The Positions of Love Box Set

Book 1: The Positions of Love-4

Vic was the quiet type who kept to himself at work. He nodded when someone called his name, but he didn’t joke around with the other drivers in the lounge, didn’t hang out for beers after his shift. At his locker, he exchanged his ragged shirt and faded jeans for his work uniform, then headed over to the time clock. His boss, Rick Morrison, leaned against the wall, arms crossed as he watched his employees clock in. He was a big man, Vic’s girth, but more flab than muscle, and a good head and shoulders taller than Vic. Twenty years older, too, at least. He ran a tight ship, and usually hovered near the clock between shifts to ensure no one fudged on their timecards.

Vic kept his head down and avoided his boss’s eye, but the man’s thoughts drifted into Vic’s head uninvited—a downside to his telepathic ability. Yes, it let him forge an intimate connection with his lover, but it also tuned in everyone else’s thoughts, as well. He was still learning how to control them, and for the most part he succeeded, but the teleporting must have thrown him off more than he wanted to admit if he couldn’t concentrate enough to block out unwanted thoughts.

Too short, Morrison was thinking as he cast a critical eye over the employees lined up at the time clock. Too skinny. Too…no. Just no.

Vic kept his head down and crammed his card into the clock. Why was his boss checking them out? And did he really want to know?

As the clock punched his time, Morrison’s thought rang out over the sound, crowing in Vic’s head. Perfect.

“Braunson,” his boss snapped. “My office. Now.”

Vic groaned as he replaced his timecard in its slot by the clock. What was this all about?

Morrison’s office was down the hall. As he stalked away from the time clock, Vic followed behind him like a recalcitrant child, full of dread. Quickly he reached out with his mind, poking at Morrison’s thoughts, but for some reason all he could pick up was an image of Santa Claus. How strange.

Inside the office, one large desk took up most of the space. Morrison had to squeeze around it to plop down in his chair, which wheezed beneath him in protest. With the back of his hand, Morrison indicated a rusty folding chair that leaned by the door. “Braunson,” he said again. “Have a seat.”

Vic opened the folding chair and sat down. The chair listed to the left, where the bolt holding the legs together on that side had rusted through, so Vic leaned to the right to compensate. For a long moment, the two men stared at each other across the span of the desk, each waiting for the other to speak. When it became obvious that Morrison was in no hurry, Vic asked, “What’s this all about?”

“Braunson,” his boss sighed—Vic didn’t know if he should be worried that Morrison kept repeating his name, or if the man only said it so he wouldn’t forget it. “You’re a dependable man, you know that?”

Uh-oh. Not a good sign. Vic frowned, unsure how to answer, so he settled for, “Sir?”

Morrison rubbed his unshaven chin and closed one eye, as if assessing Vic. Then, making up his mind, he said, “I want you to work the Christmas—”

“No,” Vic interrupted. Indignation welled up within him. “No, sir. I signed up to work today so I’d get the day after Christmas off. I already have plans—”

Morrison shook his head. “Let me finish, will you?”

Vic fell silent, but he glared at his boss, unwilling to let his anger disperse so easily. No way was he working Christmas. No f*****g way.

“As I was saying,” Morrison continued, “I want you to work the Christmas party. You can have off the day after, I don’t care. Hell, take the next day as well, with full pay. The party’s on a Saturday night and I need a Santa.”

“A…” Vic frowned, not quite comprehending what that had to do with him. “A Santa?”

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Morrison explained, “You know, Kris Kringle, Saint Nick, Father Christmas, all that mess. Santa Claus.”

For as long as Vic had been working for the City, Morrison had always dressed in a Santa suit for their Christmas party. He came in with jingling bells and big, clomping boots, and ho ho ho’ed his way around tables full of City bus drivers, controllers, admin staff, technicians, and mechanics. Spouses were welcome at the party, as were children, and sometime before the night was over, Morrison would let the kids take turns sitting on his lap, telling him what they wanted from Santa. One or two of the wives even climbed on his knee, much to their drunken husbands’ delight. Then Morrison would hand out gifts, small boxes full of gift certificates or inexpensive trinkets, little tokens from the company for all the employees’ hard work.

The thought of doing any of that made Vic feel sick.

“Sir,” he started.

Morrison nodded at his protest. “I know what you’re thinking, Braunson. Why not me? But after my hernia, the doctor said I couldn’t put any weight on my legs, and I’m getting too old for this gig anyway. Let someone else join in the fun.”

Fun was not the word Vic would have used. Excruciating, perhaps. Torturous. He tried again. “I don’t really think I’m right for—”

“Nonsense.” Morrison leaned back in his chair and the legs groaned beneath his weight. Vic wanted to wipe the self-satisfied smirk off his boss’s face, and settled for popping his knuckles in a menacing way instead. His boss ignored the sound. “You’re perfect for the job. We’re about the same build, so I’m sure the costume would fit. You’ll need some padding around the belly, that’s all. Just take some of that metal off your face so you don’t scare the kiddies, and Jesus Christ, smile for once, lighten up a little. You’ll do fine.”

Vic scowled harder. “If I do it,” he asked, emphasizing the if, “you said I can take an extra day at the end of the month?”

“Take the whole damn week,” Morrison replied. “I’m feeling generous. But you have to be convincing.”

For a week off? Hell, Vic would out-Santa the jolly old elf himself.

* * * *

Throughout his shift, traffic was hellacious. Vic’s mind grew so focused on work that he didn’t teleport again—he had too much to concentrate on, navigating the city bus through the busy streets, standing on the brake whenever a sporty little car zoomed in front of him, and cutting across the lanes to reach bus stops crowded with people carrying shopping bags. He kept a glower on his face to deter any of his passengers from talking to him, and growled whenever someone asked him a question. As the day wore on, the thought of playing Santa rankled in him, souring his mood. When he finally dropped off the last fare a little after six P.M. and turned the bus sign to No Service, he wanted nothing more than to head home to a relaxing evening with his lover and forget his day.

Then he remembered his car, left on the interstate. f**k.

His powers usually sparked brightest right after s*x, then dwindled throughout the day, until they disappeared completely. The only ones that stayed around were the super strength and a constant level of telepathy that ran like a low-grade fever through Vic’s mind at all times. By the end of his shift, the ability to teleport was gone. As he drove back to the garage, Vic called Matt. First he tried the house, but there was no answer. So he tried Matt’s cell phone, and on the second ring, his lover’s warm voice filled Vic’s ear. “Talk dirty to me, big guy.”

The words dispersed Vic’s foul mood like the seeds of a dandelion blown in the wind. “If your day’s been half as bad as mine…”

Matt laughed, a rich sound that made Vic’s toes curl to hear it. “I don’t know about bad,” he admitted, “but the cleaning crew put too much chlorine in the pool the first time they filled it and just about burned the gloss off the tile. Do you know how long it takes to empty a pool that size? I mean, completely drain it and fill it back up again?”

“Two hours?” Vic asked, only because he knew Matt wanted him to guess.

“Four,” Matt replied. “Four hours. This after we filled it the first time. I’m just now leaving the gym. Where are you?”

Vic glanced around him. The darkened street seemed eerily empty after the hectic rush of the day. “Main and Belvedere. Heading back to the garage.”

“When will you be home?” Matt asked. “I can stop and grab us something to eat.”

“Actually,” Vic said, “can you swing by and pick me up? I know it’s a bit out of the way, but my car—”

“What?” In his mind, Vic could see Matt sit up a little straighter behind the wheel of his Jaguar, maybe tighten his hand on the steering wheel, as he frowned in concern. Matt always jumped to conclusions—Vic’s powers made him worry constantly. “What happened to your car? Are you all right?”

Vic assured him, “I’m fine. The car’s on 95.”

“Then how’d you get to work?” Matt asked.

Vic laughed. “Wait ‘til you hear this.”