The second she slaps her hand to her neck, I give her my evilest laugh. “Aha! I was right!”
“Where is it?”
“I lied. There’s no hickey.”
“You evil wench!”
“Who are you boinking?”
Her eyes narrow. “I’ll spill my beans if you tell me what Work Daddy’s wanger’s like.”
“Can we please not say wanger?”
“Okay. His dingaling? Peepee? Phallus? Man meat? Knob? Oh god, it’s an anaconda, isn’t it? I knew that guy was packing. Look at his swagger. I mean that BDE is above and beyon—”
“You’re dead to me.” I sit back in my seat, arms crossed, doing my best to look disapproving when, really, I’m working hard to hold the laughter in. “Seriously, though. There was no nudity. Got it? I saw nothing.”
“But did you feel it? Like, in your butt crack? Like at the club, did he nudge it up against your mound? Was there dry-humping? Nothing between you and his impressive dick print but those expensive-looking man pants. I’ll bet you could gauge his girth and—”
“Oh my god, Sam.” A laugh bubbles out as I shout, “There was no penis contact. No penis! At all!”
Of course, that has to be the exact moment the song ends. In the few seconds before another begins, I swear every single head in the diner turns our way.
The wordpenisseems to echo endlessly as my cheeks burn up.
“No penises, huh?” Klaus marches up to the booth wearing a bright smile behind his giant red beard. He’s got on shorts, despite the chill, suspenders over a button-down shirt, sleeves folded up to his elbows, and the usual amount of red chest hair peeking out at the collar. The outfit, I assume, is why everyone calls him Klaus. He looks like he came straight here from nineteenth-century Bavaria. His real name, I know from his personnel file, is Eugene Harvey Echols. Because he’s apparently happier with the Klaus moniker than his birth name, HR discretion ensures that his legal name is not something I’d ever divulge. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No, you’re not.” Sam scoots over to make room for him. “You wanna hoard all penis contact for yourself.”
“Guilty.” Klaus watches me while working to shove his middle into the narrow space between the table and bench seat. “Whose penis are we discussing?” Klaus’s gaze seesaws between the two of us.
“Nobody’s,” Sam and I say simultaneously.
“Shame. I was hoping this was about…” Klaus leans in, fanning himself with one big hand. “Work Daddy.”
“Oh god.” My face sinks into my hands. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“I didn’t say a word,” Sam insists. “I swear!”
“There is nothing to say!” I look up and bang my fist on the table, rattling dishes and, frankly, myself. “Please stop. This is unprofessional and… uncalled for.”
“Sure. Of course.”
“But Work Daddy’s so evil and hot and—”
“Stop. I mean it.” I look at Klaus. “Don’t call him that.”
“Okay then.”
“Either of you.”
“Scout’s honor,” says Sam, as if she ever participated in Scouts in her life.
My skeptical glance slides from Klaus to Sam and back. They’re both obviously lying.
“I gotta go.” I stand, grab my things, and turn. “Do not refer to him as Work Daddy on Slack. For your own sake. I don’t want either of you fired.” I look at them again and give them a final, firm “I mean it” before stomping to the counter to pay.
On the way, I’m pretty sure I hear Klaus ask, “How long till they bang it out?” which I choose to ignore.
