Tomfoolery
By Lou Harper
Ben Hammond is a nerdy computer programmer with a yen for anime, comic books, and the handsome stranger he keeps seeing at the coffee shop. As he's working up the nerve to ask the guy out, he has no idea that getting his man is only half the story.
Smashword Edition
Copyright Lou Harper 2011
Cover Art by Lou Harper Copyright 2011
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Ben Hammond was going nuts, and it wasn't only a figure of speech. No, he feared there was a good chance of him truly cracking up, like Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight, as Charles Boyer slowly and systematically drives her mad. Ben had seen that oldie on cable about a year ago—back when he still had time to watch TV. His circumstances seemed much like Ingrid's: someone was messing with him in subtle ways to drive him crazy. Except, those things only happened in movies, never in real life. Ergo, he really was nuts.
Ben couldn't pinpoint exactly when it had started. It was minute things, like stuff appearing in places other than where he remembered leaving them, shirts he swore he'd washed appearing dirty in the hamper. His toys seemed interfered with too. Ben had twenty-five limited edition vinyl figures of various sizes spread around the place. Most of them sat on the shelves, artfully arranged between rows of books—of which only a third were comics. The toys were arranged with calculated casualness, and thanks to his mild OCD, Ben had noticed when they'd moved about, even slightly. All these things could be dismissed individually, but cumulatively they became worrisome. Like this morning, his razor sitting on the left side of the sink, when he always put it on the right side. It was plain wrong.
"Meow!"
The loud cry stirred him from his unpleasant thoughts. The orange tabby hopped up on the counter, and purring like the engine of a small plane, rubbed his face to Ben's exposed belly. The fur felt like velvet against naked skin. Ben immediately cheered up, and forgot about the blasted razor. According to some research, cat owners lived longer and healthier than others. Ben had no idea how scientific the research had been, but he tended to believe in the results. Having a cat had a calming effect on him.
Rupert had literally walked into his life six or seven months earlier. Ben's second floor apartment had a balcony with a big tree in front of it. The balcony opened from the kitchen, and into its door the previous owner had fitted a cat flap. Ben hadn't even realized the flap was left open until one day, when a rather large and friendly tomcat had appeared in his living room. When he'd leaned down to pet it, it had lain down and stretched out, offering his furry tummy for scratching. Ben knew enough about cats to be aware how much they didn't like their bellies touched, so the cat's gesture of trust got to him. From then on they were best pals. Rupert was an independent sort, coming and going as he pleased, but he instinctively seemed to know when Ben needed cheering up.
"Come on, Rupert, let's get you breakfast," he said.
Rupert made a throaty growl of agreement, jumped down to the floor, and trotted off to the kitchen with Ben on his heels.
Ben plopped the can of food into the bowl and placed it on the tiled floor. "Here you go, Fuzzybutt, bon appétit."
Ben watched Rupert for a second as he dove into his food with his usual enthusiasm, then fixed himself a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal. The morning went south again right there: the milk carton was substantially lighter than it should've been. Attention to detail was Ben's specialty—it was a must for someone who writes computer code for a living. So either Ben was losing it, or something was definitely amiss. There was only one way to find out: a hidden camera!
Ben tucked the laptop out of sight on the shelf of the breakfast counter, putting the webcam between the apricot jam and the Batman cookie jar, aiming it at the fridge. Rupert watched him with typical feline inquisitiveness. A glimpse at the clock reminded Ben he needed to hurry up and get to work. During the drive he kept mulling over his suspicions. He'd read an article about a landlord who entered his tenants' apartment while they were out and peed into their food. Ben's landlord was a faceless company somewhere, and the building managers were an elderly Middle Eastern couple who didn't strike Ben as the trespassing type, and definitely not the peeing in food type.
Ben also considered the issue of his own sanity. He'd been under a lot of pressure at work, enough to drive anyone slightly batty. And then there was Uncle Albert, whom his relatives referred to as eccentric, but in truth the old geezer was barking mad. According to family legend, Uncle Albert's condition started when he'd gotten kicked in the head by a horse as a young boy, but Ben suspected it might have been something else—something inheritable. Childhood memories of his uncle muttering to his invisible companions, and putting forth his complex conspiracy theories at the table during Thanksgiving dinners, didn't brighten Ben's mood.
Fortunately, his commute was short. He stepped through the doors at five past eight and headed straight for the kitchen. A familiar aroma smacked him on the nose.
"I love the smell of burning bagels in the morning. It smells like Friday," he said, his spirits picking up a little. Friday was bagel day, when Wally Studios generously provided its employees with free carbohydrates and cream cheese.
Mandy looked at him sourly. "Don't be so cheery; I have a feeling we'll be here and working tomorrow too."
Ben's spirit nosedived. "What, again? After working ten to twelve hour days all week?"
"Yeah, no fucking kidding, right?"
Mandy was a diminutive, soft-spoken woman in her thirties who cursed like a sailor. She was also the manager on Ben's project. She was generally a nice gal, but overwork and stress frayed her nerves too. It didn't help that despite her title, she had hardly any decision making power, something she was reminded of daily.
Ben carried his bagel and thundercloud of a mood to his desk. His friend, Chance was already there, one cubicle over, staring intently at his computer screen. He returned Ben's morning greeting with a grunt.
"Hey, you heard about Saturday?" Ben asked.
Chance's nod and dark expression were a clear yes.
Ben flung himself into his chair and booted up his machine. He set up the webcam feed from home in the corner of his second monitor, and then buried himself deeply into the code of the game they were making. That at least he enjoyed: there was beauty in logic, systematic structures, and how lines of text made things come alive on the screen of a computer or, in their case, on a cell phone. Ben and his team were making mobile games for Wally Studios, the prominent entertainment company, known around the world most for its symbol, Lucky, the accident-prone cartoon duck. It was far less glamorous and fun than it sounded.
Outwardly Wally Studios—Or "The Duck" as employees tended to call it—displayed a happy, family friendly facade. Inside, like any other big corporation, it was a land of dull-gray cubicles, fluorescent lighting, and office politics—with casual dress code and free snacks. They were led by suits of big plans and little imagination. At least that's how Ben saw it. Of course, he was merely an under-appreciated code-monkey whose opinions nobody gave two cents about. Make that under-appreciated and over-worked.
Ben spent the next several hours figuring out how to fit a feature, requested at the last minute by marketing, into the existing code without breaking anything. It was a bitch to do, but with his headphones on and in the zone, he kept laboring over it.
It was close to noon when Ben noticed a movement from the corner of his eye: the webcam had picked up something. Oh, it was only Rupert—who was not supposed to be up on the table. Bad kitty! The cat sniffed around on the tabletop for a few seconds then he reached out an exploratory paw for the kitchen towel. Ben watched amused as Rupert batted the piece of cloth around as if it was a mouse. It all ended with the towel landing on top of the webcam, rendering it useless. Very bad kitty!
Well, it was lunch time anyway. Ben slipped out of the building before his co-workers could rope him into their own lunch plans. It's not like he didn't like them, or having lunch with them, but today Doug was taking the lead in choosing a restaurant, and his tastes in food favored quantity over quality.
The July sun glared down on Los Angeles from a spotless blue sky. Off in the not too far distance the hillsides were turning yellow, readying themselves for the end-of-summer wildfires. Buildings belonging to Wally Studios were scattered in the neighborhood, housing assorted business units separately. Most had their own cafeterias, but Ben didn't care much for them. He walked a couple blocks to Fran's Cafe and Sandwich Shop—for the third time this week. Officially, he went there for the tasty and affordable lunch specials. Unofficially, he was hoping a certain person would be there.
Ben had noticed the guy a few weeks earlier. Freckles—as Ben had come to think of him—was easy on the eyes with his lank body and big mop of strawberry blond hair. The hair mesmerized Ben—its color flickered between blond and red depending on the angle of the light. To go with the hair, he had a rather diverting sprinkle of freckles on his nose—thus Ben's nickname for him. Ben had never realized the erotic potential of freckles before. Now he couldn't stop speculating about their other possible locations.
Ben had been smitten from that dazed moment he'd stood in line behind Freckles on that first day, and had been working up his nerve ever since to strike up a conversation. Ben suffered from selective shyness that struck him whenever he was attracted to someone. The root cause of it was his painful self-awareness: he knew he wasn't cool. He wasn't ugly by any means; he had a lean body, pleasant face, and hair of the color of wet sand. He even worked out—when he had time. However, he was a nerd, and no matter what he wore, how much he spent on a haircut, other guys, especially good looking ones, automatically sensed his un-coolness.
Ben's heart jumped like a startled rabbit as he spotted the bushy head through the window of the café. He had spent many lonely moments fantasizing about running his fingers through those thick tresses. Taking a deep breath and collecting his composure, he stepped inside.
He ordered the half-sandwich-and-soup lunch special—with an apple on the side instead of chips, because it would make him appear as a person who ate healthily, in case someone happened to notice. Someone in particular. Ben found a seat, not too far from and facing the man of his daydreams.
Throughout his meal Ben kept casting surreptitious glances at Freckles—shoring up impressions for later use. The guy wore jeans and a plain white shirt, as always. Ben tried to memorize specific details: the shape of his ears, the exact curve of his lips, the enticing way the hair shimmered on the man's forearms—Ben thought he spotted a few freckles there too.
Freckles was engrossed in the latest issue of LA Weekly. Ben used this opportunity to puzzle over his cowlicks. There was one, off-centered, right above his forehead, and a short lock of hair sticking straight up on his crown indicated another, possibly two.
In the end Ben had to go, and didn't have any better idea how to chat up Freckles than he did weeks before. He cleared off his plate and headed for the door. To his utmost surprise and frightened delight, Freckles chose the same time to leave.
Not only that, but he turned to Ben as they stepped out the door. "Hey, I keep seeing you here. Do you work for The Duck too?" he asked.
Ben took a deep breath. "Yeah, at the interactive department. You?" he managed to reply without hyperventilating.
"Accounting. Recently started. I'm Tom, by the way," he said, stopping and holding his hand out.
"Ben."
Tom gave a firm handshake, with warm, dry palms, in contrast to Ben's own suddenly sweaty ones. He held Ben's hand a little longer than strictly necessary, and Ben thought he saw a flash of something in Tom's eyes, but then it was gone.
They walked the far too short distance to Ben's building chatting casually about Raccoon Tales, the new animated movie Wally Studios was producing. A bit more in his element, Ben relaxed by several degrees.
"How well do you think it'll do?" asked Tom.
Ben grimaced. "It has nauseatingly cute singing animals in 3D, and the competition this summer is pathetic. It will rake in the money."
"It's not really your cup of tea, is it?"
"The kids love this kinda stuff," Ben said, carefully picking his words. From all he knew, Tom could've been one of those Wally Studios zealots who worshipped everything the company stamped its logo on. He needn't have worried.
"I think it rots their brains," Tom announced bluntly.
He also accidentally bumped into Ben as he said it, causing Ben to gasp and titter at the same time. The resulting sound became a strangled wheeze.
"Are you all right?" Tom put a concerned hand on Ben's shoulder.
"I think I swallowed a bug," Ben lied. He cleared his throat a few times.
"I hope it's not singing," Tom joked.
"No, but it's definitely 3D," Ben quipped back, surprising himself with this unexpected burst of witticism.
Tom chuckled.
"You don't like animated films?" Ben asked once he got himself composed.
"Oh I like them fine, I simply don't think kids should be on a constant diet of mental cotton candy."
"Are you sure Wally Studios is the right place for you?" Ben asked jokingly.
"I'm only a bean counter. Nobody cares what I think about the movies. What do you do?"
"I write code for mobile games. As a matter of fact, we're working on one to tie in with Raccoon Tales."
"Mobile games are hot right now. Good for you!"
Ben could've taken issue with the second part of that statement, but held his tongue. "You know, there's this little independent movie theater near where I live, the Tivoli—they show second runs, cult classics, foreign films, old movies. They'll be playing Paprika this Sunday. It's an anime, but very different—you might find it interesting."
"Are you going?" Tom asked.
"Absolutely." Ben had hoped to go with Chance and his girlfriend, Rose, but they were already committed to a family shindig, a wedding or something. "You know, there's only one showing, at seven. If you want…" He wasn't sure how to finish the sentence, but Tom came to his rescue.
"Meet you there. Quarter till?"
"Yeah, sure."
By the time Ben had given Tom the address of the movie theatre, and directions to get there, they had reached Ben's building, and there was nothing else to do than say their brisk goodbyes. Ben looked back through the glass door for one last view of Tom strolling down the street. Did they just make a date? It certainly seemed so.
Ben spent the rest of the day in a much improved mood, garnering suspicious looks from his disgruntled co-serfs. Even the impromptu meeting and ensuing pep talk couldn't completely ruin it.
Mike Pollock, the director of their department, was giving them a rah-rah speech, going on and on about the importance of their project and meeting the deadline. Into his pumped up, and entirely counterfeit zeal he wove veiled threats about their job security. He couldn't outright tell them to do more unpaid overtime, because that would've been cause for a law suit, but the end result was the same: they all "volunteered" to spend the Saturday at work. At least they'd get Sunday off.
***
The next morning Ben set up the webcam again, giving Rupert a stern lecture about not jumping up onto the counter. The cat stared at him with his green eyes full of attention, as if he understood. Naturally, an hour later he took a nap on said counter, his fluffy tummy filling the picture. Ben tried to be mad at the cat, but failed.
On Sunday Ben slept late. He rolled out of bed at half past ten only at the insistence of a famished Rupert. The tabby generally had remarkably good manners for a cat, rarely cried, and didn't scratch the furniture. At times like this he gained Ben's attention with loud purring punctuated with firm, furry head-butting, and sticking his cold, wet nose into Ben's face.
"All right, all right," Ben grumbled, shuffling off to the bathroom first.
Once fed and watered, Rupert calmed down some, yet behaved more hyper than usual. He nearly tripped Ben up weaving between his legs, and sat on the next chair staring intently as Ben ate his morning cereal.
"What's up with you today?" asked Ben. Talking to Rupert was a habit born of solitude.
"Meow," Rupert replied throatily.
"That's what you always say."
Ben put his bowl on the floor with a bit of milk left on the bottom. "You're a spoiled brat, you know," he commented.
Rupert only twitched his tail in reply and ducked his head into the bowl.
Ben spent most of the day catching up with the things he didn't have the time and energy for during the week. There was a pile of junk mail to sort out, bills to pay. Tivo was bursting with his favorite shows, but he didn't even get to watch them. After all that time being cooped up staring at screens he was desperate for a bit of physical activity, and there was nice little hiking trail that started only a short drive from his place.
Hiking always cleared his mind and relaxed him. It also gave him a chance to mull over his upcoming date with Tom. Now that he had time to think about it, it made him slightly nervous. Okay, more than slightly. Ben was in the middle of a dry spell. The last guy he'd been seriously involved with was Peter, and that had been over for nearly a year. They'd met at Comic Con and really hit it off, but as Ben's schedule got more and more hectic they drifted apart, finally coming to the amicable consensus to "see other people." In Ben's case it mostly translated to seeing no one at all.
The notion he might possibly have a chance with Tom was exciting and also unnerving, especially since he knew perfectly well Tom was out of his league.
Ben went down to the Tivoli an hour early to get the tickets, and also to be the first in line for good seats. That gave him time to fret about whether Tom would really show. But not for long.
"Wow, I didn't know there were still places that had midnight showings of the Rocky Horror Picture Show," Tom said with awe, gazing up the marquee.
"Here in Pasadena we care about tradition," Ben replied, grinning like an idiot.
After some waiting filled with polite chitchat they were finally let into the auditorium. Since Ben got the tickets, Tom bought the sodas and the giant bucket of popcorn. Sitting in the darkened theater with a good looking guy who was sort of a date gave Ben the warm-and-fuzzies, especially as Tom's body slanted toward Ben in the darkness, so their arms and shoulders were in constant contact. From time to time Tom leaned even closer to whisper something to Ben, his breath brushing Ben's tingling earlobes.
***
"That was most certainly different," Tom said, as they emerged from the theater.
"Too weird for you?" A tinge of anxiety poked at Ben: Paprika had fantastic visuals, but most of it was about dreams and the subconscious, and didn't exactly have a straightforward plot. Perfect movie to scare away a square date.
To Ben's relief, Tom didn't express signs of distress. "I didn't say that. More like strangely mesmerizing. Not a kid's movie though."
"Probably not. Although…I watched Fooly Cooly with my four-year-old nephew and he didn't mind."
"You lost me again," Tom said with an amused smile.
"It's an anime TV series, also not for kids. When my sister found out she said I wasn't allowed to babysit again. That didn't last, of course."
They stood on the street forming a small island while their fellow moviegoers streamed past them. Ben was under the explicit impression Tom was looking at him expectantly. So he went out on a limb. "Would you like a coffee? I live only a few blocks from here—I walked."
"That would be great," Tom said, brightening up. "Lead the way."
The few blocks were in fact four and a half, almost five, and not short ones either, but Tom didn't complain. Instead, he kept up on the light chatter.
"So you have a sister?" he asked.
"Yeah, but they've moved to Irvine. I don't see them a whole lot these days."
Tom nodded. "Long drive from here."
"I used to do it quite often, to be a bad influence for my niece and nephew—as Ramona would say—but my work schedule has been hell lately."
"Are they overworking you?"
"It's been crazy, and it's getting worse. Our game is supposed to be out for the movie release, and it's a clusterfuck."
"What's wrong?"
Ben paused, weighing if he should give the super-condensed version. He didn't want to be a total bore going on about his workplace gripes, but Tom seemed genuine enough in his interest. He was easy to talk to.
Ben decided on the abridged version. "Everything. It started well, we had a good game concept, and started working on it. But then the reorg struck."
Tom nodded, and made an encouraging "hmm" sound, so Ben went on. "The new VP decided to be hands-on, poking his nose into everything we do. Unfortunately, he's a finance guy, and wouldn't know a good game if it mugged him at knife-point. No offense," Ben added quickly, remembering too late Tom was in a similar field.
"None taken."
"So he scrapped our perfectly good game idea, and brought in his own brilliant game designer to come up with a new one," Ben said, not without rancor.
Tom didn't miss it. "I take you don't like him."
"Her. No, I'm not a big fan of Sylvia Ballinger. She has this annoying habit of talking to us plebs as if we were a bunch of mentally challenged five-year-olds, and she was the kindergarten teacher. Even praise from her sounds condescending."
"Ow. That sucks."
"Once when we were talking about something serious and work related, she jumped several inches into the air and made little squeaky sounds." Ben almost felt guilty about gossiping, but not quite.
Tom laughed. "That's actually pretty funny."
"Yes, I'm sure ten years from now I'll laugh at it too—assuming I'm not still working with her. Gawd, I sure hope not. My friend Chance nicknamed her The Goblin."
"So how did the game redesign go?"
"Terrible. The Goblin is a complete sycophant to Burt Mulligan, our new VP, who knows nothing about the Wally Studios Brand. They came up with an awesome idea that would never fly with Brand Management. We told her, but she dismissed us, so we wasted months working on it till Brand Management came down on us like the wrath of God."
"Ouch."
"Then they spent months brainstorming one shitty idea after another, till they settled on the shittiest. We ended up starting the game six months later than we should have. To top it all off, marketing decided to chip in when the game was half done. They wanted to change things, cram a bunch of useless marketing features in there. So now we're working all kinds of overtime scrambling to finish."
"Well at least you'll make a ton of money on the overtime."
"I wish! We're not hourly, so no overtime pay. We'll be lucky to get a day at Wally Land for all our hard work. Well, that's it in a nutshell." Ben figured that was enough whining from him for a night. "What about you? How's your work?"
Tom shrugged. "Numbers. Nothing exciting."
They arrived at Ben's apartment, at last. Ben ushered his guest to the living room, while he took off to make the coffee. He was pouring the water into the machine as Tom appeared at the door. "You have a cat," he said, nodding at the stainless steel bowls in the corner.
"Yeah, Rupert. Usually he's home by this time for his dinner."
"Interesting name for a cat."
"I named him after Rupert Grint—you know, he plays Ron Weasley in the Harry Potter movies."
"Right! The cat must be ginger then," Tom said brightly.
"Big, fat orange tabby," Ben agreed.
Tom opened his mouth to say something, but then he didn't.
"I hope you're not allergic," Ben said with a bit of concern.
"No, I'm down with cats." Tom stepped forward and leaned against the kitchen counter, scant inches from Ben, who tried not to get flustered.
"Oh, good. I don't have decaf. Is regular all right?"
"It's fine," Tom said, sidling closer.
He stepped behind Ben, putting a hand on Ben's waist and brushed his lips at the nape of Ben's neck. Nerve endings humming like a hive of excited bees, Ben leaned back into the welcoming warmth of Tom. Ben gulped down a needy groan as Tom began to nibble on Ben's earlobes, while slipping his hands under Ben's shirt.
It had been Ben's long-time fantasy to be seduced by a handsome man, but as it was coming true, his familiar insecurity made Ben hesitant. Fortunately, the hesitations and Ben both soon melted under Tom's gentle but persistent assault.
***
They didn't have any coffee, after all. Tom left in the wee hours, whispering endearments and promises to call. Ben summoned up enough energy to open a can of cat food and plop its contents into Rupert's bowl, in case the spoiled brat decided to saunter home during the night. He did, many hours later, nudging Ben awake with his cold nose, and breath smelling of cat food. Good thing too, because Ben had forgotten to set the alarm.
Tom called the very next day, and they met again numerous times in the weeks following, for lunch, dinner, and vigorous shagfests, during which Ben discovered a delicious smattering of freckles on Tom's buttocks. Ben was in was seventh heaven, despite the situation growing increasingly insane at work. Not even Sundays were sacred any more. Fortunately, Tom was remarkably flexible and accommodating, adjusting his schedule to Ben's without a word of complaint.
"I'm beat," Ben groaned one night, slumping onto the sofa.
"Put your feet up, I'll fix you something to eat," Tom said, heading straight to the kitchen.
He'd made himself at home at Ben's exceptionally fast. Not a shy or inhibited person, for sure.
"Something light. I don't want to turn into Doug," Ben shouted after him.
Doug was another engineer on Ben's team, and a stereotype on legs if there ever was one—he would have scored 105% on a nerd test. Doug always talked, mostly about code, computer games, science fiction movies and anime, and his level ninety fire mage in World of Wizardcraft. Doug was also plump and porcine, in part because of his disdain of physical activities, but mostly because of the giant meals he washed down with cans of diet soda. In fiction he would've been a crude and overdrawn caricature, but he was real. Ben actually liked Doug, but didn't fancy becoming like him. Truth to be told, Ben himself would've scored at least eighty percent on the nerd test, but he did his best to downplay it in mixed company. Incongruously, he'd managed to fool Tom so far.
Rupert trotted into the room, licking his chops. He hopped onto the sofa and sat on Ben's chest. "Meow," he warbled in a deep throaty voice.
"Hello to you too, Fuzzyface."
They spent a couple of relaxing moments petting and purring respectively. When Rupert decided it was enough mushiness for a night, he jumped off and trotted out of the room.
Tom came in with a steaming bowl. "Here, I made you some soup."
"This quick?"
"Not from scratch, stupid. You had chicken stock and I found dumplings in the freezer, and baby bok choy in the crisper that hadn't completely wilted yet."
Ben blew on the hot soup and then carefully slurped it. "Not bad," he admitted.
"I gave Rupert a can of food too. He graciously accepted it," Tom said, sitting down.
"Thanks. Where is he now?"
"Gone out again. I don't think your cat likes me."
"Strange, he's normally exceptionally friendly to people."
"I think he's jealous. Eat your soup."
Once Ben finished, Tom washed up, then settled back on the sofa with Ben. "Would you like a foot rub?" he asked.
"That's a kind offer, but it's not like I was on my feet all day. It's mostly my ass that takes the brunt of my job."
"I can rub that too." Tom waggled his eyebrows.
"I'd love that, but I don't think I can stay awake," Ben replied with genuine sadness.
"I can work with that," Tom said, pressing Ben into the cushions, nipping at Ben's neck and shoulder. "But seriously, when is this game going to be done?"
"We submit in a week. There will be updates, and possible bug fixes after that, but that won't be this bad."
"C'mon, let's get you to bed. We can at least cuddle."
Ben let Tom pull him off the couch and into the bedroom, where Tom proceeded to strip him down to his boxers and tucked him under the blanket. He wished he had an ounce more energy for a good bonking. Tom was ready, judging from the hardness pressed into Ben's thighs, but unfortunately, as it was, Ben could fall asleep having a blowjob.
Spooned into Tom's body, Tom's breath tickling his neck, Ben realized something: he really-really-really liked Tom. He thought of saying something about it but the Sand Man claimed him before he could.
***
Ben wasn't sure what woke him, only that something was off. The alarm clock glowed 2:32 into the darkness. He rolled over only to find himself alone in the bed. There was nothing unusual about it; Tom had left in the middle of the night before, but it still disheartened Ben. Well, he might as well get a glass of water, he thought, and pushed the blanket off.
From the entrance of the living room he spotted a small furry figure pad across the room into a puddle of moonlight. Then in front of Ben's astounded eyes the small figure changed into something bigger: human sized.
"Whattafuck!" Ben cried out.
"Shit," Tom cursed softly in reply.
Ben slapped his hand on the light switch. The sudden bright light filling the room blinded him for a second, but there was no mistake: it was Tom standing in the middle of the living room stark naked—at the same spot where Rupert had stood a moment ago. Or at least Ben thought so. Maybe…maybe he was wrong. Maybe he really was going crazy. Or dreaming. Suddenly feeling woozy, Ben grabbed the door jamb for support.
Tom rushed to him and helped him to the sofa. "Ben, Benny, are you okay?" he asked, concern etched onto his face.
Ben shook his head to clear it. "I'm fine."
But he didn't feel fine. He felt sick to his stomach. Recollections of Uncle Albert on one of his worse days, raving and ranting to his imaginary companions rushed before his eyes, making him blanch. He looked at Tom with utter despair. Tom looked back, sheepishly worrying his lips.
Tom sighed. "I was trying to decide if I should tell you. I guess now I have to."
"Tell me what?"
"I'd better show you."
Tom stood up, in all his glorious six-foot, six-inches, and two moments later he was a twelve-inch or so ball of fur. In-between there was a nausea-inducing orange blur.
"Meow," cried Rupert apologetically, before shifting back into Tom.
Ben blinked at him speechlessly.
"I'm a cat-shifter," Tom explained, as if that made any sense at all.
"That's not possible," said Ben, "I mean, the size difference is ridiculously big. Maybe a big cat, but not too big, perhaps a cougar…yeah, that would work. Otherwise, where does all that body mass go?" Ben knew he was babbling, but this was the only way his brain could deal with the situation.
Tom stared at him incredulously. "I turn from a human to a cat and back in front of your eyes, and your main concern is body mass conversion? Why are you so focused on that particular detail?
"Because I'm a man of science!" Ben exclaimed. He wasn't sure where that came from. It sounded like the thing to say in such strange circumstances.
Tom wasn't convinced. "You write code."
"It's called computer science for a reason. Very logical," Ben said defensively.
"Look, why don't I make you some tea?"
Ben had no retort to that. Your boyfriend is a cat, have some tea. Made as much sense as anything else. While Tom busied himself in the kitchen Ben had a chance to look back on his history with Tom, and then Rupert, and the more he did, the more irritable he got. Unpleasant thoughts of having been played and manipulated started taking shape in his mind.
"I'm sorry to give you such a shock," Tom said putting the cup down in front of Ben.
Ben gave only a disgruntled grunt in reply.
"It's not an easy subject to bring up, and I didn't want to add to your stress."
"That's very considerate of you," Ben quipped.
Missing the sarcasm completely, Tom chattered on. "You know, you're wasting your talents at the company. They'll just use you. You and your friend Chance should start your own company. I bet you could make better games on your own. If you're gonna work crazy hours, at least do it for something you enjoy. Take a chance! Get it?" Tom beamed at Ben with a wide grin that for some reason made him only more annoyed.
"Yeah, you're a regular comedian. Just keep your day job. Oh, wait, you don't have one!"
"Hey, no need to get snippy. I'm only trying to help."
"I bet you are," Ben snapped.
"What's the problem? I know it's a lot to take on, but I'll answer any question you have, if I can. Ask away."
"Okay. What's your real name?"
"What I told you: Tom Wilson."
"Fitting. Tom as tomcat."
"Actually, my parents are big Tom Waits fans."
"Oh yeah, he's a cool cat," Ben sniggered unkindly.
"Okay, who's the comedian now?" Tom sounded a bit miffed himself.
"So this cat thing, how did you get it? Did you get bitten by a wild pussy while hitchhiking in Transylvania?"
"That sounds like a B-movie plot. No, I've always been a shifter. It's inherited."
Ben clasped his head. "Oh God!"
"What's wrong?"
"I just realized I've had sex with my cat. I think I'm gonna be sick."
"Don't be ridiculous. You had sex with a complete human."
"Have you ever…"
"What?"
"Done it with another cat?"
"Eww, no way. I'm not into bestiality. Gross."
"Never?"
"Your neighbor's Chihuahua tried to hump me once, but I set him straight."
Tom gave Ben a grin, but Ben wasn't receptive. He'd been gradually working himself into a snit, and was ready to explode.
"So did you have a good laugh, spying on me?"
"Ben?" Tom sounded wounded. Ben wasn't buying it.
"You're a con man!"
"Oh c'mon!"
"You wormed your way in, learned everything you could, so you could seduce me."
Irritated furrows appeared on Tom's forehead. "First of all, you were overdue for a seduction. Secondly, I would've never moved in as your cat if there was any chance of me becoming attracted to you."
"HAH!" Ben exclaimed victoriously, although Tom's admission also pained him.
"No, wait that came out wrong," Tom said, suddenly chagrined.
"I think it came out exactly right."
"What I meant was that you're not normally my type."
"Oh really? What type am I?" Ben crossed him arms and glared at Tom.
Tom made a gesture to encompass the room. "Well, you know…I've never dated anyone before who collected toys."
"Those are limited edition designer vinyl figures!"
Tom looked at him chastened. "And they are very nice. I'm only saying—"
"I know exactly what you're saying: I'm a loser, right? Someone you wouldn't normally be caught dead with."
"No, wait a minute—"
"I want you to leave." Ben said, angrily.
"Benny!" Tom moved forward, but Ben pushed himself off the couch, practically jumped out of range.
"Get the hell out! I'm gonna count to three. If you're still here at three I'm calling the cops! One…"
"Benny."
"Two…"
Before Ben could count three, Tom was gone, replaced by Rupert.
"Meow!" came an imploring cry.
Ben steeled himself. "Out! Bad kitty!"
With one last sad backward look Rupert scampered to the kitchen, then out the cat door. Ben locked it behind him.
That night loud yowling and caterwauling kept the neighborhood awake till angry shouting and the sound of something heavy and metallic crashing against a tree put an end to it.
***
Ben was surly and miserable for the whole next week. Not that anyone noticed—with the deadline looming over them like Godzilla over Tokyo, everyone's nerves were frayed beyond recognition. Tempers flared, and a major blow up was only averted by generous applications of pizza and sugary treats—courtesy of Christina, Mike Pollock's assistant. Mike was only the latest in a long line of directors who came and went at Wally Mobile, but Christina had been there for almost ten years—she knew what the troops needed.
Everyone with a lick of common sense gave Ben's team a wide berth. When Sylvia Ballinger stopped at Ben's cubicle demanding a fresh build pronto, Ben explained through gritted teeth why it would be unwise for them to drop everything during their mad scramble to meet an impossible deadline, especially when there was a build from three days prior, and there would probably be another one by dawn. The Goblin threw a fit, giving a lecture on the importance of Burt Mulligan, and the servicing of his needs. Using every last ounce of his self-control not to strangle her, Ben pushed himself away from his desk and stomped out of the building.
He went for a long walk, angrily muttering to himself, till he calmed down enough to return. He happened to pass by Fran's, secretly hoping to see a familiar figure through the windows of the cafe. Of course, he didn't. He trudged back to work. Fortunately, while he'd been out, Mandy had alerted Mike, who in turn steered Sylvia away from the aggravated team before they staged a mutiny—it was a close call—and ran interference with Burt. As it turned out, Burt was perfectly fine with waiting another day for a new build.
The only good thing about being so busy was that Ben had hardly any time or energy to think about his personal life, or lack thereof—because when he did, it only made him feel more wretched. As angry he was with Tom, he also missed the guy fiercely. He missed Rupert too. It occurred to Ben that maybe he should've given Tom a chance to explain himself. It's true that they'd been together only for a few weeks, but in that time Tom had been considerate, funny, and generally great to be around—not at all like that slimy Charles Boyer in Gaslight. Really, how did Ingrid fall for such a stick-in-the-ass in the first place? On the other hand, if Tom really cared for Ben, wouldn't he have tried harder? It sucked hairy monkey balls that Ben couldn't talk this over with anyone. "I found out my boyfriend is a pussy," was just not a prudent conversation starter, and easily misinterpreted.
Days dragged by in sleep-deprived and anxiety-filled dreariness. When they finally submitted the game, and then resubmitted it six hours later, as a small but deadly bug was found and fixed, Ben announced that he'd take the next three days off. If there was a game emergency during that time, too fucking bad. He planned on turning his phone off and not even looking at his email.
At home, he fixed himself a large Screwdriver and flopped down in front of the TV. A few hours and two more drinks later he dropped off on the sofa. He had a restless night, dreaming in code. Multi-colored lines of logic twined around and tied themselves into knots. Abstract dreams were the worst. A rumbling sort of sensation reverberating through his ribcage and warm weight on his chest were the first things he became aware of in the morning. Sleepily, he scratched the furry head. The purring got louder.
Ben cracked his eyes open. "Rupert?"
"Meooow," came the forlorn cry. Funny how expressive he could be without actual words.
Ben pushed himself into a sitting position, while Rupert kept kneading Ben's thighs and staring at Ben with big green eyes. Ben picked the cat up and put him down on the cushion. "You have some explaining to do."
"Meow?"
"Not like that. C'mon, do your thing."
There was a blur and a naked and far less furry Tom took Rupert's place.
"It makes me dizzy when you do that," Ben grumbled. Secretly he was relieved to see Tom. "How did you get in?"
"You left the kitchen window open." Tom gazed at Ben with concerned expression. "You look like crap. Why don't you take a shower and I'll make you some coffee."
"Fine, but put some clothes on," Ben said, heading off to the bathroom.
He needed a little time alone to collect himself. Also, he could definitely use a little freshening up. Fifteen minutes in the shower—water conservation and all—with his favorite loofah went a long way to putting Ben into a better frame of mind. When he got out, coffee and toast were waiting for him in the kitchen, with a side of Tom—dressed in Ben's sweatpants and T-shirt.
They stayed quiet for a few minutes, Ben eating and soaking up the caffeine, Tom watching him.
"Okay," said Ben at last, "tell me what you were doing pretending to be a cat if not spying on me."
Tom looked contrite. "I didn't do it for nefarious reasons. At worst I had minor larceny in mind."
"Oh, well, that's different then," Ben snickered.
"It will be easier to understand if I tell you the whole story."
"Go ahead, we have all day."
"What about work? Is the game done?"
"For now. I'm taking a few days off."
"It's about time. You were working yourself ragged."
"As you were saying…" Ben said eyes flashing.
Tom took a deep breath. "Okay…as I told you last time, I inherited the cat shifting thing from my parents. Honestly, I used to think of it as a curse. I didn't shift at all for a long time—I wanted to fit in, be normal like everyone else, and not a furry freak. I tried to forget that side of me even existed, and I thought I had. Then a few years ago I found myself at a place like you're at now: working a shit job at a big company, under the threat of layoffs. I was working insane hours, hoping it would be noticed, but I got the pink-slip anyway. A whole bunch of us did. You can imagine how demoralizing it was—it's like the world telling you you're worthless."
"Yeah, I can see that."
"I was on the brink of a breakdown. I shifted to ease the pressure."
"How does that work?" Now, past his first shock, Ben was genuinely curious about the details of this shifting thing.
"Well, I'm still me as a cat, but everything is sort of simplified. My priorities get shorted out: things like promotions, the rat race, and the like are not so important any more. I can much easier find joy in simple things like lying down and soaking up the sun. It's very Zen."
"So you simply decided to live like a feline from then on?"
"Not exactly, but one day as I was gallivanting in the neighborhood, an old lady, Mrs. Murphy, found me and took me home. She was a sweet old lady, gave me all the care and pampering I needed. Meanwhile the job market was in the dump, I couldn't find even a crap job. So I thought the hell with it, put my stuff in storage, and went to live as a cat with Mrs. Murphy. She was all alone, everyone she knew gone. I could keep her company at least. She used to talk to me all the time, telling stories. I don't think she had anyone else to talk to."
"So what happened?"
"She passed away."
"Oh, sorry."
"She died peacefully in her sleep. Best way to go. Of course, I had to split—didn't fancy being taken away by animal services. Honestly, I think I overdid the cat part. As my parents had tried to explain it to me when I was young, there needs to be a balance."
"Where are your parents, by the way?"
"Traveling around the country in an RV. I get an email from them every few months."
"So you were using my computer!"
"Yes, I didn't think you'd notice. You're too sharp for me." From the tone Tom said it and the way he looked at him Ben knew Tom was working hard to charm him, and Ben liked it.
"And messing with my stuff while I was at work. I thought I was going insane!"
"Sorry. I tried to disturb things as little as I could. Unfortunately, when you shift, your clothes don't. It's a good thing we're the same size."
"I dunno, you fill them out much better than me," Ban said gazing at the thin cotton stretching over Tom's pecs. He could see the outline of Tom's nipples.
Tom took Ben's remark in a different way. "Are you calling me fat again?"
"When did I call you fat?"
"You described Rupert as big and fat. Your words exactly."
The aggrieved expression on Tom's face made Ben snort coffee down the wrong way. When he could stop coughing he assured Tom that Rupert was not fat, but pleasantly huggable.
Placated, Tom went on with his story. "I got a couple of things out of storage, but couldn't bring home much since I had to hide them."
"You said something about larceny."
"Yeah, that. After Mrs. Murphy died, I thought I'd go back to being human again, and figure out what to do next, but I needed clothes. I'd seen you around before, knew you were about the right size. I watched your place from the tree across the balcony, and when you went out, I slipped in."
"A regular cat burglar you are!"
"Ha-ha! Probably the worst one in the world. You came back a minute later and caught me."
"I forgot my wallet."
"One more minute and you would've found a naked stranger in your bedroom closet."
"Sounds like a French comedy."
"I'm not sure how funny it would've been."
"Why did you stay?" Ben asked.
"Well…you were unreasonably nice—gave me a can of tuna right off. I guess it was the path of least resistance. But I swear, I had no designs on you."
"Yeah, I know, not your type."
"Actually, you're totally my type—only I didn't know it at first."
"Really?"
"You're smart, have a quirky sense of humor, once you get over your reserve."
"Mmpf."
Their knees bumped under the table and neither of them pulled away.
Tom went on. "I didn't plan on it but before I knew it I hopelessly fell for you. I have no idea when or how it happened; at one point I was enjoying a completely non-erotic warm lap, but then somehow I was getting inappropriate thoughts every time you scratched behind my ears. You have a wonderful touch," Tom explained. His voice dropped an octave and gave Ben a look that totally reminded Ben of Rupert in one of his affectionate moods.
"Go on," Ben said, furiously trying not to blush.
"I devised a plan to meet you as the real me and seduce you. I Googled all the restaurants from the receipts in your pockets. Fran's was closest to your work. So I went down there every day, till you showed up, and then every day after that." He underscored his words by placing his naked feet on Ben's, wiggling his toes under the cuffs of Ben's jeans.
"Simple, but smart," Ben admitted.
"I wanted to jump you right away, but was afraid I'd scare you away. So I bided my time until I finally I couldn't take it anymore."
"When were you going to tell me about the cat-shifting thing?"
"I wasn't. Not at first anyway."
"What?"
"I figured, if we hit it off, Rupert would go away."
"You were going to kill off Rupert!"
"Not kill, only make him disappear," Tom explained, clearly unaware how he sounded.
"Isn't that what happens to mob informants?"
"I only told one other person about my shifting before you, and she totally flipped out. Keeping it a secret seemed smarter, although I came to think if anyone could handle it, it would be you."
"Why's that?"
"Well, you know, you have an imagination, and you're into things that are different."
"A nerd?"
"A hot, sexy nerd," Tom said, edging his chair closer, putting a hand on Ben's thigh.
"Mmm, you think you're charming, don't you?" Ben asked, but in truth he thought Tom could charm the pants off him, and hoped he would.
"I try. Don't be mad at me. I missed you," Tom murmured in a deep rumbly tone that came as close to purring as a human could get.
"I missed you too," Ben admitted.
Unconscious of doing so, Ben leaned forward. The next moment their lips locked, and they demonstrated their feelings for each other without words. Having a part-time tomcat for a boyfriend was unusual, but Ben was sure he could get used to it.
"You were probably right, you know," Ben said when they broke away.
"Of course I was. About what?"
"Work. Chance and I talked about it. We're going to quit and make our own games. Rose can do the artwork—she's an excellent designer."
"And I can do your accounting. It's time I figured something out about getting back to work, anyway."
"So you really are an accountant. I thought maybe you'd made it up to make yourself seem more alluring," Ben snarked.
"Very funny, Smartypants," Tom murmured into Ben's neck, between small nips. "Mmm…you smell so good. I want to eat you."
"Okay," Ben said with a loud exhale.
He more felt than heard Tom's happy growl against his skin. Ben let Tom pull him up and toward the bedroom.
"You know," said Ben while peeling Tom out of his clothes, "now that we enter a new relationship phase, you could introduce me to your friends. Any of them werewolves, by chance?"
"Don't be silly, werewolves are not real."
THE END
About the Author
Under a prickly, cynical surface Lou Harper is an incorrigible romantic. Her love affair with the written word started at a tender age. There was never a time when stories weren't romping around in her head. She is currently embroiled in a ruinous romance with adjectives. In her free time Lou stalks deviant words and feral narratives.
Lou's favorite animal is the hedgehog. She likes nature, books, movies, photography, and good food. She has a temper and mood swings.
Lou has misspent most of her life in parts of Europe and the US, but is now firmly settled in Los Angeles and worships the sun. However, she thinks the ocean smells funny. Lou is a loner, a misfit, and a happy drunk.
Web site: http://louharper.com
Blog: http://louharper.blogspot.com
