Freddie #2
Keegan comes out a few minutes later releasing a cloud of steam into the room.
She has a towel wrapped around her body, and another one tangled around her long blonde hair.
I feel her smile on me before I look at her, and it’s awed.
Her green eyes crinkle as she looks at me, and the guilt the internet says I shouldn’t feel multiplies into something ugly inside me.
What kind of man—fiancé, future husband—uses his girlfriend’s dildo in secret to get off? Me. I’m that guy. But I don’t know what kind of man that makes me. With the way my gut twists and tightens, and the difficulty I have keeping eye contact, I’d say not a good one.
“How about I go to Benny’s, pick us up a coffee and a panini for lunch?” I suggest.
Keegan chuckles. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” I say. Anything to relieve an ounce of this guilt. “Bacon, brie, and cranberry?”
It’s Keegan’s favourite, and she hums her approval. “That does sound really good. A blueberry muffin too?”
I nod. “To go with your latte.”
“You’re the best,” she says heading across the room to kiss me. I manage to look at her as I accept the sweet peck she plants on my lips.
“I’ll grab a quick shower,” I say.
“Okay.”
I step into the bathroom only to freeze at Keegan saying my name. It’s the way she says it, like she’s discovered something unpleasant. I steel myself and turn to her.
“You better wash this.” Keegan’s holding up the dildo. Her nostrils twitch. “Jesus, how much lube did you put on this last night?”
“Only a little,” I say breathlessly, and I take the toy from her. It feels like it throbs in my hand. It feels like it wants to spill my secret. “Thanks.”
Keegan narrows her eyes with an amused smile. “Thanks?”
“Yeah, I’ll be done in ten,” I say, then close the door on her.
I hold the dildo at arm’s length, but brush my thumb up the side, smearing it through the lube. There’s a lot. A lump forms in my throat as I lock the door. Keegan can’t walk in on me with the door shut. I could do it again . . .
No, I tell myself firmly, and I don’t.
But it’s the thought that drives me crazy when I drive to Benny’s cafe.
The thought that I wanted that thing back inside me so soon after using it once, and how in the bathroom, with a lock on the door, I could take my time. I could experiment more.
No.
I can’t.
By some miracle I manage to order at the counter without blurting out my secret.
I’m on the way back to my car when someone shouts my name.
It’s Andy. He’s wearing a baggy hoodie and blue jeans. He cocks his head, staring me up and down, and stops a metre in front of me. I’m expecting him to hold his hand out in greeting, but he doesn’t.
“I thought that was you,” Andy says. “How’s it going?”
“All right, you?”
I don’t tell him about my recent engagement, we’re only colleagues—correction, we were colleagues. My boss Stephen recently fired Andy, the fifth firing in six months, which is one of the reasons my workload has doubled.
“Not bad,” Andy says. He doesn’t smile. He gives me another look that makes my skin itch. I hope we’ve concluded our awkward small talk and can wish each other a good day, but Andy comes back with another question. “Stephen still taking the piss with the breaks?”
It’s a familiar complaint at the company, and I relax a little.
“Break? What break?”
Andy laughs. “You know, I’m relieved to be out of there. I still can’t believe he fired me.”
Neither could I. Andy was a solid worker. It didn’t make sense to me or anyone else.
Andy’s friendly demeanour changes, and I realise I let my guard down too soon—or more actually, he had me lower it. “Especially when I was following your lead . . .”
There’s a cooling sensation in my chest. I recognise it as dread. “What?”
“You trained me up, remember?”
I furrow my brow. “Yeah, I remember.”
“Stephen fired me because I wrote the wrong time in the logbook. Which is what you taught me to do.”
“I never taught you to write the wrong time—”
“The SOP dictates we fill the time of each process into the logbook when we complete it. But you told me that’s impossible—“Not unless we have four arms,” you said—so you filled in the logbook first, said all the things you were going to do with realistic predictions.”
My cheeks warm. What Andy is saying is accurate.
Technically I lie and don’t follow the SOPs to the letter, but that’s because they were written for when two technicians worked the machine together.
One did the processes, and the other checked and noted down the times in the logbook while both were being recorded on camera.
“I did exactly as you taught me,” Andy continues. “And guess what? The times in the logbook didn’t match the times on the recording. Stephen realised what I was doing, took me into the office, and fired me for skipping steps and not following procedure.”
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He lost his job doing something I told him to do, something I do myself.
If I didn’t, the batch would never be completed in time. We’d never get any orders out. And all parts of the process are completed, just not at the exact time I write in the logbook.
“You remember Jess? Stephen fired her too, same reason.”
I’d trained Jess too. From the sharp sneer Andy directs at me, he knows I did. They must have met up, they must’ve talked about it, hating on me for losing them their jobs.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
I don’t know what else to say.
Andy thumps his hand to my shoulder. From the outside its a comforting gesture, but he intends to hurt, and squeezes until my bones ache.
“Don’t sweat it. Jess didn’t want to get you in trouble, but I told Stephen you were the one who taught me, that you make the same mistake I did, and he assured me he’ll be reviewing the footage of you and punishing you accordingly.
” He smiles. “Then you can join me and Jess looking for another job.” Andy lets me go and walks away with a joyful bounce to his step.
I get into my car and place my order from Benny’s on the passenger seat.
My heart thunders beneath my ribs, not in fear of Andy, but at what he said.
Stephen would be reviewing the footage of me at work.
He’s been off with me for a few months, miserable when I say good morning to him and snappy when he interrupts my attempts at having a break.
Are my days at the company numbered?
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans at the thought of being unemployed.
I have fifteen thousand pounds of savings, but that was put aside for the wedding. I’ve already surprised Keegan with that too, and no doubt she’s at home right now looking up lavish venues, beautiful dresses, and exotic honeymoons.
If I lose my job, Keegan loses all that.
My phone buzzes, and I tug it out of my jeans.
It’s from Ryker.
Congratulations <3
Liam sends a thumbs-up after his brother’s message.
I thought I’d feel happy at their reactions, but I don’t.
I feel an edge of bitterness that it took them almost twelve hours and there’s no follow-up questions. They don’t ask how, when, or where I proposed. They don’t seem to care.
The shine of excitement over my engagement has gone thanks to my best friends and Andy, and I’m returning to Keegan with a new guilt festering in my body.
The guilt that I might not be able to give her the wedding of her dreams.