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Somebody was banging on the front door.
“Who the fuck is there?” Mickey barked from the bathroom.
He had just gotten out of the shower and wasn’t expecting anyone to show up at the house tonight. Unexpected visitors were never a good sign. He wrapped a towel around his hips and held it closed, exiting the cloud of steam.
“Delivery!” came the reply, muffled behind pine.
“Ain’t ordered no delivery,” Mickey muttered, tromping to the door. His feet left wet patches on the carpet. He hadn’t even dried his hair yet, so it was dripping too, as he grabbed his Glock from the side table. Mickey opened the door without checking the peephole.
Sure enough, a delivery guy was standing on his porch in a green baseball cap and a tight grey t-shirt.
He looked startled for a moment, probably by Mickey’s appearance and the pistol in his hand, but he recovered with a (friendly?) half-smirk. “Order from Wok Around The Clock for Mickey?”
Mickey eyed the guy, trying not to focus on the broad shoulders or the sculpted chest. “Yeah, I’m Mickey, but I didn’t order any shit from—” he cut himself off, gesturing towards the logo on the guy’s shirt, “there.”
He’d ordered from Wok Around The Clock plenty of times—usually, he went and picked it up himself—but he was never going to repeat that stupid fucking name out loud.
“Well, someone did, and they used your name and address.” The guy held up a brown paper bag that was stapled shut and spattered with grease. “You might as well take it. It’s just going to go to waste otherwise. And hey,” he joked, “free noods. Doesn’t everybody like those?”
Mickey stared at him.
The guy ducked his head. With his cap obscuring his eyes, Mickey just saw the slightly pink apples of his cheeks and a magnitude of freckles.
“It’s already paid for? Guess it would be foolish of me to pass up free grub,” he admitted, putting the Glock back onto the side table. He snatched the bag from the delivery guy’s fingers, peeking inside. “What’s in here?”
“Chow mein with extra beef, egg rolls, and Ian.”
Mickey’s brows furrowed. “The fuck is Ian?”
“My name. Thought you’d wanna know.”
What the fuck…?
Mickey’s head whipped up, and his face heated unexpectedly. “Why, you want a fuckin’ five-star review on your app or some shit? Already told you I didn’t order, man. I can’t do that.”
Why hadn’t he just slammed the door and started enjoying his free noods—noodles—already, damn it?
“No…” Ian laughed. He finally lifted his head, and the light caught his eyes. Green and sparkling with amusement.
If Mickey didn’t know better, he’d say Ian was checking him out, too. He was still wearing that half-smirk that was turning into a (more than friendly?) full smirk the longer Mickey looked at it.
But Mickey did know better. People didn’t do that to him. Guys didn’t do that to him. Especially not guys like… this. Attractive, tall, kinda alien-looking ones.
“I don’t need a review, but if you have any complaints, I can give you my number.”
Mickey let go of his towel in disbelief. It nearly dropped off his hips until he hastily grabbed it again with a scrunched fist. Ian’s eyes tracked the movement. “The fuck you just say?”
Had Mickey gotten water in his fucking ears that was disturbing his fucking hearing? Or…
“If you have any complaints—about the food, the service, anything—Wok Around The Clock would love to hear them,” Ian replied smoothly. He took a pen out of his pocket (like some fucking boy scout), uncapped it with his teeth, and wrote something down on the side of the bag that Mickey was still holding. “Or if you want to talk to us in person, we’re just… a wok around the block.” He winked.
Winked.
Mickey let it happen. The bad joke, the—the whatever this was. He was so flabbergasted that he had turned into a fucking statue.
Faced with Mickey’s silence, Ian finally started to look a bit sheepish. He capped his pen and slid it back into his jeans’ pocket. “Okay. Well, enjoy your meal. See ya.”
He ducked away before Mickey could pick his brain up off the floor, getting into a black pickup truck parked on the street. It growled to life, and he lifted his hand to wave at Mickey before speeding off.
Mickey stood there staring until one of his neighbors, Connie, walked by with her beagle and a little girl. Both the girl and beagle were on harness leashes, and Connie looked like she had gone one too many rounds with a tanning bed, all red and splotchy.
She stopped when she noticed him, yanking the leash straps and making the little girl squeal as she was pulled back. “Hey, Milkovich, nobody wants to see your tits! Go on back inside before you scar my neice with your pervert peep show.”
“Lookin’ at your overbaked lasagna of a face every day, I’m sure she’s already scarred for life, Ms. Hannigan,” Mickey said. He closed the door on her middle finger.
🥡🥠
After he was dry and dressed, Mickey settled on his couch in front of the coffee table and took a few big, healthy shots from a bottle of whiskey to shake off some nerves he had no idea why he even had. Then, once sufficiently buzzed and relaxed, he started devouring the free food that was mysteriously his usual order—Chow mein with extra beef, egg rolls, and Ian.
Christ, Ian wasn’t part of his usual.
Weird fuckin’ guy.
Weird, big shoulders, perfect for hanging onto.
Weird, sweet face that was kinda nice to look at?
Mickey’s teeth clacked against his fork. He felt warmth creep up his neck as his eyes strayed from the TV playing an old Friends rerun to the handwritten phone number on the side of the bag.
468-7883
Call me ;)
Call him. Like hell Mickey would call him. And that fucking winky face. That was suspicious, right? Why was it there?
His rescue kitten, Lucifur, took the opportunity to swipe a packet of plum sauce from the table and start playing with it on the floor while he was distracted.
“You think he was hittin’ on me?” Mickey asked him.
It was possible but… unlikely. The guy hadn’t seemed fruity at all. Didn’t do any weird shit with his voice or hands. Not like any of the fags Mickey had ever come across. More like him. Like, regular.
Lucifur ignored him, continuing to roll around happily with the packet. Mickey leaned over to grab it from him before he tore a hole in it with his claws and got plum sauce everywhere. He got scratched for his trouble but headbutted a few seconds later.
“Little shit.” Mickey scooped him up and stroked him affectionately. “You don’t got any opinion on this?”
Lucifur closed his eyes and purred, his whole body vibrating. Mickey leaned back, and Lucifur walked up his chest, curling up in the crook of his neck. Mickey couldn’t prevent the soft smile that bloomed across his face. “Guess not.”
Between the booze, the full belly of food he now had, and the tiny black fluffball of doom warming him from the inside out, Mickey could have fallen right to sleep.
He unlocked his phone instead, pulling up his contact list and adding a new one. He named it Complaint Dept. and shot off a text before he could talk himself out of it.
Yo I got a complaint about my order
Not enough beef
He dropped his phone onto his chest without waiting for the Delivered message to show up.
On the TV, Chandler said, “Oh please, could she be more out of my league?”
“He ain’t out of my league. He’s a fuckin’ delivery boy,” Mickey argued, defensive for no reason and talking to the TV like a fucking psycho. He really needed to get out more.
Lucifur mrrr’d like he agreed with that thought, tucking a paw beneath the collar of Mickey’s shirt and extending his claws to knead Mickey’s collarbone. Mickey let out a curse at the pinpricks in his skin but didn’t stop their assault.
His phone lit up with a notification. Mickey tilted the screen towards his face.
Complaint Dept. (now)
Oh really? I’m sure I can fix that. How much beef do you need, Mickey?
Mickey snorted and tapped on the notif to open the message, semi-drunk fingers fumbling over the tiny keyboard. He started this shit. He might as well play along.
It was also a good sign (why?) that the guy immediately knew it was Mickey. That meant he wasn’t a fuck boy who hit on every Tom, Dick, and Harry that he delivered food to. Probably.
How much you got?
I’ll take it all
Delivered
If they were talking about what he thought they were talking about, he was like seventy-five percent sure now that they were flirting.
Most guys can’t take everything I’ve got. You sure you can?
Mickey’s eyebrows shot up. Okay, ninety-five percent sure.
Guys you been with sound like complete pussies
Delivered
That was probably a lie, too. Outside of porn, the majority of guys were less than average or average in the dick department. (Hell, Mickey included.) And the small handful of guys that Mickey had fucked had talked a big game, but when it came to actually whipping it out and performing… eh. Disappointing. In size and delivery. So much so that he’d actually stopped one mid-fuck and topped him instead.
He got a response a few minutes later. It was enough time for him to reach out for his pack of smokes on the coffee table and light one up, blowing the smoke away from Lucifur.
What are you doing right now?
Mickey bit his lip. Was that supposed to be a sexy question? Was Ian trying to sext with him or some shit? Should he send a picture of his dick?
“Nah, too desperate,” Mickey decided. No way was he about to give the guy a personal penis portrait to hang up in his bedroom.
He opened his camera app and reversed it, angling the lens above himself. He missed the shutter button on the first try and nearly dropped his phone on his fucking face, but he got it on the second try. All that was included in the shot was his chest, Lucifur, the lower half of his face with his cigarette caught between his smirking lips, and his left hand, middle finger aloft.
Chillin with this villain
No free nudes for you, sorry
Delivered
Mickey watched the screen. It didn’t take long for those three dots to start dancing.
I’ll take a hot guy with a kitten over a dick pic any day of the week.
Mickey’s stomach swooped, brows furrowing. Hot… Him? Nobody had ever called him that before. Dirty guy? Sure. Smelly guy? Definitely. But hot guy? That was fucking new. Slowly, his brows smoothed out, and a gay-ass smile spread across his face as he read the sentence a few (dozen) more times. He was glad not even Lucifur was awake to see this. Shit was embarrassing.
Ian asked him a few questions. The kitten’s name, where he got him, and if Mickey had any other pets. Mickey was baffled why the guy gave a fuck, but the whiskey was making him more open to conversation, so he answered and even asked one of his own.
You got any?
Delivered
A picture of a German shepherd popped up on his screen. Its upper half rested on what Mickey assumed was Ian’s lap, and its head was lifted towards the camera, tongue lolling out happily like it had just finished playing for hours. It wore a blue collar with a shiny gold tag, and an alligator-shaped chew toy was between its paws. A big, freckly hand was buried in its fur, in the middle of ruffling its ears.
My girl, Lyla. Retired military K-9 unit. Best dog in the whole country.
Well, shit. Mickey’s smile grew a little. Fact that Ian was an animal lover might’ve been attractive as hell. He ashed his cigarette in the tray and picked up the whiskey bottle.
Cute
Bet you spoil her to death
Delivered
Mickey looked at the picture some more. He could see a dusting of hair all over Ian’s corded forearm. Why were the visible veins in his hand kinda hot? The hair was orange-ish, coppery, too. He was a redhead. Fuckin’ hot. Mickey nearly spit out his whiskey when the next message appeared.
You wanna sit on my lap next? I could spoil you too.
Mickey swallowed wrong and coughed, putting the bottle back on the table and thumping his chest. Lucifur let out a mew of complaint as he was disturbed. Mickey’s heart went haywire as he reread the message. It was a dumb joke, he knew, but hell. Ian sure was shooting his shot.
Mickey could flirt back.
Sure you could
Delivered
Okay, maybe he couldn’t.
You don’t sound convinced. I can fix that too.
Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting another whiskey-fueled blush. More like he didn’t know what the fuck to say.
Think you might be all bark
No bite
Delivered
A dog joke. Nice, Milkovich. Real flirtatious.
Oh, I bite. If you ask nice. Sometimes I even like it…ruff. 🦴️
Despite himself, Mickey laughed. What a fucking nerd.
Lucifur, having had enough of Mickey’s constant jostling, hopped off him, tiny tail flicking. He meowed demandingly until Mickey scooped him up by the belly and lowered him to the ground. Mickey watched Lucifur scamper to the kitchen, making sure the little idiot didn't brain himself on the corner of the wall, before focusing on his phone again.
The TV had already moved on to another sitcom. This time, a rerun of How I Met Your Mother was playing.
Do those awful fucking jokes ever get you any ass?
Delivered
The dots did their dance.
Only the coolest guys like my jokes. Are you cool, Mickey?
On the TV, Ted said, “Shouldn’t we hold out for the person who doesn’t just tolerate our little quirks but actually kinda likes them?”
Mickey pulled his lip into his mouth, grinning. He guessed he could stroke the dork’s ego. Just this once.
Coolest motherfucker you ever met
Delivered
Nothing happened on the screen for long enough that Mickey got up and cleared the coffee table, packing up his leftovers and putting them in the fridge for the next day. He noticed a lone fortune cookie in the bottom of the bag as he was about to crush it up and put it in the trash, so he fished it out.
He also refilled Lucifur’s kibble and replaced his water with some fresh stuff from the tap since the little guy was howling in front of his bowls like he hadn’t eaten in three goddamn years. Never mind he was only five months old and had eaten a can of wet food only two hours ago.
Mickey was a bit unsteady on his feet and just drunk enough that his dumb fucking smile was still plastered across his face as he cracked open the fortune cookie and unrolled the little piece of paper.
“The greatest risk is not taking one,” Mickey read out loud, smile disappearing. “You callin' me a coward, bitch?”
Great, now he was talking to fortune cookies.
His lucky numbers were…
4 6 8 7 88 3
That looked familiar. “You can’t be fucking serious!”
Mickey squinted, dropping the fortune and fumbling for his phone to double-check, but he nearly had a heart attack when he saw the notification waiting for him. His ass hit the couch again as his world went loopy.
Complaint Dept. (2 minutes ago)
Does that mean you’d agree to go out on a date with me?
…Ian, the delivery guy he’d just met, wanted to take him out on a date?
Not a hookup. Like, a real fucking date? With fuckin’ conversation and shit?
Mickey was not sober enough to answer that, but his fingers were moving before his brain could catch up.
Don’t really do dates
Delivered
Had never done it, was the truth. Not even with a woman. Not even with Svetlana.
What kinda date?
Delivered
He was out of his fucking mind. He shouldn’t have asked that.
The dots danced again.
We could go for a drink?
Or something sweet? I know a great ice cream place.
“Christ.” Mickey covered his face with his palms. His heart was racing like his dad was about to rise from the grave and burst through the door with an AK-47 pointed right at his head. Mickey peeked out between his fingers when his phone pinged five more times in quick succession.
But it’s okay!
If you don’t want to.
No pressure.
Though you will be missing out on some great comedy.
I have a whole arsenal of puns you still haven’t heard.
Over the years, Mickey had never talked to anyone like this. There was never an opportunity for someone to flirt with him or ask him out. He was short and to the point. None of his one-night stands had even made it to the morning. Out of his bed before the sun rose every time—if they even made it to his bed in the first place. Even chit-chat was kept to a minimum.
His door had been slammed shut and bolted with his back pressed hard against it, fueled by fear, since he was a teenager.
But maybe now it was finally open. Just a crack.
“Go to hell, you fuckin’ prick,” Mickey muttered, picturing Terry’s rage-filled face. His thumbs tapped out a message.
That’d be a shame
Won’t scream for it, but I do like ice cream
Delivered
You don’t have to scream for the ice cream.
But you might scream for me. ;)
Mickey sniffed, then blew out an amused snort. Fucking winky-faced cheesy fucker.
Yeah
Guess we’ll see about that
Delivered