1-800-CALL-ME B [Ryden, standalone NC-17]
Title: 1-800-CALL-ME B
Author: silver_etoile
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
POV: First, Brendon
Disclaimer: I only wish. My phone bill would be so high xD
Summary: Brendon works for a call center, but not just any call center, and a certain client keeps calling back for more.
A/N: Well, we all know of my dislike of first person POV but it just came out. So I hope it's okay :]
*
I like stories. I like romance. I like sex. I’m a boy, of course I like sex. That’s like asking a dog if it likes bacon. Of course it does. I have an obsession with Disney movies that no one seems to quite understand. Jon pretends to, but he’s really only humoring me. Plus I think he uses them as an excuse to make me stop talking.
I talk a lot. Too much sometimes. Like, if I was the Energizer Bunny (which I have been compared to in the past), I would talk nonstop. Which I do. Okay, bad example.
The point is that I like to talk. I got in trouble during school for talking. My parents were always told during the parent-teacher conferences that I distracted myself and the other students. Well, fuck the other students. I wanted to talk, so I did.
I got a job where I could talk as much as I wanted. In fact, the more I talk, the better. And all right, so it’s not the most respectable job, but it’s money and I’m doing what I love; talking and having sex.
That sounds bad, right? Well, it kind of is. See, I work at a call center. But it’s not just a call center. It’s not a suicide hotline or the Dell help desk in India. I do sit inside a little cubicle for ten hours a day, the headset glued to my head as I recline in my chair. I’ve already broken a few, but not how you think. They’re kind of flimsy and I like to bounce back on the springs. Turns out plastic isn’t the best material in the world. They totally lie on their commercials.
Anyway. Aside from the new chair every couple weeks, I talk on the phone all day. I talk to guys, girls, anyone who wants to talk to me. We have operators somewhere who ask what they want and then they direct them to me or someone else.
My cubicle neighbor is this girl named Greta. I don’t know why she works here since she’s just about the sweetest girl I’ve ever met. She said something about her ex-boyfriend when I asked, but I got distracted by her hair and didn’t hear the rest. She has this amazingly naturally curly hair that kind of glints when it’s in the sun.
Greta and I sometimes get lunch together. But we don’t always have the same lunch. It’s amazing when these people call. They call all day long, like they never sleep. I don’t know how they do it.
The call center I work for is called “1-800-IM-YOURS”. Not very creative, but they had to come up with something and I wasn’t there to help. I would have called it something like, “1-800-IMA-SLUT” or something like that.
I go to work at ten in the morning and get off at eight at night. It’s a long day, but what am I really doing besides talking on the phone?
Jon thinks it’s weird, what I do, but he works at Starbucks, so he can’t really talk. He’s always talking about lattes and mochas and things I’m not allowed to have because caffeine is bad for me or so he and everyone else I know says. I think I know when things are bad for me. Sticking a knife in the toaster to get the bagel, now that was bad for me. But it was a minor electrocution. No harm, no foul.
It didn’t affect my job at any rate.
So I’m here at work right now and the phone in my ear is beeping. It’s six o’clock in the evening. I smirk because I know who this is.
“Call me B,” I answer the phone by clicking the earpiece. I have my clients call me B because it’s safer. The company warns against giving out real information.
“Hey.”
It’s a familiar voice that answers and I smile. He always calls at six.
“Hey, babe.” I’m always smooth. I’m smoother than ice after the Zamboni. Some people - ahem - Jon - call me a dork, but I am so smooth.
“Hi.” He sounds nervous, but he always sounds nervous. You’d think after doing this for nearly a month now, he wouldn’t be so uneasy about calling.
I slide down in my chair. He’s one of the few I’ll actually do what I’m saying for. Mostly I just make up shit off the top of my head and listen as they work themselves into a frenzy. The bosses don’t care as long as we get the money from the call. The longer I keep them on, the more money we get.
“So,” I say, my hand already sliding down the zipper to my jeans. “What do you feel like today?”
There’s a pause and I can hear his breath on the other end of the phone. I don’t know where he is, but I’ve always pictured him somewhere public because he always hangs up real quick once it’s over. I’ve heard him shout things to people in the middle too, always hurried and fearful.
“I want you to fuck me,” he practically whispers into the receiver and I can hear his breathy voice already. It goes straight to my cock as I slide my hand down inside my jeans.
“Yeah?” I ask, slowly, my voice low and husky in the mouthpiece. “Where?”
“Against my desk,” he whispers and I know he’s already hard. He probably was before he even picked up the phone.
“Okay,” I mutter, pushing down my jeans slowly and gripping my cock slowly. I have to hold on as long as him, if not longer. It’s not about my pleasure. It’s about his. “What are you wearing?”
“Slacks,” he responds, his voice slow and careful. “Button-down shirt, shiny shoes.”
“Shiny shoes?” The smirk is evident in my voice and I hear him let out a hard breath. “No touching,” I warn, knowing it’ll drive him crazy.
I know him by now. He’s been calling every afternoon at six for the past month. I don’t know much about him besides that he works in an office of some sort because he always wants to be fucked on the copy machine or in the bathroom, or now, against his desk. So he has a desk, eh?
Maybe he has a little cubicle like me and wants to be fucked where anyone could walk in on him. The thought makes my cock twitch and I reign in my thoughts.
“Mkay,” I murmur into the phone, stroking myself slowly as I take a second to think. “I’m taking off your shirt, my fingers grazing down your back. You have really soft skin, and I brush my hands through your hair, pressing a kiss to your neck, my teeth scraping against the skin. Can you feel it?”
“Yeah,” comes the breath, puffed against the receiver.
“Good.” I lick my lips and close my eyes, moving my hand slowly. “Mmm, I nip at your throat and you like it. You like it a lot. Your hair smells like apple. Changed your shampoo. My breath is hot on your skin and you arch into the touch. I want to feel you. I want to feel you against me. Do you?”
“Yeah, yeah, B,” he murmurs and I know he’s touching himself even though I said not to.
“Not touching, are you?” I ask, and I can hear my voice slipping. I hitch it back to normal, though, and listen for his answer.
“N-no,” he replies after a second.
“Good,” I say again, squeezing my cock lightly and giving a soft groan that he echoes. “We’re in your office. There’s no one around. I’m kissing you and you’re moaning against my mouth ‘cause you’ve been waiting for this. You’ve been waiting for this all fucking day. You’ve been thinking about me and my hands, my lips on your skin. You’ve been thinking about my thighs and how warm they feel pressed against you.”
He moans quietly, but it’s muffled in a second. I think I hear the sounds of shuffling feet, and the click of a door lock.
“What else?” he asks, voice hushed and slightly ragged.
“I’m taking off your pants, sliding them over your thighs, pushing them down. Do you want this done quick or slow?”
“Quick,” he pants and I nod, even though he can’t see me.
I smile, but gasp slightly as my hips jerk into my hand. “I can do that.” I pause, swallowing for a second and listening to his hard breath in the receiver.
I can see him in my mind even though I’ve never met him. He’s young, probably about twenty-five, sitting back in a black leather chair. I bet he’s something like the youngest executive in whatever company it is. He has a big desk in front of him with papers neatly organized into piles and a picture of a dog on the corner. His computer has a screensaver of the same dog.
Right now, though, he’s leaning back in the chair, his hand down his expensive pants, his mouth hanging open and his eyes closed. One hand is clinging to the receiver so that it doesn’t fall.
“You don’t want to wait,” I continue finally, pumping my fist harder over my cock. If he wants to go fast, we can. “I turn you around, bending you over your desk. You knock the stuff on it to the floor, but don’t worry, we’ll get it later.” I pause, licking my lips and letting out a low breath. I’m really glad all these cubicles are sound-proofed some days. “God, you have a nice ass. Fuck. My mouth is on your back, sliding down your spine. I can feel you shiver under me. You really want this, don’t you?”
“Fuck yes,” comes the answer, low and breathy, panted in the receiver. I hear it falling slightly, the sound getting quieter, and then it’s back and he’s whimpering into it. “Please.”
“’Kay, my pants are gone and I stroke a finger down your back. You’re clutching the edge of the desk and all the blood is in your cock, throbbing and pounding against the wood.” I pause, but hear nothing but hard breaths, so continue. “The finger is inside, pushing through the muscles. It burns a little, but feels so fucking good. Doesn’t it feel good?”
“Yeah,” he pants. “Yeah.”
I take a second, swallowing and biting my lip as my hand twists and I push the chair back further, leaning on the springs.
“You want it?” I ask. “You want all of me? I have a big cock. You think you can take it?”
“Yes,” he gasps, and I know he’s touching himself again, but I don’t care. I want to hear him come now. I’m not supposed to care, but I want to hear it.
“I’m pushing in, hard and fast. You wanted it that way. Afraid of getting caught? It’s half the fun. I could fuck you in the elevator. What do you think of that? Fuck, I think you’d like that. We could press the emergency stop button on your lunch break and fuck until you can’t feel anything. Would you like that?”
“Yeah, yeah, yes.” He’s moaning, the receiver coming in and out of focus. His pants are hard and I know he’s close.
“Can you feel the burn of my cock in your ass? It feels better than usual, like you’re doing something amazing. My hands are on your hips as I push in, bruising on your sides. You’re going to have to hide them later, make up excuses if anyone sees. What’ll you tell them?” I gasp, biting my lip hard to stop from coming. I can feel the pressure in my cock and I know he feels the same from the way he’s gasping into the phone.
“I-I don’t know,” he gasps and I can hear the hitch as he swallows and moans quietly. “I-I just wanna feel you.” I can hear how his voice dies on the last word, hear the chair squeaking underneath him as his body arches.
“Yeah, that’s it,” I mutter, biting my tongue as my own body spasms. I know how it sounds over the phone, harsh and breathy, wanting, needy. It’s how I’m supposed to sound to some customers. Others want to be dominated. It all depends on the caller. “Fuck, I’m inside you, hard and fast, bruising until you can only feel me. You don’t care about what’s going on outside your door. You just want get off, to come. That’s why I’m there, right? To-fuck-screw you into the desk.”
“Uh huh,” he breathes, the hitches getting harder and I can hear the heavy pants into the receiver. “Yeah, faster.”
“I thrust faster, brushing against your prostate and you’re moaning, you’re moaning my name when you feel the explosion.” My voice is coming in pants now as I try to hold on. I’m not supposed to come on the phone because somehow, out of everything that we do, that’s unprofessional.
“I can feel it,” he gasps and then I hear him coming, a sharp inhale followed by whimpered panting as he strokes himself through it. I’ve heard it for a month straight and the sound still shoots straight to my cock.
I pump faster, hoping he won’t notice.
“Fuck, good,” I whisper. “Feels good. I’m still inside, I haven’t gotten off yet, but I want to. God, you’re so hot. Yeah, come on. Fuck.”
I can’t help it as I come in my own hand, my eyes closed and dreaming of this mystery office worker. I open my eyes and stare at my hand as my panting breath slows. I can still hear him on the other end, breathing into the phone.
I let out a breath and smile slowly. “How was it?”
“Good,” he mutters. “Really good.”
I smile even though I know it means nothing. The callers mean nothing. They’re just voices on phones far away, lonely people who want something they can’t get in real life.
I know he’s cradling the phone against his shoulder as he speaks because his voice is a little muffled.
“You’re really good at that,” he says, sounding as though he’s struggling with something. Probably his zipper.
“Thanks,” I say, sighing contently. “So same time tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” I can practically hear his nod through the phone. “Yeah, tomorrow.”
I hang up then, because you’re supposed to leave them wanting more. There are no goodbyes in this business, only next times.
*
Jon usually picks me up after work, and when I get off at eight, he’s here, waiting in his little white car that he bought for, like, four thousand dollars. It runs, though, and I don’t even have a car, so I guess I have nothing to complain about.
He just shakes his head at me when I slide inside and buckle the seatbelt.
“What?” I ask as he pulls out of the parking lot.
“You’ve got that weird glow,” he just says, waiting at the stoplight.
“What do you mean?” I frown and he laughs.
“That guy called again, didn’t he?”
“What guy?”
Jon rolls his eyes and pulls forward. “The one you’ve been talking about for a month, the one who calls every day at six for hot, sweaty phone sex.”
“It’s my job,” I protest, but know that he’s right. I told you I talk a lot.
Jon laughs and turns a corner. “Maybe, but you like when he calls, don’t you?”
“Maybe.” I shrug nonchalantly, but grin anyway and he laughs at me. I could never keep a secret.
Jon laughs all the way back to our apartment. It’s a small two-bedroom apartment, but I don’t care. I have a room and Jon has a room and we share the bathroom. It’s mostly got my stuff in it since Jon only believes in deodorant and toothpaste. I tried to get him to wear glitter once but he totally shot me down. I think he’d look great in it but he doesn’t think so.
It would help him get a guy if nothing else.
Jon’s not seeing anyone. He hasn’t seen anyone since his last relationship, which was with a girl. I told him he should try guys, but he seems reluctant. I told him they’re better.
It’s true. Guys are definitely better. We have the same parts. I understand them. Mostly. Some guys are just weird.
“Want to go out tonight?” he asks when he’s rummaging in our empty fridge. There’s only a can of soda and leftover Mac and Cheese in it. I don’t know what he expects to find.
I stare at his backside and think for a second. I’m kind of tired, but the rule in our house is to never turn down an opportunity to go out.
“Sure!” I reply finally, bouncing up on the couch. People tell me I have boundless energy too. Maybe that’s how I can fake sex all day and still want to go out at night.
Jon throws the can of soda at me and I catch it, though just barely. I was never very athletic. I even sucked at wiffle ball.
“Okay, tonight, there’s a band playing at The Fall.”
“Okay,” I agree easily. The Fall is a bar downtown and our friend, Pete, owns it. He gets us in for free and sometimes even gives us free drinks. “Maybe you’ll meet a nice boy to take home to mommy.”
Jon scoffs. “Maybe you’ll meet one and stop talking about Mystery Office Boy.”
I don’t know why he capitalizes that, but I kind of like it. Yes, Mystery Office Boy. It almost sounds like a super hero. Maybe Mystery Office Boy is a super hero, only in disguise. One that likes being fucked over desks.
I like that.
I smile at Jon and he rolls his eyes like he knows what I’m thinking. I swear he might be a super hero in disguise too; the Amazing Jon Walker. I like that too.
*
The bar is kind of crowded, but it’s Friday night and The Fall is pretty popular. Pete says it’s because of the music. I say it’s because of the beer.
I’m dressed in my tightest jeans and tee shirt to match because, hello, I need to be hot if I’m going to get me a man.
Jon and I get in no problem because Andy, the bouncer, knows us and just kind of winks when we bypass the line. It’s dark inside and the band is setting up on stage, getting ready to play, but I make for the bar.
“I need a drink!” I call to whoever is listening. Luckily, it’s Patrick who turns and smiles at me.
He doesn’t give me one, though, but glances at Jon. “Is it safe to let him drink tonight?”
I resent that. It was one time that I got drunk and grabbed the mic, making a very awkward improvised karaoke night. In my defense, I am a damn good singer.
Jon just laughs. “Yeah. I’m driving.”
I glare at them both and fall into my usual pout. It usually gets me what I want, and it works because seconds later, there’s a bright green glass of alcohol sitting in front of me. I perk up and smile at Patrick.
“I love you, ‘Trick,” I say and snatch the glass before he can change his mind and take it away.
His laughter follows me and Jon as we grab a table and sit down to watch the band.
Watching the drummer fumble with his kit is only interesting for so long before I’m looking away. I want to find a guy, someone I won’t remember tomorrow. Someone who doesn’t want me to “bend over on my knees and squeal like a pig.” Yeah, my clients are that weird.
Which is why I like Mystery Office Boy so much. He’s not into the really awkward kinks that make me really glad the cubicles are soundproofed.
I see a group of people sitting at a table near the back and my eyes are immediately drawn to a boy sitting on one of the tall stools. He has soft brown hair and big brown eyes. He’s smiling at one of his friends, a guy with dark hair, and has his long fingers around a short glass of amber liquid.
He’s really hot, from far away anyway. I’ve made the mistake too many times before of thinking a guy really hot from far away.
But this one, he looks really hot. He’s licking his lips and smiling into his drink.
“What do you see?” Jon asks, leaning into my ear and craning the direction I’m looking, not even trying to be discrete.
“That guy.” I nod at the brown-haired boy, who is just gazing at his drink now, remnants of a smile lingering on his mouth.
Jon makes an approved noise. “Cute.”
“Not just cute,” I correct. “Hot.”
I can feel Jon rolling his eyes and I know he doesn’t get it. This guy is hot, though.
I’m watching him and not the band now. His friend is talking and he looks like he’s listening, nodding his head sometimes. His head is still bowed forward, but I want to see his eyes.
When he looks up, I smile, my bottom lip caught between my teeth. He starts to nod to his friend again, but freezes as we lock eyes. It’s dark and I can’t really see what color they are, but I want to. Man, do I want to. He stares at me for a good five seconds which seems like forever, his eyes scanning down my body and I know what he’s thinking. I can see it in his face. I’ve heard it in too many voices to count, but I know it when I see it.
I think, he’s the one. He’s the one I want. I swear he can hear me because he blushes slightly but doesn’t drop his gaze.
Then he does break it, quickly and almost harshly as a blond girl walks up behind him, sliding an arm around his waist and kissing his neck softly. I can see him stiffen, but the girl doesn’t seem to notice. After a second, his arm slides around her back and I sit back.
He doesn’t look at me again, instead forcing smiles and hugging the girl back. I sigh and turn away, thinking that it’s damn shame.
*
At work the next day, it’s all the same. I get a guy who wants to be handcuffed to the headboard and spanked. I get a girl who’s a control freak and tops me. I mumble my way through those, as composed as I can be when some guy is grunting, “Yeah, whip me like a bad little slave boy.” They seem happy, though, and that’s all that matters.
When six o’clock rolls around, though, I can’t help but smile when the phone beeps in my ear. I always make sure my last call is done before six.
“Call me B,” I answer, unable to suppress the smile in my voice.
“Hey.” He sounds more eager today. The nervousness isn’t there and he sounds happier.
“Hey,” I respond warmly, “how are you feeling today?”
“Good,” he murmurs and I know he’s already touching himself. “Good.”
“What do you want to do?” I slide down in my chair and prop up my feet on my little desk.
“Talk to me,” he says and I hear something that sounds like desperation in his voice.
“About what?” I can talk about anything, honestly. Usually, though, the callers only want one thing.
“Anything,” he breathes and I can hear his pants already. “Tell me something about yourself.”
Okay, maybe I can’t talk about everything. We’re not supposed to reveal details about our real lives to our callers except maybe what color our hair is so they have something to picture. I usually make up my appearance according to what they want, though.
“I…” I don’t know what to tell him. I know I should make something up, but I don’t really want to. I want to tell him the truth, but I know it’s a bad idea.
“Come on, B,” he says, his voice softer now, more coaxing. “Just tell me anything. Please.”
“Well, w-why?” I ask. I don’t sound very professional or sexy right now, but he caught me off-guard.
“I just want to hear your voice,” he whispers. “I just don’t want to think. I need you.”
People have said that to me before, but he sounds like he means it in this second, like he needs to hear me or his world might come crashing down.
“Okay, okay,” I agree and hear his hummed agreement. “Um, well, I grew up in a small town in Utah.”
“Yeah?” he asks and I can hear his panting, slow and steady.
“Yeah, I have five siblings. Two brothers and three sisters. They’re all still in Utah. Three of them are married. One is younger than me, but she’ll probably be married soon. Um, I moved from there after high school.”
I can hear him hum into the phone and the short gasp that follows. “Where’d you go?” he asks, his voice stuttered.
“I went to Arizona for college but decided the desert wasn’t for me, so I moved here.”
“You like Chicago?” He’s breathing harder now and I wonder for a second why he just wants me to talk. It’s not the strangest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s up there.
“Yeah, it’s nice,” I reply. “Kind of cold in the winter. My roommate has lived here most of his life and he loves it.”
His breathing is all I hear in the earpiece, so I keep talking.
“We have a cat. It’s really fat, and at night, he sneaks into my room and sleeps on the end of my bed. It’s nice in the winter. He keeps my feet warm.” I laugh lightly and hear his breath hitch on the other end. “Do you have any pets?”
“A dog,” he replies and I know his teeth are gritted as he tries to keep quiet against the pumping of his hand.
“I like dogs,” I say, leaning back on the chair, hearing the groan of the springs. I hope it doesn’t break. “But I could never have one because my little sister was allergic.”
“Why don’t you-get one now,” he says, his voice stuttered and I can hear him panting hard into the phone.
I shrug. “I guess I could. Jo-or, my roommate probably wouldn’t mind.” I almost slipped up, but I don’t think he’s really listening. His breaths are hard in the receiver and I hear him moan slightly. “I like little dogs, but big ones are cool too. Maybe I’ll get a big dog. That would keep me warm at night.”
“There are-fuck-other ways to keep warm,” he gasps and I smirk.
“I guess,” I reply. “I could keep you warm.”
He groans softly and I hear his breath hitch. “Don’t,” he pants.
“Don’t what?”
“Just, just talk,” he pleads. “Tell me something else.”
I pause. This is a little strange, but all right. “Um, I like ice cream,” I offer. “My favorite kind is rocky road, but I like cookie dough too, and mint chocolate chip. Pretty much anything with chocolate. I’m addicted to red bull but my roommate doesn’t let me buy them ‘cause he says I get too hyper.”
He grunts into the phone to show he’s listening, but I know he’s close. I can feel the tension through the phone, the way he whimpers softly, the sound cut off when he bites his lip, closes his mouth.
I wait a minute, just listening to him pant.
Finally, he moans softly. “Keep talking,” he asks. “I’m almost there. Just, please.”
I hesitate. “I like the snow too. Last winter, me and my roommate drove out to the country and made a huge snowman, like, seven feet tall. I still don’t know how we got the head on.” I laugh at the memory and then I hear him let go. I wonder if it was the sound that set him off.
He’s gasping for breath and I imagine his eyes closed and his hand stroking his cock languidly, bringing himself off to the sound of my voice. People tell me I have a nice voice. It’s part of why I got the job.
I fall silent as he finishes up, his breathing slowing in the receiver. I smile.
There’s a pause and then quick movement.
“Shit,” he curses, and I hear fumbling, the phone dropping with a clunk on a hard surface. Then more clattering as it’s picked up. “I have to go.”
Then the line goes dead and I hear nothing. A little taken aback, I click off and sit there for a moment. Rolling back my chair, I go to the little door to Greta’s cubicle. I knock but don’t wait for her answer because if she’s on the phone, she won’t answer.
Sticking my head in, I catch sight of her sitting in her chair, swiveling back and forth, looking bored.
“You like that?” she asks, her voice low and sexy. She catches sight of me and smiles briefly. I know it’s safe and roll in.
She doesn’t look particularly interested in her call, but keeps saying things like, “you’re such a big boy,” and “oh yeah, harder. I feel you.”
Finally, she ends the call with a promise of later and clicks her headset.
“Hey, Bren,” she greets me, taking off her set for a moment. “What’s up?”
“I just had a weird call,” I tell her, sighing and flopping in my chair.
“Weird?” she asks, twining one of her pretty curls around a finger. “Like how?”
“He just wanted me to talk to him.”
“What do you mean?”
I sigh. “Okay, it’s this guy who calls every day and usually, he wants to do normal stuff, you know? Like blowjobs, hand jobs, sex, you know?”
Greta nods understandingly. It may not seem normal to other people, but this is our job.
“But today he just wanted me to talk to him while he got off. Like about normal stuff.”
“What did you tell him?” she asks curiously.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Just stuff about me. I told him about Dylan and my family, kind of. It was just vague stuff.”
She nods slowly. “Why is that weird?”
I raise an eyebrow and smile. “Because we work at 1-800-IM-YOURS, Greta. It’s not 1-800-Tell-me-about-your-life.”
Greta laughs lightly and pats my arm. I really like that she’s my cubicle neighbor.
“Brendon, maybe he’s just lonely. A lot of guys who call here are.”
“That or crazy.” It’s true. They are.
She laughs again, looking up, though, and I know her phone is beeping. “Were you nice to him?”
“Yeah.” Of course, I was. I’m nice to all my clients, him in particular.
“Then just keep talking,” she says before pressing her ear piece. “I’m Jen,” she says into her phone and I sigh.
I leave her to her call, though, and roll back into my cubicle as my earpiece beeps and I press the button.
“Call me B.”
*
“Obsessing over Mystery Office Boy?”
Jon plops onto the couch beside me and I sigh. I shouldn’t be, but I can’t help it. I don’t even know who this guy is. For all I know, he could be some ugly thirty-year old with a wife and kids. But he sounds hot. That’s a pathetic argument, even I know that. But… but… He sounds hot!
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t even think about him.”
“Yeah, but he calls you every day.”
“A lot of customers do.”
“At the exact same time every day?”
“He’s punctual.”
“And last time he didn’t even want sex.”
“Maybe he didn’t have much time.”
“Maybe you’re losing your touch.”
I gasp, my eyes widening as I jump onto Jon, holding him down. “Take that back!”
“No,” he gasps, curling away from my fingers as I dig them into his sides and he tries not to laugh. I know Jon Walker is ticklish even if he adamantly denies it.
“I can never lose my touch! I am the Amazing Brendon Urie!”
“I thought that was my title,” Jon complains, pushing me away.
I pout. “Well, then, what’s mine?”
He pauses as he thinks. “You are Motor Mouth Boy!”
“That’s not cool.” I frown. That’s a sucky super hero name. Surely I am cooler than that. “What about Sex God Urie?”
Jon makes a noise, shrugging. “I guess.”
I nod, satisfied. “I am Sex God Urie and no man can resist my charms.”
Jon just snorts and throws a pillow at my head, and then the remote. It hurts when the remote hits my arm and falls in between the cushions. In revenge, I make him dig for it and laugh when his arm gets caught.
Part Two.
Author: silver_etoile
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
POV: First, Brendon
Disclaimer: I only wish. My phone bill would be so high xD
Summary: Brendon works for a call center, but not just any call center, and a certain client keeps calling back for more.
A/N: Well, we all know of my dislike of first person POV but it just came out. So I hope it's okay :]
*
I like stories. I like romance. I like sex. I’m a boy, of course I like sex. That’s like asking a dog if it likes bacon. Of course it does. I have an obsession with Disney movies that no one seems to quite understand. Jon pretends to, but he’s really only humoring me. Plus I think he uses them as an excuse to make me stop talking.
I talk a lot. Too much sometimes. Like, if I was the Energizer Bunny (which I have been compared to in the past), I would talk nonstop. Which I do. Okay, bad example.
The point is that I like to talk. I got in trouble during school for talking. My parents were always told during the parent-teacher conferences that I distracted myself and the other students. Well, fuck the other students. I wanted to talk, so I did.
I got a job where I could talk as much as I wanted. In fact, the more I talk, the better. And all right, so it’s not the most respectable job, but it’s money and I’m doing what I love; talking and having sex.
That sounds bad, right? Well, it kind of is. See, I work at a call center. But it’s not just a call center. It’s not a suicide hotline or the Dell help desk in India. I do sit inside a little cubicle for ten hours a day, the headset glued to my head as I recline in my chair. I’ve already broken a few, but not how you think. They’re kind of flimsy and I like to bounce back on the springs. Turns out plastic isn’t the best material in the world. They totally lie on their commercials.
Anyway. Aside from the new chair every couple weeks, I talk on the phone all day. I talk to guys, girls, anyone who wants to talk to me. We have operators somewhere who ask what they want and then they direct them to me or someone else.
My cubicle neighbor is this girl named Greta. I don’t know why she works here since she’s just about the sweetest girl I’ve ever met. She said something about her ex-boyfriend when I asked, but I got distracted by her hair and didn’t hear the rest. She has this amazingly naturally curly hair that kind of glints when it’s in the sun.
Greta and I sometimes get lunch together. But we don’t always have the same lunch. It’s amazing when these people call. They call all day long, like they never sleep. I don’t know how they do it.
The call center I work for is called “1-800-IM-YOURS”. Not very creative, but they had to come up with something and I wasn’t there to help. I would have called it something like, “1-800-IMA-SLUT” or something like that.
I go to work at ten in the morning and get off at eight at night. It’s a long day, but what am I really doing besides talking on the phone?
Jon thinks it’s weird, what I do, but he works at Starbucks, so he can’t really talk. He’s always talking about lattes and mochas and things I’m not allowed to have because caffeine is bad for me or so he and everyone else I know says. I think I know when things are bad for me. Sticking a knife in the toaster to get the bagel, now that was bad for me. But it was a minor electrocution. No harm, no foul.
It didn’t affect my job at any rate.
So I’m here at work right now and the phone in my ear is beeping. It’s six o’clock in the evening. I smirk because I know who this is.
“Call me B,” I answer the phone by clicking the earpiece. I have my clients call me B because it’s safer. The company warns against giving out real information.
“Hey.”
It’s a familiar voice that answers and I smile. He always calls at six.
“Hey, babe.” I’m always smooth. I’m smoother than ice after the Zamboni. Some people - ahem - Jon - call me a dork, but I am so smooth.
“Hi.” He sounds nervous, but he always sounds nervous. You’d think after doing this for nearly a month now, he wouldn’t be so uneasy about calling.
I slide down in my chair. He’s one of the few I’ll actually do what I’m saying for. Mostly I just make up shit off the top of my head and listen as they work themselves into a frenzy. The bosses don’t care as long as we get the money from the call. The longer I keep them on, the more money we get.
“So,” I say, my hand already sliding down the zipper to my jeans. “What do you feel like today?”
There’s a pause and I can hear his breath on the other end of the phone. I don’t know where he is, but I’ve always pictured him somewhere public because he always hangs up real quick once it’s over. I’ve heard him shout things to people in the middle too, always hurried and fearful.
“I want you to fuck me,” he practically whispers into the receiver and I can hear his breathy voice already. It goes straight to my cock as I slide my hand down inside my jeans.
“Yeah?” I ask, slowly, my voice low and husky in the mouthpiece. “Where?”
“Against my desk,” he whispers and I know he’s already hard. He probably was before he even picked up the phone.
“Okay,” I mutter, pushing down my jeans slowly and gripping my cock slowly. I have to hold on as long as him, if not longer. It’s not about my pleasure. It’s about his. “What are you wearing?”
“Slacks,” he responds, his voice slow and careful. “Button-down shirt, shiny shoes.”
“Shiny shoes?” The smirk is evident in my voice and I hear him let out a hard breath. “No touching,” I warn, knowing it’ll drive him crazy.
I know him by now. He’s been calling every afternoon at six for the past month. I don’t know much about him besides that he works in an office of some sort because he always wants to be fucked on the copy machine or in the bathroom, or now, against his desk. So he has a desk, eh?
Maybe he has a little cubicle like me and wants to be fucked where anyone could walk in on him. The thought makes my cock twitch and I reign in my thoughts.
“Mkay,” I murmur into the phone, stroking myself slowly as I take a second to think. “I’m taking off your shirt, my fingers grazing down your back. You have really soft skin, and I brush my hands through your hair, pressing a kiss to your neck, my teeth scraping against the skin. Can you feel it?”
“Yeah,” comes the breath, puffed against the receiver.
“Good.” I lick my lips and close my eyes, moving my hand slowly. “Mmm, I nip at your throat and you like it. You like it a lot. Your hair smells like apple. Changed your shampoo. My breath is hot on your skin and you arch into the touch. I want to feel you. I want to feel you against me. Do you?”
“Yeah, yeah, B,” he murmurs and I know he’s touching himself even though I said not to.
“Not touching, are you?” I ask, and I can hear my voice slipping. I hitch it back to normal, though, and listen for his answer.
“N-no,” he replies after a second.
“Good,” I say again, squeezing my cock lightly and giving a soft groan that he echoes. “We’re in your office. There’s no one around. I’m kissing you and you’re moaning against my mouth ‘cause you’ve been waiting for this. You’ve been waiting for this all fucking day. You’ve been thinking about me and my hands, my lips on your skin. You’ve been thinking about my thighs and how warm they feel pressed against you.”
He moans quietly, but it’s muffled in a second. I think I hear the sounds of shuffling feet, and the click of a door lock.
“What else?” he asks, voice hushed and slightly ragged.
“I’m taking off your pants, sliding them over your thighs, pushing them down. Do you want this done quick or slow?”
“Quick,” he pants and I nod, even though he can’t see me.
I smile, but gasp slightly as my hips jerk into my hand. “I can do that.” I pause, swallowing for a second and listening to his hard breath in the receiver.
I can see him in my mind even though I’ve never met him. He’s young, probably about twenty-five, sitting back in a black leather chair. I bet he’s something like the youngest executive in whatever company it is. He has a big desk in front of him with papers neatly organized into piles and a picture of a dog on the corner. His computer has a screensaver of the same dog.
Right now, though, he’s leaning back in the chair, his hand down his expensive pants, his mouth hanging open and his eyes closed. One hand is clinging to the receiver so that it doesn’t fall.
“You don’t want to wait,” I continue finally, pumping my fist harder over my cock. If he wants to go fast, we can. “I turn you around, bending you over your desk. You knock the stuff on it to the floor, but don’t worry, we’ll get it later.” I pause, licking my lips and letting out a low breath. I’m really glad all these cubicles are sound-proofed some days. “God, you have a nice ass. Fuck. My mouth is on your back, sliding down your spine. I can feel you shiver under me. You really want this, don’t you?”
“Fuck yes,” comes the answer, low and breathy, panted in the receiver. I hear it falling slightly, the sound getting quieter, and then it’s back and he’s whimpering into it. “Please.”
“’Kay, my pants are gone and I stroke a finger down your back. You’re clutching the edge of the desk and all the blood is in your cock, throbbing and pounding against the wood.” I pause, but hear nothing but hard breaths, so continue. “The finger is inside, pushing through the muscles. It burns a little, but feels so fucking good. Doesn’t it feel good?”
“Yeah,” he pants. “Yeah.”
I take a second, swallowing and biting my lip as my hand twists and I push the chair back further, leaning on the springs.
“You want it?” I ask. “You want all of me? I have a big cock. You think you can take it?”
“Yes,” he gasps, and I know he’s touching himself again, but I don’t care. I want to hear him come now. I’m not supposed to care, but I want to hear it.
“I’m pushing in, hard and fast. You wanted it that way. Afraid of getting caught? It’s half the fun. I could fuck you in the elevator. What do you think of that? Fuck, I think you’d like that. We could press the emergency stop button on your lunch break and fuck until you can’t feel anything. Would you like that?”
“Yeah, yeah, yes.” He’s moaning, the receiver coming in and out of focus. His pants are hard and I know he’s close.
“Can you feel the burn of my cock in your ass? It feels better than usual, like you’re doing something amazing. My hands are on your hips as I push in, bruising on your sides. You’re going to have to hide them later, make up excuses if anyone sees. What’ll you tell them?” I gasp, biting my lip hard to stop from coming. I can feel the pressure in my cock and I know he feels the same from the way he’s gasping into the phone.
“I-I don’t know,” he gasps and I can hear the hitch as he swallows and moans quietly. “I-I just wanna feel you.” I can hear how his voice dies on the last word, hear the chair squeaking underneath him as his body arches.
“Yeah, that’s it,” I mutter, biting my tongue as my own body spasms. I know how it sounds over the phone, harsh and breathy, wanting, needy. It’s how I’m supposed to sound to some customers. Others want to be dominated. It all depends on the caller. “Fuck, I’m inside you, hard and fast, bruising until you can only feel me. You don’t care about what’s going on outside your door. You just want get off, to come. That’s why I’m there, right? To-fuck-screw you into the desk.”
“Uh huh,” he breathes, the hitches getting harder and I can hear the heavy pants into the receiver. “Yeah, faster.”
“I thrust faster, brushing against your prostate and you’re moaning, you’re moaning my name when you feel the explosion.” My voice is coming in pants now as I try to hold on. I’m not supposed to come on the phone because somehow, out of everything that we do, that’s unprofessional.
“I can feel it,” he gasps and then I hear him coming, a sharp inhale followed by whimpered panting as he strokes himself through it. I’ve heard it for a month straight and the sound still shoots straight to my cock.
I pump faster, hoping he won’t notice.
“Fuck, good,” I whisper. “Feels good. I’m still inside, I haven’t gotten off yet, but I want to. God, you’re so hot. Yeah, come on. Fuck.”
I can’t help it as I come in my own hand, my eyes closed and dreaming of this mystery office worker. I open my eyes and stare at my hand as my panting breath slows. I can still hear him on the other end, breathing into the phone.
I let out a breath and smile slowly. “How was it?”
“Good,” he mutters. “Really good.”
I smile even though I know it means nothing. The callers mean nothing. They’re just voices on phones far away, lonely people who want something they can’t get in real life.
I know he’s cradling the phone against his shoulder as he speaks because his voice is a little muffled.
“You’re really good at that,” he says, sounding as though he’s struggling with something. Probably his zipper.
“Thanks,” I say, sighing contently. “So same time tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” I can practically hear his nod through the phone. “Yeah, tomorrow.”
I hang up then, because you’re supposed to leave them wanting more. There are no goodbyes in this business, only next times.
*
Jon usually picks me up after work, and when I get off at eight, he’s here, waiting in his little white car that he bought for, like, four thousand dollars. It runs, though, and I don’t even have a car, so I guess I have nothing to complain about.
He just shakes his head at me when I slide inside and buckle the seatbelt.
“What?” I ask as he pulls out of the parking lot.
“You’ve got that weird glow,” he just says, waiting at the stoplight.
“What do you mean?” I frown and he laughs.
“That guy called again, didn’t he?”
“What guy?”
Jon rolls his eyes and pulls forward. “The one you’ve been talking about for a month, the one who calls every day at six for hot, sweaty phone sex.”
“It’s my job,” I protest, but know that he’s right. I told you I talk a lot.
Jon laughs and turns a corner. “Maybe, but you like when he calls, don’t you?”
“Maybe.” I shrug nonchalantly, but grin anyway and he laughs at me. I could never keep a secret.
Jon laughs all the way back to our apartment. It’s a small two-bedroom apartment, but I don’t care. I have a room and Jon has a room and we share the bathroom. It’s mostly got my stuff in it since Jon only believes in deodorant and toothpaste. I tried to get him to wear glitter once but he totally shot me down. I think he’d look great in it but he doesn’t think so.
It would help him get a guy if nothing else.
Jon’s not seeing anyone. He hasn’t seen anyone since his last relationship, which was with a girl. I told him he should try guys, but he seems reluctant. I told him they’re better.
It’s true. Guys are definitely better. We have the same parts. I understand them. Mostly. Some guys are just weird.
“Want to go out tonight?” he asks when he’s rummaging in our empty fridge. There’s only a can of soda and leftover Mac and Cheese in it. I don’t know what he expects to find.
I stare at his backside and think for a second. I’m kind of tired, but the rule in our house is to never turn down an opportunity to go out.
“Sure!” I reply finally, bouncing up on the couch. People tell me I have boundless energy too. Maybe that’s how I can fake sex all day and still want to go out at night.
Jon throws the can of soda at me and I catch it, though just barely. I was never very athletic. I even sucked at wiffle ball.
“Okay, tonight, there’s a band playing at The Fall.”
“Okay,” I agree easily. The Fall is a bar downtown and our friend, Pete, owns it. He gets us in for free and sometimes even gives us free drinks. “Maybe you’ll meet a nice boy to take home to mommy.”
Jon scoffs. “Maybe you’ll meet one and stop talking about Mystery Office Boy.”
I don’t know why he capitalizes that, but I kind of like it. Yes, Mystery Office Boy. It almost sounds like a super hero. Maybe Mystery Office Boy is a super hero, only in disguise. One that likes being fucked over desks.
I like that.
I smile at Jon and he rolls his eyes like he knows what I’m thinking. I swear he might be a super hero in disguise too; the Amazing Jon Walker. I like that too.
*
The bar is kind of crowded, but it’s Friday night and The Fall is pretty popular. Pete says it’s because of the music. I say it’s because of the beer.
I’m dressed in my tightest jeans and tee shirt to match because, hello, I need to be hot if I’m going to get me a man.
Jon and I get in no problem because Andy, the bouncer, knows us and just kind of winks when we bypass the line. It’s dark inside and the band is setting up on stage, getting ready to play, but I make for the bar.
“I need a drink!” I call to whoever is listening. Luckily, it’s Patrick who turns and smiles at me.
He doesn’t give me one, though, but glances at Jon. “Is it safe to let him drink tonight?”
I resent that. It was one time that I got drunk and grabbed the mic, making a very awkward improvised karaoke night. In my defense, I am a damn good singer.
Jon just laughs. “Yeah. I’m driving.”
I glare at them both and fall into my usual pout. It usually gets me what I want, and it works because seconds later, there’s a bright green glass of alcohol sitting in front of me. I perk up and smile at Patrick.
“I love you, ‘Trick,” I say and snatch the glass before he can change his mind and take it away.
His laughter follows me and Jon as we grab a table and sit down to watch the band.
Watching the drummer fumble with his kit is only interesting for so long before I’m looking away. I want to find a guy, someone I won’t remember tomorrow. Someone who doesn’t want me to “bend over on my knees and squeal like a pig.” Yeah, my clients are that weird.
Which is why I like Mystery Office Boy so much. He’s not into the really awkward kinks that make me really glad the cubicles are soundproofed.
I see a group of people sitting at a table near the back and my eyes are immediately drawn to a boy sitting on one of the tall stools. He has soft brown hair and big brown eyes. He’s smiling at one of his friends, a guy with dark hair, and has his long fingers around a short glass of amber liquid.
He’s really hot, from far away anyway. I’ve made the mistake too many times before of thinking a guy really hot from far away.
But this one, he looks really hot. He’s licking his lips and smiling into his drink.
“What do you see?” Jon asks, leaning into my ear and craning the direction I’m looking, not even trying to be discrete.
“That guy.” I nod at the brown-haired boy, who is just gazing at his drink now, remnants of a smile lingering on his mouth.
Jon makes an approved noise. “Cute.”
“Not just cute,” I correct. “Hot.”
I can feel Jon rolling his eyes and I know he doesn’t get it. This guy is hot, though.
I’m watching him and not the band now. His friend is talking and he looks like he’s listening, nodding his head sometimes. His head is still bowed forward, but I want to see his eyes.
When he looks up, I smile, my bottom lip caught between my teeth. He starts to nod to his friend again, but freezes as we lock eyes. It’s dark and I can’t really see what color they are, but I want to. Man, do I want to. He stares at me for a good five seconds which seems like forever, his eyes scanning down my body and I know what he’s thinking. I can see it in his face. I’ve heard it in too many voices to count, but I know it when I see it.
I think, he’s the one. He’s the one I want. I swear he can hear me because he blushes slightly but doesn’t drop his gaze.
Then he does break it, quickly and almost harshly as a blond girl walks up behind him, sliding an arm around his waist and kissing his neck softly. I can see him stiffen, but the girl doesn’t seem to notice. After a second, his arm slides around her back and I sit back.
He doesn’t look at me again, instead forcing smiles and hugging the girl back. I sigh and turn away, thinking that it’s damn shame.
*
At work the next day, it’s all the same. I get a guy who wants to be handcuffed to the headboard and spanked. I get a girl who’s a control freak and tops me. I mumble my way through those, as composed as I can be when some guy is grunting, “Yeah, whip me like a bad little slave boy.” They seem happy, though, and that’s all that matters.
When six o’clock rolls around, though, I can’t help but smile when the phone beeps in my ear. I always make sure my last call is done before six.
“Call me B,” I answer, unable to suppress the smile in my voice.
“Hey.” He sounds more eager today. The nervousness isn’t there and he sounds happier.
“Hey,” I respond warmly, “how are you feeling today?”
“Good,” he murmurs and I know he’s already touching himself. “Good.”
“What do you want to do?” I slide down in my chair and prop up my feet on my little desk.
“Talk to me,” he says and I hear something that sounds like desperation in his voice.
“About what?” I can talk about anything, honestly. Usually, though, the callers only want one thing.
“Anything,” he breathes and I can hear his pants already. “Tell me something about yourself.”
Okay, maybe I can’t talk about everything. We’re not supposed to reveal details about our real lives to our callers except maybe what color our hair is so they have something to picture. I usually make up my appearance according to what they want, though.
“I…” I don’t know what to tell him. I know I should make something up, but I don’t really want to. I want to tell him the truth, but I know it’s a bad idea.
“Come on, B,” he says, his voice softer now, more coaxing. “Just tell me anything. Please.”
“Well, w-why?” I ask. I don’t sound very professional or sexy right now, but he caught me off-guard.
“I just want to hear your voice,” he whispers. “I just don’t want to think. I need you.”
People have said that to me before, but he sounds like he means it in this second, like he needs to hear me or his world might come crashing down.
“Okay, okay,” I agree and hear his hummed agreement. “Um, well, I grew up in a small town in Utah.”
“Yeah?” he asks and I can hear his panting, slow and steady.
“Yeah, I have five siblings. Two brothers and three sisters. They’re all still in Utah. Three of them are married. One is younger than me, but she’ll probably be married soon. Um, I moved from there after high school.”
I can hear him hum into the phone and the short gasp that follows. “Where’d you go?” he asks, his voice stuttered.
“I went to Arizona for college but decided the desert wasn’t for me, so I moved here.”
“You like Chicago?” He’s breathing harder now and I wonder for a second why he just wants me to talk. It’s not the strangest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s up there.
“Yeah, it’s nice,” I reply. “Kind of cold in the winter. My roommate has lived here most of his life and he loves it.”
His breathing is all I hear in the earpiece, so I keep talking.
“We have a cat. It’s really fat, and at night, he sneaks into my room and sleeps on the end of my bed. It’s nice in the winter. He keeps my feet warm.” I laugh lightly and hear his breath hitch on the other end. “Do you have any pets?”
“A dog,” he replies and I know his teeth are gritted as he tries to keep quiet against the pumping of his hand.
“I like dogs,” I say, leaning back on the chair, hearing the groan of the springs. I hope it doesn’t break. “But I could never have one because my little sister was allergic.”
“Why don’t you-get one now,” he says, his voice stuttered and I can hear him panting hard into the phone.
I shrug. “I guess I could. Jo-or, my roommate probably wouldn’t mind.” I almost slipped up, but I don’t think he’s really listening. His breaths are hard in the receiver and I hear him moan slightly. “I like little dogs, but big ones are cool too. Maybe I’ll get a big dog. That would keep me warm at night.”
“There are-fuck-other ways to keep warm,” he gasps and I smirk.
“I guess,” I reply. “I could keep you warm.”
He groans softly and I hear his breath hitch. “Don’t,” he pants.
“Don’t what?”
“Just, just talk,” he pleads. “Tell me something else.”
I pause. This is a little strange, but all right. “Um, I like ice cream,” I offer. “My favorite kind is rocky road, but I like cookie dough too, and mint chocolate chip. Pretty much anything with chocolate. I’m addicted to red bull but my roommate doesn’t let me buy them ‘cause he says I get too hyper.”
He grunts into the phone to show he’s listening, but I know he’s close. I can feel the tension through the phone, the way he whimpers softly, the sound cut off when he bites his lip, closes his mouth.
I wait a minute, just listening to him pant.
Finally, he moans softly. “Keep talking,” he asks. “I’m almost there. Just, please.”
I hesitate. “I like the snow too. Last winter, me and my roommate drove out to the country and made a huge snowman, like, seven feet tall. I still don’t know how we got the head on.” I laugh at the memory and then I hear him let go. I wonder if it was the sound that set him off.
He’s gasping for breath and I imagine his eyes closed and his hand stroking his cock languidly, bringing himself off to the sound of my voice. People tell me I have a nice voice. It’s part of why I got the job.
I fall silent as he finishes up, his breathing slowing in the receiver. I smile.
There’s a pause and then quick movement.
“Shit,” he curses, and I hear fumbling, the phone dropping with a clunk on a hard surface. Then more clattering as it’s picked up. “I have to go.”
Then the line goes dead and I hear nothing. A little taken aback, I click off and sit there for a moment. Rolling back my chair, I go to the little door to Greta’s cubicle. I knock but don’t wait for her answer because if she’s on the phone, she won’t answer.
Sticking my head in, I catch sight of her sitting in her chair, swiveling back and forth, looking bored.
“You like that?” she asks, her voice low and sexy. She catches sight of me and smiles briefly. I know it’s safe and roll in.
She doesn’t look particularly interested in her call, but keeps saying things like, “you’re such a big boy,” and “oh yeah, harder. I feel you.”
Finally, she ends the call with a promise of later and clicks her headset.
“Hey, Bren,” she greets me, taking off her set for a moment. “What’s up?”
“I just had a weird call,” I tell her, sighing and flopping in my chair.
“Weird?” she asks, twining one of her pretty curls around a finger. “Like how?”
“He just wanted me to talk to him.”
“What do you mean?”
I sigh. “Okay, it’s this guy who calls every day and usually, he wants to do normal stuff, you know? Like blowjobs, hand jobs, sex, you know?”
Greta nods understandingly. It may not seem normal to other people, but this is our job.
“But today he just wanted me to talk to him while he got off. Like about normal stuff.”
“What did you tell him?” she asks curiously.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Just stuff about me. I told him about Dylan and my family, kind of. It was just vague stuff.”
She nods slowly. “Why is that weird?”
I raise an eyebrow and smile. “Because we work at 1-800-IM-YOURS, Greta. It’s not 1-800-Tell-me-about-your-life.”
Greta laughs lightly and pats my arm. I really like that she’s my cubicle neighbor.
“Brendon, maybe he’s just lonely. A lot of guys who call here are.”
“That or crazy.” It’s true. They are.
She laughs again, looking up, though, and I know her phone is beeping. “Were you nice to him?”
“Yeah.” Of course, I was. I’m nice to all my clients, him in particular.
“Then just keep talking,” she says before pressing her ear piece. “I’m Jen,” she says into her phone and I sigh.
I leave her to her call, though, and roll back into my cubicle as my earpiece beeps and I press the button.
“Call me B.”
*
“Obsessing over Mystery Office Boy?”
Jon plops onto the couch beside me and I sigh. I shouldn’t be, but I can’t help it. I don’t even know who this guy is. For all I know, he could be some ugly thirty-year old with a wife and kids. But he sounds hot. That’s a pathetic argument, even I know that. But… but… He sounds hot!
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t even think about him.”
“Yeah, but he calls you every day.”
“A lot of customers do.”
“At the exact same time every day?”
“He’s punctual.”
“And last time he didn’t even want sex.”
“Maybe he didn’t have much time.”
“Maybe you’re losing your touch.”
I gasp, my eyes widening as I jump onto Jon, holding him down. “Take that back!”
“No,” he gasps, curling away from my fingers as I dig them into his sides and he tries not to laugh. I know Jon Walker is ticklish even if he adamantly denies it.
“I can never lose my touch! I am the Amazing Brendon Urie!”
“I thought that was my title,” Jon complains, pushing me away.
I pout. “Well, then, what’s mine?”
He pauses as he thinks. “You are Motor Mouth Boy!”
“That’s not cool.” I frown. That’s a sucky super hero name. Surely I am cooler than that. “What about Sex God Urie?”
Jon makes a noise, shrugging. “I guess.”
I nod, satisfied. “I am Sex God Urie and no man can resist my charms.”
Jon just snorts and throws a pillow at my head, and then the remote. It hurts when the remote hits my arm and falls in between the cushions. In revenge, I make him dig for it and laugh when his arm gets caught.
Part Two.