my keys in the bowl by the door and shut the door behind me. He's facing the large window, and I'm fairly certain he hasn't noticed me yet by the way he's shaking his perfect, juicy ass. He's singing—almost shouting—"Agony" from Into the Woods , attempting to hear himself over the vacuum and music blaring in his ears. Watching Marsh Goldberg put on his almost naked cleaning show for me makes me want to go rooting through his rutabaga, as Bernadette famously sang.

Walking behind him, I thread my arms under his, laying my head on his back and tugging him close.

"Babe!" Marsh shouts. "I didn't hear you." He shuts off the vacuum and pops out his headphones, "My performance will have to wait. The fans will understand."

He turns around and squeezes me, and unable to resist the pull, my forehead lands on his. Our noses almost touch, and I can smell remnants of his late afternoon snack—cheese puffs, still dusting his lips.

"There's my Data." He brushes his lips on my forehead. "I missed you. "

Before I can speak, Marsh dips in for a kiss. His soft lips brush mine, and the salty sharpness of the crumbs makes me smile into his mouth. My hands migrate to his sides, massaging his waistline, my fingers delighting in every inch of him.

"Cheesy," I whisper into his mouth.

"But I do miss you when you're at work," Marsh says.

"No, I meant you. You're cheesy." My fingers tap his upper lip. "Literally."

"Oh!" He chuckles, and his chest shakes on mine. "I mean, I'm dangerously cheesy."

"You are." My tongue sweeps over his lips, relishing the combined flavor of the cheese dust and Marsh's skin, before jutting into his mouth. We've only been home for two weeks, but it's almost as if we never broke up. After the accident, Marsh stayed with me for the week to make sure I didn't suffer a concussion and never left. Preeti was sad to see him go but happy to have her couch back. Marshmallow Mountain worked its magic.

"Oh, hello," I say, feeling Marsh's cock poke my thigh. Thank you, flimsy boxers.

"You really love talking to my dick, don't you?"

I shrug and reach under the fabric, teasing his growing thickness. "He's always been so good to me."

"He'd love to be good for you now." Marsh pushes down his boxers, and his cock, hot and firm in my hand, throbs, sending a rush of excitement through my veins.

"Would he? And how exactly does he propose to fulfill that promise?"

"Well, how about you … " Marsh's hand glides down my belly, tugging at my khakis.

"Boys!" Bryce's voice shatters our foreplay bubble as he burst through the door. "I brought buns."

Marsh yanks his boxers up and bolts for the bedroom, presumably to procure pants .

"Your buns are always welcome," I say, wishing I'd remembered to lock the front door.

And then the other love of my life gallops over, all fur and slobber. Bobo stops at my feet, sits, and begins pawing at me. I was never much of a pet person and somehow, Bobo continually steals pieces of my heart.

"Who's my good boy?" Bobo nuzzles into my hip, and I kneel, giving him access to my face.

"I was trying to be," Marsh says, returning from the bedroom with sweats on.

"Oh, did I interrupt an afternoon delight?" Bryce sets the box of treats down on the coffee table. "Bobo, we should leave the lovebirds to their nest."

"No, you're fine." I sit on the floor, and Bobo collapses, resting his giant head on my lap. I pet his face, giving his floppy ears extra attention.

Marsh pops open the box, and the sweet cardamom aroma wafts into the room. "Might as well have two of these to tide me over."

"Don't hog the buns," I say, holding my palm out.

Marsh grabs another and gently places it in my mouth. Bobo curiously sniffs near my chest, his nose twitching with interest, but he refrains from any naughty behavior. He's truly the best boy.

"What's the final countdown?" Bryce takes his bun and sits on the sofa.

"Two days. Friday's my last day," I say.

After the weekend on Marshmallow Mountain and the ensuing crash, where I did my best Brian Boitano impression across the ice, I was more determined than ever to give my notice at the firm. The pragmatist in me knew I should probably identify my next career path before quitting. Never leave a job without another one lined up. But I decided to give my inner pragmatist a sabbatical. It's time to embrace a little fear and instability if it can get me somewhere better.

Marsh and I discussed selling the cabin to shore up our savings and help pay for Joe's eventual in-home care. But I did some research and found that short-term rentals in the area were going for four or five hundred a night. We can rent out the cabin on the weeks we aren't going up, and that'll provide us a nice cushion until I land my next job. Like other bears, I'm not thrilled about the thought of strangers sleeping in our bed, but that is why God invented clean sheets.

"But won't you miss Karen from finance?" Bryce asks. Cardamom sugar dusts his chin, and I'm fairly certain Bobo will take care of it soon enough.

"Yeah," Marsh says. "Data will miss Karen like you miss a cold sore. No, wait, a herpes sore."

My Marsh—always self-revising for the strongest punch line.

"She's just upset she won't be able to bully me into doing her work for her anymore," I say.

"Any leads?" Bryce asks.

"Not yet, but I know the right thing will appear."

"You could always come audition with me," Bryce says.

"Have you seen him dance?" Marsh asks. "His two left feet have two left feet"

Bryce snorts.

"Sadly, I don't think a dance career is on my life's bingo card," I say. "I'll leave that to you, friend."

"Well, if things don't pick up soon, I'll be joining you in the job search." Bryce catches the crumbs in his hand and pops them in his mouth. "Selling opera subscriptions during second shift is getting old."

To help make ends meet in between his sparse gigs, Bryce is a telemarketer at the Metropolitan Opera four nights a week. He persuades rich people to buy ridiculously expensive subscription packages and make hefty donations on top of the tickets. With his charm, he's rather successful at it. He thinks of it as being a phone sex operator but with cleaner language. Dancing professionally is his long-term goal, though, even though he's getting up there in dancer years.

"Any auditions coming up?" Marsh asks. He and Bryce love sharing war stories.

"There's a new Broadway show casting soon. A musical reboot of some old seventies rom-com, because apparently, audiences only want limp reboots of old movies these days."

"And there's a part in it for you?" I ask, chewing on my bun. Unable to ignore his pleading eyes, I tear off a tiny piece and slide it to Bobo, who promptly gobbles it up.

"Part?" Bryce laughs, drawing Bobo's attention as he licks his chops. "I'm praying for the chorus. That's where they hide us big folks."

"Baby, they can't hide you," Marsh says. He leans over and wraps his arm around Bryce's shoulders. "You can't shade the sun."

Marsh leans over and gives Bryce a peck on the cheek, and my chest swells at his sweetness. I knew he'd win Bryce over in no time. Marsh knows what the grind is like and his empathy for Bryce smacks of sincereness.

"We'll see. Right now, we need to get this one," Bryce snaps his head toward me, "employment. Having two under-employed people in the same family isn't cute."

"Something will come up. I can sense it in the air," I say.

"Sorry, that was Bobo, I swear. He's had terrible gas lately."

I laugh because, yup, Bobo definitely ripped one. "But with this punim, who cares?"

I dip my head down, and Bobo gently licks my chin.

"Well, we should go." Bryce stands and takes another bun from the box. "Anthony is waiting for dinner. We're going for Greek food. He just learned that moussaka isn't made from moose, and now he feels okay about trying it."

Marsh's eyes cut to me as we share a knowing smile.

He's really nice , I mouth back to him.

"Come on, Bobo. Quit groveling. You're too good for him," Bryce says as Bobo stares up at me.

"No, we're just right for each other," I say as I lean down to kiss his giant, black nose. "Lock the door on your way out … please."

Bryce smirks and he and Bobo head out. Finally, alone, I join Marsh on the couch, snuggling into his meaty chest. My fingers graze a nipple, lingering. "You're a good friend."

"Hey, he brought buns."

"Yeah, but not the buns you were hungry for … "

"Flip over," Marsh says.

I do as I'm told, and he smacks my ass, the loud whack echoing against the pre-war drywall.

Marsh tugs at my pants, eagerly trying to remove them. "Dere's dat ass."