Heluvaween: Sweet as Sin by Willa Okati

Afraid it’s not a Halloween story precisely because my brain is doing its best imitation of an empty vacuum right now, but as it turns out Harper and Rory do love themselves some sugar…

Coming soon from Loose Id, LLC: A-Muse-Ing (http://loose-id.com/detail.aspx?ID=814)

“See? What’d I tell you?” Rory flicked a puff of flour at Harper. “Work is great, and work is good. Healthy body, healthy mind. They don’t compare to chocolate, and some days you’ve just gotta say ‘screw you, world, I’m staying home.’”

Harper rested his glasses, fogged with flour, atop his head, partly to avoid white powder caking in his eyelashes, and partly to enjoy Rory’s involuntary reaction to a particular, unexpected hot button. Authority figures pushed his muse’s buttons, which was a whole world Harper didn’t plan on delving into unless his hand was forced. He put the hinky issues aside for the fun of planning a night in with Rory involving a ruler, a desk, and a plaid uniform.

Somehow, he didn’t think Rory would have too much of a problem assuming the position.

“I dared you to bake something edible, if you were going to survive on sweets. Not to buy out a store’s worth of sugar and flour and challenge Betty Crocker for the world title.”

“Blah, blah, blah.” Rory attacked a bowl of mixed brown sugar and melted butter and stirred vigorously, syrupy spooge-like batter splattering his forehead.

Harper tried not to snicker. And failed.

“We’ll see who’s laughing later, pal, when I’m finishing off my third helping of warm peach cobbler with homemade ice cream and you aren’t allowed to have any.”

Hmm. Maybe it’d end up being Harper bent over a desk, asking for a spanking with the rule. He thought he’d be remarkably okay with the turning of the tables.

“I won’t even let you lick my fingers.”

Harper wiped the smile off his face, passing his palm from nose to chin. “I’ll be good.”

“Aww. I like you better when you’re bad.”

“Good nets me peach cobbler.”

“Bad nets you booty.”

“I can’t lose for winning, then.”

“Sucks to be you, doesn’t it?”

Harper watched his muse moving about the kitchen, lingering over the slim strength of his fingers as he measured, tasted, and worked his undeniable magic. His teeth would explode from the sugar and he would in all likelihood spend the night holding Rory’s hair back while he revisited too much candy. Seemed like a decent trade-off if it meant he could spend these lazy morning hours doing nothing more than sipping bold, rich coffee decadent with cream, as sweet as sin and dark as death, and watch Rory at work.

“I think I like being me today.”

Rory replied with a knowing look, its sharp edges softened by mutual understanding. He hummed under his breath and splashed vanilla extract into his bowl, licked the spoon, and drummed out the bridge of “Freebird” on the counter.

Harper shook his head and addressed himself to his fresh cup of coffee. If Rory didn’t have the muse gig, he’d make one hell of a barista. Never burned, never sour, never weak.

If he stayed, then maybe…

“If doesn’t equal is,” Harper murmured into his cup. “Neither does it equal ‘must be.’”

“Say what, now?” Rory tossed three eggs up, juggled each one, and cracked them on their way down, one-two-three, yolk and white coming in for a perfect landing without a fragment of shell gone awry.

“Nothing.”

“Bzzt. You’re a rotten liar, Harper. Your nose twitches.”

Harper touched the tip of his nose. “Seriously?”

“You don’t trust me now?” Rory poked the batter warily. “Doesn’t look like the recipe page,” he muttered. “Try again. What’re you babbling about over there?”

“I’m babbling? That’s rich. I had a dream that’s bugging me. Nothing to worry about.”

“What’d you dream about?”

“Can’t remember,” Harper lied, hiding his nose behind his mug in a long swig of coffee in case Rory hadn’t been pulling his leg.

“When’d you dream it?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Harper muttered.

Rat-tat-a-tat-tat. Tat, tat.

Harper replayed the rhythm in his mental ears. “Shave and a haircut, two bits? That’s not in your usual repertoire. Or has the vanilla extract gone to your head?”

“That would be the door. Distracted much?”

“So answer it already.”

“I’m up to my nipples in pie batter!” Rory huffed. “Fuck you for it.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be ‘flip you for it’?”

“It’s more fun my way. Finish your coffee.” Rory wiped his floury hands on Harper’s shirt and ignored Harper’s yelp of protest as he Tom Cruise-ed his way to the door, opened it two inches, chirped “Sorry, no one’s home!” and promptly shut it again. He turned back to Harper, cheerfully uncaring of any social faux paus. That was Rory for you. “Smile for me, huh? You’ve just about got it made. What’re you going to do next? Disney?”

Try and figure out how to keep you, Harper thought. How to figure out a way around the rules that say I have to let you go.

Coming soon from Loose Id, LLC: A-Muse-Ing (http://loose-id.com/detail.aspx?ID=814)

Written by Willa Okati

Possesses an abundance of crazy ideas, writes constantly, and drinks an insane amount of coffee. Grooves to the beat of a different marching band and loves coming up with fun, quirky heroes and tales with unusual twists. You can find Willa at http://www.willaokati.com or on twitter as "willaokati". She'd love to see you there!
Visit The Author's Website

Tags: Willa Okati