Christmas Tales - Brandon Witt Page 0,30
then handed his cards back. Not able to look at him directly, I focused on his chest. At some point while I was at the computer, he’d taken off his coat, revealing a skintight thermal underwear shirt that showed off the massive planes of his chest and the hard curve of his belly. Fuck.
“Ahhh. That’ll be eighteen dollars, James.” I sucked in a breath. James. Fuck! I’d used his name. Not only were we supposed to never use names to give the illusion of anonymity, never mind having to check IDs every time, but…. Oh my God, I’d said his name. Like I knew him or something.
“Sure thing.” He retrieved his ID and membership and slid a credit card under the slot.
I took the card and then hit the door release under the counter, which buzzed obnoxiously. “Come on in. I’ll have you sign in here.” I waited until he opened the door that led into the interior of the bathhouse, then released the door lock and ran his credit card, wishing I’d had him sign before I let him come in.
Sure enough, turning toward him with the receipt and a pen in my hand, I wanted to melt into the floor. He stood behind the opposite counter. This time no safety glass between us. Stepping forward, I slid the paper and pen toward him.
“Thanks.” He looked down and began to sign.
I tried not to. I really did. But I took a deep breath, attempting to breathe him in. Okay, that was a lie. I didn’t try not to. I couldn’t even pretend to have actual thoughts at that moment. I just breathed deeply with him a few short inches away. And couldn’t smell anything. Which was exactly what I’d hoped. It was unreal the number of men who walked into the bathhouse smelling like they hadn’t showered in days or, even worse, bathed in cheap cologne. James Olsen, it seemed, was just clean. Oh, and gorgeous. Clean and gorgeous.
Clean and gorgeous and so fucking hot I felt like a total pile of dog shit in his presence.
He signed his name, slid the receipt back toward me, and his eyes met mine. Warm brown eyes that were attractive even with the red-and-green flashing Christmas lights Philip had strewn all over the office reflected in them.
“Uh, here’s a towel. Let us know if you need a fresh one.”
“Will do.”
I picked up the receipt, my heart sinking, and called to him as he started to walk away. “Oh, wait. Excuse me. James?”
He turned back. “Yeah?”
I shouldn’t have said anything. Like it really mattered. It wasn’t like the boss was going to come in and audit me this evening. “I was supposed to keep your driver’s license. Sorry.”
Part of me expected him to be annoyed, but he simply smiled as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. “Oh, right. Forgot about that.” He handed me the license for a second time. “So what’s your name?”
I froze. “Huh?”
A low laugh emanated from him. “What’s your name? You know mine.”
“Brian. Brian Jeffrey McKay.” Shit.
He laughed again. “Wow. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Brian Jeffrey McKay.”
I stared at him. Maybe I’d dropped a bottle of poppers and I was high. That had to be. I was imagining him flirting with me.
“Mine is Alan.”
“Huh?”
He smiled. Flirting. He was flirting.
High. I had to be high.
“My middle name is Alan. Figured it was only fair since I know yours.”
“Oh, right. Alan. Very nice.” James Alan Olsen. I almost repeated his name back to him. Luckily I stifled the impulse and instead said nothing at all.
He gave a wink and walked off toward the lockers.
I managed to make it back to the swivel chair behind the office desk before I collapsed. I gave a quick look at the shelves, then the floor. No broken popper bottles. I guess I wasn’t high.
Had he really been flirting? With me?
Was he a chubby chaser too, like Philip?
Maybe he was. But even so, his attention didn’t leave me feeling dirty like Philip often did. Perplexed and in shock, but not dirty.
* * *
About an hour later, I glanced toward Philip, careful not to meet his eyes. “I’m gonna go clean up room four. That guy just left.”
“I can. I know you don’t like to, and it’s about time for me to wander around again, showing off what my mamma gave me.”
“No, you always do it, Philip. Thank you, though.” I gathered up the disinfectant bottle, rag, sheets, and rubber gloves, and