Chapter 1

It's December.I can officially dress for the season at work and not get written up. I've only been waiting since the day after Halloween; the second-best holiday. If Susan wasn't such a bitch and her daughter, Nancy, the biggest snitch and ass kisser, I would have just said fuck the rules and started my Christmas ensembles early. But I got written up last year when I wore a Christmas sweater on Black Friday.

I button my black dress slacks around my waist before slipping the Gucci belt through the hoops. Flipping through my closet rather quickly, I pull my Santa short-sleeve button up from the hanger, deciding to start with a bang. It's styled like a sports jersey but is sky blue and covered with large Santas. I smile as I tuck it into my slacks and brush my hands down the front to smooth the wrinkles.

God, Susan will shit a brick if she sees me today, but the Howards' employee handbook states in strong bold letters that as of December first, employees may dress as holidayish as they want.

Is holidayish a word? Or is it Christmassy? But what if they don't celebrate Christmas per se but a different winter holiday? Focus, Ignatius. It"s almost time for work.

There are only two ways Susan would know what I was wearing. She either actually looked at the cameras, which is laughable, or her daughter Nancy cried about me breaking the rules, which she does every chance she gets. She used to leave me alone, but when she asked me to dinner and I turned her down, she"s been a bitch ever since.

I thought it was pretty obvious that I wasn't into women, but Nancy either didn't care or thought she would be the woman to make me straight. Ha! Fat chance of that happening. I love the dick, the masculine smell, the rigid muscles, the rough hands. Just the thought of a strong, rugged man has a shiver coursing through my body.

Now, if only I could find someone who checks all my boxes. It's not even that many; employed, don't live with their mom, not still in the closet. I'm rather easy to please, but after many blind dates, Meet Males meetups, and even a Men2Men speed dating event, I'm twenty-six and single as hell.

Don't these men know what a catch I am? I own my house all by myself; I own a car, and work a full-time job. Plus, I know I'm easy on the eyes and I'd like to think I'm funny and smart. But it seems while everyone else is finding their one true love and settling down, I'm just here living the bachelor's life.

Fuck! I need to stop the pity party or I"m going to be late. Scrambling to put my shoes on, I grab my keys and run out the door.

Hitting the button on the key fob, I unlock my car and climb behind the wheel. The drive to Rockford isn"t so bad. It"s all highway and minimal lights, so before I know it, I'm pulling into the parking lot and shutting off my car.

* * *

This shift has been draggingass and my sales are nowhere near what I need them to be if I want to get the promotion I've been working for. Howards is looking for a new Philanthropy Manager, the job I've wanted since I started. I know they always fill the position from within the company, so I needed somewhere to start. I've enjoyed my time as the children's department manager, but it's not what I want to do for the rest of my life.

"Ignatius! Where are you?" Nancy"s voice is like nails on a chalkboard.

"Over here!" I roll my eyes as I put away a basket of toys people discarded and set the last doll back in its proper place.

"I need to go on break and Tom went home sick, so you're covering my department." She steps closer and runs her hand down my chest.

"Who will cover here, then?" I ask, pushing it off of me.

"Quinn. Not that it matters. This place is dead," she purrs.

"Why doesn't Quinn just cover for you, then? That makes more sense than her covering me, covering for you." I raise a brow.

"Mom gave the order, not me. So you can take it up with her or just come with me." She stomps her foot like a child; fitting since we're in the children's department. "Do you really want to risk her finding out you didn't follow her orders? She's already going to write you up if she sees that shirt."

"The handbook says I can dress in holiday wear as of December first, so she can't write me up," I argue. She goes to open her mouth to fire back at me, but I don't want to argue with her. It's like trying to get a preschooler to share their favorite toy. "Fine," I sigh. "I'll head over there now." I leave Nancy standing by the dolls and head toward the men's department.

I hate this part of the store. Everyone who comes into the department is a judgmental asshole, it seems, with only a few good eggs that don't act like it's a hardship being helped by me. It's why I like the kids' department. Kids don't care that I'm overzealous or love to wear fun outfits. Their parents appreciate my spirit when helping little Tommy or Tina pick out the perfect toy to spend their allowance on.

Not wanting to stand too close to the register so I don"t have to ring anyone out, I settle on refolding the table of jeans instead. At least it will be ready to go when it's closing time. I personally don't wait until the last minute to get my shit done for closing, but Nancy doesn't care. It's not like she's opening and will have to deal with it. Mommy always gives her the closing shifts so she can sleep in.

I'm fixing the last stack of Silver jeans when a tall figure steps beside me. "Are you able to help me find something?" a deep, yet raspy, voice asks.

I straighten up from leaning over the table and see possibly the most gorgeous man I've ever laid eyes on. His tattooed, muscular arms look like they're about to rip the white T-shirt he's wearing to shreds. Over the shirt, he has a leather vest with two patches on the left, one says Steel, and under that President.

My gaze trails up his firm body to his light brown hair that is cropped close to his head, minus the top that he has slicked back and to the side, making his deep chocolate eyes even more stunning.

"Y-y-yeah sure. What are you looking for?" His presence throws me off.

"My club's got this dinner thing coming up and we gotta dress up, they say. So I want to get all the guys new jeans. Nothing with holes or grease stains," he says, but seems unsure of what he"s asking.

"Okay. Do you have their sizes?"

"Yup. Had one of the old ladies track them all down for me." He digs in his front pocket for a second before pulling out a piece of crinkled notebook paper.

Old ladies?So he had someone"s grandma get the sizes instead of asking himself? Of course, all the hotties have to be assholes.

I take it from him and open it. These are names? Who named their kids these things? No matter, I guess, all I need are the sizes and they're written in pink next to each name.

"Do you want dark, light, or medium wash? Any distressing at all?" I start firing off questions, but stop when his eyes widen.

"Umm. No distressing, they'll get enough of that when this dinner is over with. I don't know about the wash, so just give me a variety, as long as they're the right sizes."

"Okay, well, do you have a budget in mind? We have these here that are ninety dollars or so a pair, but we do have some more budget-friendly options too," I tell him and bite my bottom lip as he steps closer to me to inspect the jeans on the table.

Christ. He smells like motor oil and musk. As he leans over the table, I see the back of his vest has a large skull wearing a bandana over its mouth with the words Hell's Mayhem Motorcycle Club around it.

Oh, so he's like the president of a motorcycle riders club, like in that movie with Tim Allen and his buddies who ride bikes. That's fun. And now he wants to get his buddies new jeans for a dinner. He's philanthropic too. Just my type. I mean, the old lady thing is kinda a red flag, but I can't expect perfection.

"Price doesn't matter. These look fine to me." He grabs a pair of jeans, holding them up.

"Okay, well then, let's get started. It says here Viper is a 34x42, so you find those and I'll find Pistol's 40x48." I flip through the stack in front of me while he does the same. Every time his biceps brushes against mine, there are tiny electric zaps.

I hope Nancy takes her sweet time, so I can be the one who rings up biker boy. No one has to know if I also add my digits on his receipt where I write my name for the customer service survey.

First, though, I need to see if he plays for the same team as me. No more chasing straight men. That was the old Iggie. I'm a new Iggie now.