Chapter Nine
Declan
Before I met her, the captivating temptress who turned my world upside down, I hadn't given much thought to my appearance. I certainly didn’t own any stylish outfits—why bother?
I believed anyone worth my time would appreciate me just as I was.
But as I recalled how breathtaking she looked during our first encounter, an unsettling urge simmered inside me—a desire to change from an ordinary teenager into someone who could leave her breathless.
I pictured her surprise. I imagined making her heart race the same as mine did the moment I laid eyes on her.
My intentions felt noble. I was ready to step into a more refined version of myself.
The harsh truth, however, was that I was merely a high school student, juggling a part-time job at a gas station, with the finances to match.
Fortunately, outlet stores were everywhere.
Standing just shy of six feet, with shoulders that seemed disproportionate to my frame, I constantly struggled to find suits off the rack.
The last time I had to get measured to be in a relative’s wedding, the seamstress had given me a knowing look and warned, ‘You’re always going to need your pants hemmed’.
The prospect felt daunting. It was all about finding a color and style I liked, grabbing any size that was close enough, and letting the professionals work their magic.
Black was my color, my go-to choice. My grandfather always swore a real man finds something he loves and sticks with it until the very end.
He never defined what that end was, leaving me to wonder.
Standing there, looking at myself in the dressing room mirror, decked out in black socks, black boxer-briefs, a black undershirt, and black slacks, I hoped Grampa was proud.
I found a long-sleeved black shirt with black buttons to finish the ensemble, but there would be no tie for me.
I have no idea why, but hanging a flag from my throat just felt like a step too far.
Slipping on a pair of black faux-leather shoes, I felt a thrill wash over me. I wasn’t dead yet, but the thought of her waiting for me stirred something alive. What was I willing to do to make sure she noticed? The suspense lingered, tasting sweet on my lips.
I handed my assortment of funeral-worthy attire to a short Hispanic man clutching a handful of safety pins beside the fitting rooms. I explained my urgent need to have my outfit ready for Friday.
Sooner would be fine, but later would leave me stuck in thrift store jeans and a ratty t-shirt.
The older-looking sewing ninja assured me that my suit would be ready in time.
With phase one complete, I moved on to my next mission.
I’d bet anything that there aren’t any official statistics to back this up, but I assumed that all teenage boys trying to step into manhood thought they had the whole hot act around girls thing figured out.
As a self-proclaimed expert, I was sure I knew a woman loved a man who smelled divine.
But, of course, I hadn’t the faintest idea what that meant.
Was it musk? What even is musk? Did it have to be Hugo Boss or Calvin Klein?
And who the fuck decided they were so special?
Dumb and lost in the fragrance section, the answers were elusive, and I needed help.
I had to swallow my pride and consult someone with half a brain.
“Excuse me, miss,” I said, waving my hand at an employee as if embarking on a grand adventure.
The sales associate, a young woman, likely in her mid-twenties, had that all-too-familiar fake customer service smile plastered on her face.
“Oh, hi,” she replied, with a hint of forced enthusiasm. “How can I help you, sir?”
Sir? The word rolled off her tongue, and I couldn’t deny that I liked it. But my mind also wondered if there was a hidden door nearby where new workers emerged, fully trained and brainwashed.
“This is going to sound rather—” I hesitated, freezing up once again in front of yet another cute girl, regardless of her veneer of professionalism. “Um, odd. Yeah, I’m gonna be odd. It’s gonna be—ah, fuck.”
Molly, her nametag displayed, tried to suppress a laugh, and I could see her struggling to hold firm to the training she no doubt got from a video on her first day.
“I have a thing on Friday,” I stammered, my confidence long gone, “and I’m having trouble picking a smell.” The moment those words escaped my lips, I saw the way her face twisted with barely contained amusement, and I felt utterly ridiculous.
“A—” She paused, biting her lower lip as she fought back laughter. “—smell, sir?”
“I’m sorry,” I replied—heat flooding my cheeks. “I meant a cologne.” I felt like my ability to speak comprehensible words had completely shit the bed.
“Haha,” she burst out, laughter finally breaking free, which took the edge off my humiliation.
“How sweet. You’re trying to smell pretty for a girl.
” Her smile reminded me of the way my grandmother looked at me when she knew I wanted a cookie, and I desperately hoped an asteroid would land directly on my dick.
Not that I had such a kink, but how badass would it be to go out fucking an asteroid?
“Is it that obvious?” I asked, feeling as though a neon sign announcing my incompetence had been plastered to my back.
“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it,” she said, still chuckling as she clenched her teeth, trying to maintain some semblance of decorum. “I think it’s cute.” If her commission depended on her sales technique, she’d surely go bankrupt, as I wouldn’t buy a thing with my pride in tatters.
“Would you like me to show you where we keep our colognes?” she asked, regaining control of the situation.
“I—” I stopped to take a long breath in, hoping it would help. “I’ve never bought anything outside of the deodorant family,” I admitted, picturing myself as an awkward character from a sitcom. “And I’m hoping you can tell me what sort of smell a woman likes on a guy for a first date?”
Oh my GOD, Declan, get your shit together.
“I feel ridiculous, but if it’s going to help me win some points come Friday, your opinion is my best chance.”
In the perfume aisle, I noticed cabinets on the left for women and on the right for men. Ignoring my quirks, Molly pointed to a separate shelf just beyond the cabinets and explained its purpose.
“These are the tester bottles,” she elaborated, gesturing as if she were guiding me through an airport. “You can try as many as you’d like.”
Then she demonstrated the proper method for testing cologne. Grabbing a random bottle from the shelf, she sprayed a small white strip, one that looked suspiciously like a bandage used for snorers and waved it in front of my face.
At first, I was intrigued, but the moment the chemical fumes hit my nostrils, I choked, gasping for air.
I tried to inhale deeply, but it only made things worse.
Coughs of microscopic spit erupted from my throat like a shaken soda bottle.
Panic hit as my face turned a deep shade of burgundy.
I was on the brink of an asthma attack, and I felt the surroundings shift as if the walls were closing in.
Fumbling in my pocket, I retrieved my inhaler, my heart racing faster than I'd ever thought possible. Finally able to take a few puffs, I regained my breath, but dread hung heavy in the air.
“What was that?” I croaked, worry etched on my face.
Molly looked like she was about to burst with laughter again, and I was torn between wanting to laugh with her and wishing to vanish from the embarrassing episode altogether.
“I’m—um—” She struggled to speak, gagging on the chuckles she refused to let free. “I’m so sorry.”
There was no way I was going through that again. As the struggle to breathe subsided, I asked Molly to pick any cologne she knew she liked, and that would settle it. $250 later, I had a sharp outfit being altered, and a new scent.