Hard at Work Box Set

Carey’d Away-2

At the far end of the hall, down aisles hemmed in with display cases, and behind a large booth that blocked his view of the reception desk, Patrick Dix struggled with a box full of Superman comics and wondered how the hell he’d ever gotten himself involved with this mess. He didn’t even like comics all that much, not really—he only helped out at the shop whenever his friend Leena Dodson needed an extra hand. So he’d thought nothing of it when his friend called him up earlier in the week and asked if he’d come to the comic book convention. “It’s here in Richmond,” Leena had said. “We don’t have to travel anywhere. We’ll just set up a booth for three days and try to get rid of some of my overstock. I’ll pay you even, okay? How’s that, Pat? Come on, please. I’m begging here.”

Because he had nothing else planned for the weekend, and because he could use a few extra bucks, Patrick had agreed. But now…

What the hell was I thinking? he wondered as he lifted the box onto one of the tables in their booth.

Opening the box, he started sorting through the comics, not sure what he was really doing. Each book was carefully wrapped in a thin plastic bag to protect it. Leena had price stickers stuck on the outside of the bag, and the books appeared to be in some semblance of order, so Patrick laid them out on the table the same way he pulled them from the box. Help me out, she says. And where is she, hmm? That’s what I’d like to know. It’s not helping out if I’m the only one doing the work.

As far as he knew, Leena was still at home, probably even still in bed. “Be outside my shop by quarter after five,” she’d said when she called Patrick the night before to remind him of the convention. So Patrick had showed up at 5:15 on the dot—this time of the year, it’d still been dark outside. Hell, the sun wasn’t even awake yet at that hour.

He’d waited. And waited. Twenty minutes later he’d walked across the street and convinced the girl working the drive-thru at McDonald’s to let him use her phone because like a dumbass, he’d left his cell at home. When he called Leena’s apartment and got the answering machine, he hung up and called again. The groggy voice that answered bore little resemblance to his friend’s usual cheery greeting. “s**t. What time is it? Give me ten minutes.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Patrick had replied.

Now glancing at his watch, he noticed it was a little after six. Where the hell is she again? Ten minutes, my ass.

Pushing the comics aside, he ducked beneath the table and lifted two boxes that overflowed with trading cards. Had he mentioned yet that he didn’t know jack about comics? Or that he had no clue how his friend wanted the booth set up? Or that Leena was late? Because she was, and getting later every minute she didn’t show up. Patrick wasn’t going to let her pull a stunt like this again.

He balanced the boxes one on the other as he stood…damn, these cards are heavy. He felt a dull anger creep into his thoughts and he tried to push it away. It took a lot to get him angry. Which is why Leena always asks me to do s**t like this, and why I let her walk all over me. “Can you help me?” It’ll surprise you, hon, when I finally learn to say no.

Suddenly the top box started to slide.

Patrick felt it wobble precariously and then it slipped, hitting the side of the table and spilling cards everywhere. A fan of Magic and Pokémon cards spread out across the comic books and fell to the ground like a proverbial house of cards. “Damn it the hell,” Patrick muttered, setting the other box down.

The cards lay scattered about. They were collectors’ items, weren’t they? Leena always told him she made more money off Pokémon than anything else she sold. Patrick knew his friend must’ve spent hours sorting those cards, sticking each one into its tiny protective sleeve and pricing it out of the latest Wizard guide, then rearranging them in order by expansion set. And now, this.

How the f**k am I supposed to put them back right? Patrick thought, kicking the box where it rested on the floor. You can show up any day now, Leena. Any minute.

With a sigh, he walked around the table and bent over to scoop the cards together. He didn’t want to do this. Couldn’t he just call it a day already? I’m leaving when she gets here. Rapidly, he shuffled the cards together. f**k putting them in order. If she ever gets here. What was taking her so long? She should’ve been here by now.

A low wolf whistle interrupted his thoughts.

His fingers went nerveless, and the cards leapt from his hands, raining down onto the floor again. Tell me that was not directed at me.

“Nice ass.” The man’s voice was young and sexy.

From the corners of his eyes Patrick glanced around, but he was alone—there was no one else in the booth or standing nearby to whom that might be directed. No one but himself. And in his experience, sexy guys didn’t whistle at him or comment on his backside. They just didn’t. Ignore him, his mind whispered. He’ll go away.

Bending his knees, Patrick squatted, all too aware of a hot gaze watching him move. This time as he gathered up the cards, some of them bent beneath his fumbling fingers. The guy behind him cleared his throat, and Patrick’s cheeks warmed with a quick blush.

“Hey, hot stuff.”

Patrick felt that blush heat up the back of his neck. A look over his shoulder showed the guy—around his age, maybe a little younger. He wore a tight black T-shirt with the word OMNI embroidered on the left breast and black jeans that hung down off narrow hips. His dark hair was shaved close to his scalp and all Patrick could see were dark blue eyes, a faint smile on full lips, and well-defined muscles along his arms and chest. Sexy didn’t begin to describe him.

Guys like him don’t look at guys like me. Please God, don’t taunt me like this. Clearing his throat, Patrick asked, “Excuse me?” He hoped his voice sounded steadier than it did to his own ears.

Meeting his nervous gaze, the guy grinned. “You heard me. Got some junk in the trunk. I like that.” He held a clipboard against his waist and tapped it with a pen as he stared openly at Patrick.

Patrick felt the cards slip from his fingers again but he couldn’t seem to remember how to pick them up.

“Are you Dodson?” the guy asked, and the pen said taptaptap against the clipboard. A grin flashed across his features, brightening his face. “Dodson, Dodson! We’ve got Dodson here.”

Patrick glanced around, confused. “What?”

The guy shrugged. “It’s from Jurassic Park. You know, the movie?” When Patrick didn’t answer, he looked at the clipboard and frowned. “I’m guessing you’re not Leena, are you? From Kryptonite Comics?”

“I’m Pat Dix,” Patrick corrected. “She’s not here yet.”

“Do you work for her?”

The cards slid out of his hands again—the damn sleeves holding them were slick. Before Patrick could scoop up the cards, the guy knelt down beside him and swept them up with both hands. “Carey.”

Patrick watched those strong hands tamp the cards into a neat stack. “Carry what?”

The guy’s grin widened. “Carey. That’s me. So you’re into comics?” He held the cards out to Patrick.

As he took the stack, his fingers brushed Carey’s and he pulled away quickly. His skin tingled where they touched and he thought if he ever got the chance to press his flesh against Carey’s, the sensation would be maddening. Why are you talking to me? I’ve waited my whole life for a guy like you to look at me, to speak to me, to even give me the time of day. And when you finally do, it’s at a damn comic book convention. Where was the justice in that?

Then he realized Carey was waiting for him to say something, but for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine what it was. “What?”

His voice was barely a whisper. They both squatted on the floor, Carey mere inches away. Beside him. When had that happened? “I’m sorry…”

Carey laughed and prompted, “Comics. This is a comic book convention, right?” He waited until Patrick nodded before he said, “And you work at Kryptonite Comics—”

“Oh!” Patrick shook his head, relieved that one of them was paying attention. I could get lost in those eyes, he thought, staring at his hands so he wouldn’t stare at Carey. “No, I’m not really all that big into comics. I mean, I’m not…no.”

God. He picked at the corners of the cards he held, trying to smooth out the bends. You think I’m an i***t. I sound like a fool. Just leave now, please. Come back in my dreams and maybe then I can be witty and charming and anything more than this bumblefuck dork I’m playing at now.

When Carey didn’t respond, Patrick cleared his throat and whispered, “No. I’m not into comics. Not really. I’m—”

“I get the point,” Carey said.

Patrick grinned. That means shut up. He looked up as Carey stood, but when he realized he was eye-level with the guy’s crotch and now he really was beginning to stare, he rose to his feet and starting shuffling together the cards on the table. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. His name—got that out of the way. Did he like comics? No. Could he have his number?

He blushed at that one. Like I’m that brave. Like I can just come out and ask a guy, any guy, for his number. Least of all this guy. That’s a little beyond my scope of super powers. Right now I’m pretty sure the only thing I’m good at is looking like a dumbass. Can’t even tell him…

“Thank you,” he mumbled without looking at Carey. He kept his gaze on the table and tried to pretend he didn’t feel the heat radiating between them. All it would take was a step back and he’d be against that body. He wondered if Carey would move if he leaned into him like that. He wondered if those hands would find a way around his waist. What would they feel like? Warm? Strong?

What was he talking about again? “For helping me with the cards. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Carey stepped forward, closing the distance between them. When Patrick moved, his elbow brushed against that hard body so close behind him now. Carey’s breath was hot along the back of Patrick’s neck when he whispered, “I’m at the registration desk all day. You just let me know if you need help with something else. Anything.”

The clipboard bit into the small of Patrick’s back and he felt it move against him as Carey wrote something down. Then he heard the tear of a sticker peeled from paper and felt a hand, as warm and strong as he had suspected it would be, cup his ass as it pressed something onto the back pocket of his jeans.

“Here’s your nametag,” Carey told him. “Have fun at the show. Hope I see you around.”

Patrick waited until Carey’s footsteps disappeared, then pulled the sticker off his butt. Hello My Name Is, it read in big red letters. Beneath that, Carey had scrawled, Pat Dix. Under his name was written seven digits Patrick didn’t recognize, and then, Carey it with you at all times. He laughed, shaky, relieved.

Carefully he folded the nametag, keeping the sticky sides together, and stuck it in his pocket. That hadn’t just happened, had it? Some hot guy he didn’t know hadn’t just left him his phone number, had he? Patrick didn’t think he’d ever get up the nerve to call but at least he had it, right? So maybe today wouldn’t suck so badly after all.