Splintered [Complete | GB+SB]

Seven: Owen Blackbourne

My shift was dragging — even though it was an earlier time slot with much more activity and customers compared to my often solitary nights — because I was checking the clock every few minutes and spinning to check the door every time it swished open. I dropped so many things — luckily nothing that broke — and miscounted change a half dozen times, too distracted looking for the object of my desire, if by "object," I mean a very handsome, smart, charming, kind man. A man who seemed to like me, despite all the odds, and one I'm not at all objectifying and thinking about what it would be like to press my body against his and feel those yummy arms around me. After everything though, I would be ecstatic if he would just smile at me again, if he'd maybe still be so sweet to me. If we could be friendly with each other and maybe someday really be friends. I'd be so happy just to have him as my friend.

A Dutch Apple pie slid down the belt towards me and my heart started to race. Was it possible that I missed his entrance?

No. It was a different outrageously handsome man altogether.

What... was there some kind of convention in town? Or is this kind of like how Atlanta has the highest concentration of college-educated black men in the country... does Charleston have the highest concentration of young male models posing as everyday citizens? This man stepped straight out of a Barneys New York menswear ad: impeccably fitted suit, perfectly coiffed hair, tall, fashionably slim but not gangly, a face chiseled out of marble by a Renaissance master, and a pair of square-rimmed eyeglasses that served only to highlight the perfection of his liquid silver eyes.

Eyes that were locked on my own in curiosity.

I flushed, having been caught ogling him, and busied myself with ringing up his order. As he stepped forward, I smelled a familiar scent of fresh spring soap, and was immediately suspicious.

No one needs this much pie.

"Did you want paper or plastic?" I asked, my tone slightly colder than it had been.

He tilted his head and studied me, the corner of his lip twitching.

"Which would you prefer?" He asked, his voice deep and calming, perfectly modulated. I imagined his control panel was set to "Neutral."

"Well, you can either contribute to the logging of old growth forests or drilling into the ocean floor and risking toxic spills. It's really your call. Choose your poison," I said with saccharine sweetness, the tone proper Southern ladies use to say Isn't that sweet? which you know means Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

"Pardon?" Oh shit...how much of that was out loud? "I suspect most of it. Did I... do something to offend you, Miss...Zelda?"

My momentary confusion — maybe I'd read him completely wrong? — was immediately doused as he stumbled over the name on my tag as if the word was offensive. I slumped, resting one hip against the register, and eyed him pointedly. "What's wrong? Are you having trouble pronouncing my name?"

His lip twitched again, and I couldn't help it, I couldn't look away from his mouth. I'm HUMAN, okay!

"Not at all, I'm just having trouble accepting that it is your name."

"Oh reeeallly," I drawled out, sure now that this man knew Sean, and he had told him about my secret identity. "And why is that?"

"Is it? Your name?"

"You tell me."

He studied me for a moment longer. "No," he said finally, almost as if talking to himself, "no, I don't believe it is."

"So then what is it?"

His eyebrow cocked up and he considered me. "Why would I know?"

"I don't know, but you seem awfully sure about what it isn't."