My whole body shudders as my mind reels and my cheeks heat furiously.
Oh, god. What the fuck is happening?
My gaze consumes his member, finding it exactly like I dreamed, the epitome of carved perfection.
As I lean forward, the tip glistens, slightly wet. My throat tightens as I jerk back, once again, checking the ceiling for a leak.
There’s no leak.
Either someone is pranking me or I’ve finally cracked. Because it can’t be real. It just can’t. There has to be a reasonable explanation.
I’m about to reach out and grasp it, to make certain that his member is real—that it’s not a trick—when the door rattles. I startle and jump, twisting in the direction of an impatient tourist. “I’m not ready!” It sounds too harsh. “Please wait. I’ll be right there.”
I don’t have time for this. I can lose my mind after my shift ends.
Unfortunately for me, the gargoyle is placedright behind the front desk,and his cock… It’s not something I want paying visitors to see. I don’t want anyone to ask about it. If someone does, I don’t know what I’ll say.
He’s mine.
The surge of possessiveness breaks my spell, and my lips flatten.
I find a white sheet tucked under the counter and throw it over him. It’s not quite large enough to cover everything, but with a few tugs, it conceals his giant cock.
While the sheet protrudes in the middle, tenting over his phallus, the guests won’t know what they’re looking at.
I rub my face and make quick work of opening the shop, testing locks to exhibits that are never opened, chanting odd Latin rites that Hopkins made me practice over and over, and sprinkling “holy” water on some of the cases. Hopkins swears I must do these bizarre rituals.
Soon I’m throwing open the door taking my place behind the counter to start charging visitation fees and waiting for my Tylenol to kick in. “I’m sorry for the wait. I’ll be available for questions soon. In the meantime, feel free to explore the unlocked rooms. Sorry again.”
As one customer turns into forty, my back heats, practically feeling the gargoyle and his cock behind me whenever a tourist’s gaze strays over my shoulder. The gargoyle’s presence looms like he’s staring at me through the sheet as intently as we held eye contact in my dream.
I’m not crazy. I’m not.I rub my temples.
Crazy or not, I keep my stomach flush against the counter for the remainder of the check-in process, putting whatever space I can between us.
When the last ticket is sold, I throw a sign on the counter that says I’m giving a tour and wander the rooms, fleeing from the statue, drawing crowds to exhibits with strange histories, sharing the creepy stories I know by rote. As the morning eases into normalcy, my panic ebbs.
By the time the tourists have seen it all, my voice is hoarse. They complain that there should be more people on staff. I agree, even if I can’t remember anyone working here besides Hopkins. The fadedHelp Wantedsign plastered on the front window is the same one that was there fifteen years ago.
It’s hard work, running the shop and museum on my own, but these days my boss is often away on his trips, presumably finding new artifacts though he hasn’t returned with any, and I hardly have a choice in the matter.
When the tour buses leave, they’re followed by a steady stream of visitors. Without taking a break, I quickly devour a protein bar for lunch. Finally, as my day nears its end, I shepherd the final visitors into the front room, urging them to buy their souvenirs because I’m about to close early.
I return to the front desk. Poised before the gargoyle, my mind returns to what’s hidden beneath the sheet.
It has to be a prank.
It’s nearly dusk when the final customer steps forward with his purchase, and my lips curl in a tired smile.
At last.
He slams a palm-sized reproduction of the gargoyle on the counter. Startled, I frown at the souvenir and the customer’s vehemence.
“Why is he covered?” he demands. “I came here to see him.”
Looking up at the customer, my mouth parts with awe. With windswept golden hair, a perfect five o’clock shadow, a cleft chin, and brown eyes so deep I could drown in them, the man is beautiful. His face is angelic, his muscular, broad body straining against his tight white shirt and faded jeans. He partially leans over the counter.
“We’re in the process of restoring him,” I say quickly, completely intimidated.
