After an hour and a half of refilling drinks and minding my own damn business, I was starting to give up hope of getting home in time to watch The Bachelor premiere. The Goonies Reinvented were still talking up a storm; it seemed like they may never leave. I'm not sure why they couldn't have these conversations at home with a six pack from the store, but it was out of my control. I spent the time leaning against the door to the break room, just 2 steps away from privacy and relief. It was a blessing that our boss had a wedding to attend, otherwise I'd be fucking crucified for being on my phone during work hours.
Nothing else to do, though.
"'Scuse me?" A slurred voice deterred my attention from Twitter. British Boy. Good Lord.
"Hm?" I slowly approached them, feeling all eyes scanning my body. Men. They were all fairly wasted; normally I'd be encouraging an Uber, but after their dramatic entrance, I knew they had a personal driver.
"Can you put on some music?" What. I was almost dumbfounded—either from his random question or the depth to his voice. The sunglasses were still on, but I knew he was staring directly into my eyes.
"Uh, music? We have the store's playlist playing now. Do you want me to turn it up?" At this, all 4 heads recoiled. Simultaneously. Like fucking Sims.
"No, no no. What if you just let us pick the songs? It's dead in here, so I really don't think anyone will care." British Boy was no longer talking with a British accent. My hormones thanked him.
"I mean, my phone is hooked up but-,"
"Can we just use your phone?" Curly Boy pitched in. My head whipped towards him, and I couldn't help but subtly grin at his wide eyes and wide smile. He seemed like an excited little boy.
"Uh, I—I guess? But," I harshly grabbed all their attention. "My dad does work for the Pentagon. So if you hack me or track me, he'll be at your door before you even know he's coming."
This was an empty threat. A lie, if you will. I don't even have a dad. Well, I do, obviously, but he comes and goes when he pleases.
Mediator Boy held his hands up in defense, looking genuinely concerned. "Woah, we aren't creeps, dude. No need to bring in the big guns."
"Dude? Yeah, don't call me that." I snapped, yanking my phone out of my pocket and giving it to Curly Boy. He seemed to be the most trustworthy. He thanked me with a pat to the hand and pearly grin. The entire time, British Boy didn't once take his eyes from me. Again, despite the sunglasses, I just knew.
"Okay," He ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling it around. "What should we call you then."
God, the way he talked—his questions weren't even questions. They were like statements, or demands. I can't even describe it. He just seemed so sure of himself.
"Nothing. Call me nothing." Please don't take that literally.
"Oh, nonsense," so Shy Boy speaks! "What's your name? We'll start. I'm Danny." Shy Boy.
"Josh!" Curly Boy.
"Sam, but you can call me Sammy. I like Sammy better." Mediator Boy.
I turned to face British Boy, waiting for the highly anticipated name reveal, but he just smirked at me. Cocky fucking asshole.
"Didn't hear you the first time. What should we call you?" Oh, the rage that filled my veins. He knew exactly what he was doing. I sarcastically giggled as I tilted my head to the side, plotting different ways to slice his carotid.
"Andromeda. That's my fucking name. Satisfied, British Bitch?" Josh quite literally choked on his drink and had to turn away from us to clear his throat. The other 2 were covering their mouths to hold in their laughter.
