Some Assembly Required (3 page)

“Shit!” Tommy screamed and burst into the showers.

Patrick startled and jerked his sudsy fingers from his hair. “The fuck?”

Tommy darted for the faucet, narrowly missing the boiling stream of water, and then flicked off the tap. He sighed as if he had averted some nature of crisis.

Patrick scowled. He just wanted a shower. Couldn’t he take one without getting fucked with?

He clenched his jaw and forced the faucet on again. The hot water flowed once more, and he ducked his head under the stream.

Tommy shrieked like a child confronted with a terrifying yet completely harmless insect. Perhaps a moth. Patrick had never been particularly fond of them. Tommy lunged forward to shut it off again, but Patrick growled and smacked his hand away in warning. Tommy reeled back as if brushed against by said spooky moth, and Patrick’s vision went fuzzy from the touch.

They both stopped for a moment as the water ran. Their eyes met, and the suds slid from Patrick’s hair, down his shoulders, and then over his chest. Tommy blinked, his lips pursed in an
O
as he stared at him.

Patrick pressed his lips together as Tommy hesitantly reached out, intending to touch him. Patrick gestured to his waist. “Either you’re going to join me, or you’re going to teach customers how to use Allen wrenches. Because this ain’t gonna suck itself.”

Tommy jerked his hand away, and his lips wiggled into an embarrassed line.

“Really?” Patrick arched a brow.

Tommy’s answer came by way of his bolting from the employee lounge.

Patrick shrugged. “Whatever.”

Once he was suitably clean, he scored some proper jeans from the Lost and Found. It always amazed him what people left behind at CASA, or what they did to leave them behind. He’d found a prosthetic leg once. The guy probably wouldn’t be getting far on foot after that.

Tommy had left his locker open. A glaring yellow CASA shirt hung, neatly pressed, with three others. No one pressed their shirts. And no one kept that many spares.

“D’aw,” Patrick said as he took one of the shirts. “Tommy has a mommy.”

He pulled it over his head and then adjusted the sleeves. Right length, but a bit too small for him. Tight across the chest, and the sleeves stretched to the limit on his arms. He looked more like a bouncer with a bizarre choice of Halloween costume than an actual cashier. At least it was “proper.” Agnes would be pleased. Dried-up hag.

Patrick’s mood soured the moment he hit the café floor. The old man was back again, sitting in the corner all alone and lost in thought. The bastard never had anything better to do. He sat there for hours with a plate of meatballs he never ate. In front of him was the latest
Wall Street Journal
crossword puzzle and a pen. The
WSJ
crosswords were Patrick’s drug of choice. He noted that the puzzle was blank and the pen new.

He snorted. “Stop trying to look smart,” he said to the old man as he loomed over him.

The old man threaded his fingers together, refusing to be cowed by Patrick’s intimidation.

Patrick stiffened at the sound of a chair scraping the ground. A young guy settled at a nearby table alone, looking much like a lost kitten bewildered by such a big new world. He smiled, bright and genuine, at Patrick. Narrowing his eyes, Patrick gave a little wave in reply. The guy waved eagerly in response.

He was definitely a cute one, for sure. Even better than the guy in his dream. Maybe this day wasn’t such a wash after all.

Patrick turned back to the old man and then crouched over him to whisper in his ear. “I’ll deal with you later.”

He stepped away and crossed the floor to the infinitely more pleasant and definitely doable guy. Uninvited to his table, Patrick took the initiative, spun a chair backward, and straddled it.

The guy didn’t speak immediately but instead seemed to just be pleased to be in CASA.

No one ever came to CASA alone. CASA was a purgatory best faced with a quest companion, usually a spouse or next of kin.

Patrick saw neither a ring nor an indication of offspring. Perfect. He pointed his fingers like a gun at the guy and smiled, full of smugness. “Don’t tell me. Derrick, right?”

The guy smiled crookedly, confused by the question. “Sorry? I’m Benjami—Benji.” He nodded. “Benji. Only my mother calls me Benjamin.”

Patrick sucked in an overdramatic sigh and snapped his fingers. “Dammit. Swore you looked like a Derrick. I’m usually so good at that.”

“So, you’re psychic.” Benji smirked.

“No.” Patrick pulled a face of mock hurt. “I’m Patrick.”

“But your name tag says Tommy,” Benji said, glancing at his chest.

Patrick blinked and patted the plastic tag. “So it does.” He pointed a finger and pressed his lips together, assuming a stern expression. “So you’re not a Derrick. But I promise I’m 100 percent psychic.”

“Oh really?” Benji glanced out the tall windows. The sunny day filled the café. Robins busied themselves building a nest on the ledge. “So, what am I thinking right now?”

Patrick grinned. “You’re thinking you need to try out the MILAN bed up in the bedding showroom.”

Agnes was going to fucking kill him.

Could anything compare to the smell of plastic and particleboard in the morning?

Well, lots of things probably could. Queequeg Coffee, for one. His mother’s freshly baked apple pie. The Mrs. Meyer’s Clean Day basil soap that he hoarded every time it was in stock at Scope.

The candy apple red circle décor motif of Scope seemed to try to take the edge off the unconscious suggestion of a military sniper’s laser targeting. But it was easier ignoring the odd, checkered past involvement of the founder’s political leanings. A senator of questionable morals founded Benji’s favorite office supply store. It was his CASA of office supply needs. How politicians got into marketing everything from bedding to pencils was a strange tale.

But CASA had none of those torrid stories and scandals. The Italians had seen to that. CASA had its host of urban legends. From babies being born to weddings, it was all the talk of social media. CASA was definitely in the top ten of Benji’s favorite places.

Benji inhaled deeply and let the scent wash over him. Everything about CASA screamed fresh start and endless opportunity. It was pretty much impossible to feel anything but optimistic when standing in a CASA. For him, at least. The couple sitting a few tables over probably didn’t agree, judging by the angry way the woman was turning pages in the thick CASA catalog in front of her while the man stared off into space, balancing one of the nubby golf pencils the store provided on his knuckles.

There was a family of six against the back wall. The parents traded exhausted looks over the heads of the four kids chattering eagerly about Bambini Mondo.

Benji smiled at Patrick-Not-Tommy, and he returned it with a slow, easy grin like he’d heard a dirty joke he was eager to repeat.

“So, what do you do, Patrick-Not-Tommy?” Benji skewered a meatball and gestured with it like the pointer he used for the kids to sound out their ABCs.

He obviously didn’t work in the café since he wasn’t wearing the black chef’s uniform. And even though he had the right shirt on to work the floor, his jeans weren’t the CASA uniform kind.

God. How sad was it that he knew what the freaking CASA uniform was? He definitely spent too much time here.

“Patrick,” he said as he picked at his thumbnail. “You need to stick with me here, Derrick.”

“Benji.”

Patrick waved a dismissive hand as if he were swatting away flies. “Benji’s a terrier with a series of kid movies. Derrick is a guy I could get behind.”

Benji coughed and concentrated on his knuckles. How could this guy just waltz in here and make everything drip with innuendo? He’d never keep a straight face in front of the kids tomorrow.

“I said,” Benji said, trying to get things back on track, “what do you do?”

“Work.”

“You’re helpful.”

Patrick’s grin broadened. “Always.”

“Patrick…,” Benji started, surprised when a young woman with a dour expression spoke. When had she walked up? Christ. He needed to sleep more.

“Karin.” Patrick sat up straighter. “Meet my new charge. Derrick, this is Karin. Karin, Derrick.”

“Benji,” Benji said again with a grunt.

Patrick waved him off. “Derrick’s just a little confused right now. Bonked his head on the cart return, you know.”

Karin clasped a hand onto Patrick’s broad shoulder and then dug in her nails. “May I have a word with you?”

“Anthropomorphic,” Patrick said without a blink.

Benji drew his brows together. “…what?”

Patrick winked at him. “Jeopardy! Clue of the Day.”

Karin gnashed her teeth. “We need help with assembly.”

The way she enunciated every syllable told Benji that Patrick had shirked his duty to sit here in the café and harangue him. Not that he wasn’t interesting, if not exactly welcome, company. But he didn’t want Patrick to get in trouble on his account.

“Ah.” Patrick sighed but didn’t seem the slightest bit exasperated. “The Divorce Maker sample again, huh?”

“Divorce… maker?” Benji asked. What kind of CASA product is that? CASA was a place of happiness, Italian Muzak, and affordable, delightful furniture.

Patrick popped up from his chair and then spun it back around, tucking it into its proper place under the table. He knocked the table with two knuckles and nodded to Benji. “Be careful what you touch here in CASA. Can’t have you getting sucked into the black hole of rabid consumerism.”

“Do you ever stop?” Karin asked as she pulled on Patrick’s wrist.

Patrick relented and followed Karin’s lead. He made a sloppy two-finger salute behind him. “Be cool, soda pop. Don’t wander too far, Benji.”

Looking down at his meatballs, Benji flushed. Even his name sounded like a thick innuendo in Patrick’s mouth. Benji swallowed. He was going to be a flustered mess in class tomorrow. He could only hope for some classroom drama to take his mind off the way Patrick’s faded jeans hung low on his hips and molded to his ass like a dream. Perhaps Kevin would stick bubblegum in Brittany’s hair again. A screaming five-year-old would be the perfect distraction.

The few sentences they’d exchanged had been the best conversation Benji had had in weeks. Despite it being incredibly odd, he’d been energized just by talking with him. And it had nothing to do with Patrick’s ass. Or mostly nothing. Okay, maybe a little. But it had been significantly longer than weeks since Benji had been in the presence of something that delectable, and no one could blame a man for noticing.

Benji watched the family of six gather up their trays and leave before he turned his attention back to his own table. There was a mostly empty plate of meatballs and a coffee that had long gone cold sitting in front of him. He didn’t remember ordering either of them, let alone eating.

Come to think of it, he didn’t remember coming to CASA this morning, either. His restless sleep had caused him no shortage of weekday morning pain getting up for school, but this was the first time he’d found himself somewhere he had no recollection of going.

God, hopefully he had driven safely.

He looked down and wrinkled his nose when he saw something staining his pants. Benji brushed at it, but it was stuck on pretty well. He could get a napkin and clean it up later. Clearly he’d had a busy morning. Stained clothes and a shopping outing he didn’t remember?

It must be Sunday. He’d planned to spend it at home catching up on some very important teacher work, aka cutting shapes out of construction paper and tidying supplies. Kindergarten teachers might not have a lot of grading to bring home, but that didn’t mean they had tons of downtime, either. He’d spent an increasing amount of time in his classroom during the evenings and weekends. One positive of his breakup with Charles was a spotlessly appointed craft wall. His Pinterest account was practically smoking from all the use it got these days.

Maybe he’d come in today to get some more of those SCATOLA stacking boxes. He’d noticed he was out of the small ones when he organized his classroom art supplies Friday night. Most teachers booked it out of the building as fast as they could on Friday afternoons, which made it an optimal time to stick around and get stuff done without interruptions. At least, that was his story about why he worked most Friday nights, and he was sticking to it. But he wasn’t a total stick-in-the-mud. He’d skipped the paints and markers and spent most of the night cataloging his glitter supply in honor of it being Friday. Never let it be said that Benjamin Goss didn’t let loose on the weekend.

The sauce on his plate had long since congealed into an unappetizing mess, and Benji was about to take his tray to the trash can when a CASA employee swooped in and took it for him. He thanked her, but she stared right past him, muttering about lazy people leaving messes for others to clean up.

Apparently even CASA employees could have bad days. He didn’t see how, since it was one of the happiest places on earth, but Benji conceded he might feel differently if he worked here.

He didn’t bother getting a cart, since that would only give him an excuse to stock up on more ridiculous things he didn’t need. He’d learned long ago that CASA was like a gas: it would expand to fit any space, so you had to limit how much opportunity you gave it. Going in with just a yellow shopping bag meant you could only buy what you could carry. Going in with a cart meant coming out with more things than a person could conceivably use in a lifetime. It was kind of like Costless in that respect.

Benji stretched, moving his shoulders up and down and rotating his neck back and forth. There was definitely something off about him today, and not just that he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten to CASA in the first place. He hadn’t felt this stiff since the time he’d taken a drunken dare to climb the gigantic rock wall in the college rec center. He’d gotten up and down it without problem—a minor miracle—but when he’d woken up the next morning, he hadn’t been able to open his hands or lift his arms above his shoulders. He’d had to have his roommate help him wash his hair.