





Part 1 - Agreement





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"So, you wanna make it a bet then?"

Everyone else near the table went silent. I swallowed.

"...Sure. Yeah. Absolutely." I casually dried my slick, clammy hands along my arms.

Greg thrust out his open palm. "Let's do it then. Make it official."

Official. An official bet.

My bladder was freaking out.

I should've just backed away and put on my best face with a cover of excuses for why I couldn't do it. A thing with family. A sudden bout of illness. Something!

But, as I thought the whole thing to hell, my body reached out my hand and my voice said, "I bet Greg Owlswatter that I will not have to pee the rest of the night or else face all the consequences that can result."

Greg's hand clutched in mine, he answered, "I bet John Bellmore that I will not indulge my sexual desires about any redhead for the rest of the night or else face all the consequences that can result as well."

No fireworks to accompany the bet. Never were. But our eyes shimmered with a vibrant shade of purple. The bet had been made, ordained, and sealed.

And I was screwed.





-----





Till over a century ago, making a bet was simply an agreement between groups or persons. Whatever consequences that came ranged from lost face or money to a good laugh. That changed in March 1913.





The first documented, sealed bet was between an investment banker and his wife. He bet he wouldn't go drinking one evening or his wife could ride him like a horse. He came home with a long face about that.





Even after several chaotic weeks, no one had any idea why it was happening but some semblance of the rules emerged.





First, the parties had to willingly and clearly agree to the bet. No altered states or manipulation. It had to occur in good faith. Whatever force which administered the bets was firm on this. Usually, this involved a handshake but amputees and paraplegics were still able to bet.





Second, you couldn't game the system. No betting you'll win the lottery if you can't achieve wingless flight. You had to want to win and it had to be a challenge which could be won or lost.





Third, you couldn't bet disproportionately. No betting a daisy while someone else bet their house. The risk and reward had to match. While many bets didn't get the subtle yet noticeable purple eyes of approval because they were impossible, some bets could still make the seemingly-impossible happen.





Last, the bet had to be finite. That man was only his wife's steed for a week before he returned to himself with a resolute determination to never drink again. I should've followed similar advice.





I usually did. Underage betting was discouraged for moral reasons. It still happened though. I'd watched a few secret bets behind the school bleachers but I never participated.





College was different. My first bet was a handstand or else take out the trash. I bet mostly on music, chores, dares for games, and occasionally with my girlfriend at the time, Lucy. My biggest win was making a friend-of-a-friend have to talk in an unnatural falsetto for a day after I crushed him in a game. My biggest loss was when I had to tell Lucy about my secret turn-on. Boy, did she ever find ways to exploit it.





It became the bane and boon of those years. When a sly, smirking idea hit her, she was dangerous to be near. I would say more, except for the predicament I found myself in with Greg.





Greg knew Lucy from a business class and he'd visit because of assignments. Swiftly, we became friends. We had drinking bets with the mini-bottles stashed in the dressers. Most were small, "buy the other lunch" at most. Lucy's suggestions always had me squirming. He never took the bait though and Lucy stopped bothering.





Junior year, Greg and I were friends full-time and Lucy had moved on. One of my roommates, Cole, made suspiciously-common bets that left him as a chubby, stacked, flirtatious girl named Colleen. Bananas began vanishing from the kitchen and the door was always locked when a guy named Reese was in. I usually went for fog walks around those times with my headphones on.





After Reese, there was a strange little time when I never left Colleen's bed for a whole weekend. That led into about a week with us as an active couple. Knowing Cole then 'really' knowing Colleen should've made dorm life weird but it was kinda like two different people who just happened to share a body.





Eventually, Colleen moved on too. Greg remained but not forever.





Shortly into senior year, his uncle had a heart attack. He needed to retire and wanted Greg to take over the business he owned. Every day hanging out became the occasional weekend.















I thought that would be it. We'd drift apart, like with everyone else I knew. But, after wading through a financial stopgap of restaurant and filing jobs since graduation, Greg called me and asked if I'd be interested in an open position at his business.





So, I joined OWL Medical as a medical assistant, bookkeeper, and file clerk. Not to mention whatever else was needed. We had a part-time phlebotomist, nurse practitioner, and x-ray tech contracted through an agency. Greg's office in the back had fragrant, faux wood paneling left behind by his uncle. And ever near that office was Barbara Finnacker.





And that brings me to why I was sitting nearly drunk in a pub across from Greg with a quivering bladder, throbbing head, and a pile of second thoughts to go with betting, purple eyes.





Barbara, or Babs to pretty much anyone, was the reason we kept our sanity. She was technically Greg's secretary but was always back with me in records or up front smiling to every old man, pregnant lady, and red-faced little kid who walked through the door. She took calls and orders from forgetful doctor offices, loud patients, and evasive insurances. She may have been (but likely wasn't) identical twins pulling a long con.





Being around her fired up my enthusiasm for felling stacks of paper with the intensity of her vibrant, red hair. Not that I held a flame for her. She was lovely. Long, full locks to the middle of her back with composure even at the crawling end of a shift and her fresh fragrance of crisp apples. And a dense bloom of freckle constellations spreading from her nose that she didn't bother to dim with makeup.





However, she did go through many tubes of skin lotion, often filling the trash cans near her area, especially with the stuff the drug reps left. Apparently a leftover habit from growing up in the dry Southwest but also a vital one when Frostwell lived up to its name in the winter.





Babs dressed well whether she had on stretchy, pink pants with stethoscopes from the nurse outfitter near the highway and a plain gray top or a burgundy blazer and a shiny black skirt with matching hose.





Beyond that, well, Lucy, made much ado about her flat, boyish butt (despite my regular reassurances it didn't matter to me). Colleen could, and often did, burst all sorts of underwear in moments of passion and change. Babs didn't quite hit Colleen's extremes but it was impossible not to notice her from behind in whatever she wore. That was also true of her front.





Greg's gaze more than once wandered to her bosom during ...uh...large stretches of paperwork. In response, Babs would curl her full, bright lips and say, "When you're finished, my face is up here." Only she said it to him without embarrassment or indignation. Instead, it sounded like something between a hint and a playful joke.





She never said anything like that to me. She also never lingered around me with a deep breath, like she did when Greg moved several heavy filing cabinets from one part of the office to another for cleaning and worked up a visible sweat. Babs lingered around Greg a lot, following just a step or two behind him whenever he was resolving some problem over the phone, her chest on the verge of grazing his beefy shoulder.





But I wasn't trying to pair them up like Deborah, our phlebotomist. She whisper-gossiped to me whenever Babs and Greg were in the same room. God forbid the door actually be closed or else she'd conjure up something like the garbage she read on her phone between patients. Greg wasn't the sort and Babs was too busy.





Greg hadn't changed much since college. Curly crown of brown hair where gravity did most of the work of sorting it out and rest was by him puffing rogue locks out of his eyes. His high cheeks drew his thin, dusty lips up into a natural, genial smile whether I was kicking his butt in Mario Kart or we were kicking back some beers.





Not to say he never frowned. He told me once, before he dropped out of school for OWL, that he envied my love life. I barely resisted a chuckle. Rebecca just wanted him as a steely decoration on her arm at every social thing. Carol didn't even realize they were dating five weeks in. But holding his tongue around Krystal's snarky putdowns of everyone else was the breaking point.





He said he got more enjoyment "just chilling" with me. Now, there could've been something more to that. I was small and twiggy enough that standing beside Greg's towering, bulky presence at a birthday meal celebration convinced one distracted hostess we were a couple. But that was it. Besides, Greg deserved better.





In spite of nosy Deb, Babs and Greg made sense even though he avoided open interest. Babs pried a few times about what Greg liked (food, wrestling, and Playstation 2-era games) but I encouraged her to ask him herself, saying, "He's an upfront guy."





Babs would just sit and try to work on anything else at times like that. Then she'd get nervous and tuck her hands between her knees and quiver a bit. And then I wouldn't get any work done without fidgeting myself. When she got up to use the restroom, I'd tap out and go for a walk around the plaza, making a lap of the little, white complex from the tax place to the steakhouse. Wish I'd done that before our big bet.





Doing a bit of avoiding myself, that takes things to earlier in the evening, just before closing. I quickly dealt with the samples left in the patient restroom before Deb clocked out.





Babs was rocking in her rolling office chair, her legs restless. I took a deep breath and returned to the last of what I needed to do on a Friday.





"He told me to take next week off."





Her fair-green eyes blinked as she stared at the wall of organized patient folders in front of her.





"He did?" I glanced over. Her mom was getting remarried. She'd downplayed it for months. Never that close with her mom. Yes, she had RSVPed but she planned to take an early-afternoon drive for the pre-ceremony because her cheery cousin (who she hadn't seen in years) would be there and then back late to close.





But it was a long drive upstate and there was an uncle she wanted to visit not too far away and some nice places by the Lake. After wandering mentally a bit, she'd affirm her plan to just miss a few hours.





"Yeah. Monday through Friday. I've never saved up enough days anywhere else for that long off. Can you guys manage?" She glanced at me but her eyes searched in the direction of Greg's office.





I had no idea. I could barely tread water some days. "We'll be fine. You have a great week."





She dipped her fiery eyebrows. "If you...say so. I should still...well. I can give you a cheat sheet to help."





I raised my own faintly-smoldering eyebrows and shrugged. "If you insist."





So, she made up a sheet like a substitute teacher note. What to know, how to survive, and who watch out for. Her handwriting was impeccable, as always. I copied it for Greg, who met up with Babs in the hallway.





He reassured her warmly that she deserved time off as gratitude for her work and told her the same as I had. She adjusted her top, glanced down at her heels, and thanked him again.





A quick moment of silence passed before Greg set his eyes, took a deep breath, and asked, "A hug for the road and a safe trip?"





Babs nodded eagerly and wrapped her arms around him. Greg's face clenched and his chin raised. He held his arms around her and gave her a hearty trio of pats on the back. "Have an awesome trip."





She wore a look somewhere between surprise and amusement as his arms slipped back. He noticed the look and quickly added, "Alright?"





With a nod and a smirk, Babs left to get her stuff from the lockers by the break room.





Once she was out of earshot, Greg clutched his face with a groan and massaged the fuzz under his chin. Softly, he muttered, "Fuck me...the fuck was that? Crap."





I withheld my commentary and returned to my last papers.





With her purse, coat, and other stuff in tow, Babs leaned on Greg's door and told him, with a soft smile, "Thank you again. I really appreciate it but if you guys need anything at all, please call me. Same as my posted number on the wall. Anything, okay?"





Greg nodded, face as chill as any game night back in college. "Got it but don't worry. Just...you be good. Be great. All week." He held up a hand and gripped his desk.





Babs looked him over and then me. I fanned both hands over my head. She snickered, adding only, "Don't kill anyone."





"No promises", I replied, leaning back in my chair.





She left with a contented smile. Only once the door sealed shut did Greg amble out of his office to pout at me. "How pathetic was I?"





"Pfft. Not pathetic. If she was choking, you would've saved her life."





Half a groan rumbled deeply in his throat. "What even...was I doing? I can't remember. I almost blacked out. Well, not blacked out but like...like I was giving you a pat and not...not Babs."





Clutching my hands behind my head, I offered, "Well, you think of her as a really good friend. No awkwardness."





Greg narrowed his eyes. "Uhhh...no awkwardness?"





"Okay, all the awkwardness but also all you giving her your kind of hug."





He stretched his hands out. "And that's what I leave things with for a whole week! A baseball player smacking another for a good job!"





Twisting my mouth, I offered, "A baseball player would definitely smack another on the rear though."





Greg didn't respond to that other than to flop down in the spare seat while clutching his forehead. After a few sighs, he reiterated, "A week. Just on that."





"Eh. It's nothing. Now my thing with your cousin. That was...that was bad." Bringing it up was tempting fate though...





Greg frowned and asked, "What was the deal with you and Lina? You never really told me and she just said you bailed on dinner."





Deep breath. "My fault. I screwed up. But you, you didn't screw up. Besides, Babs has probably already forgotten about it. And so should you. Have a good weekend and next week. And look forward to her return without stressing out."





Greg gave me one of his looks but, like he always did in college, he left it alone without prying. "I dunno. I just feel like getting drunk for a few hours to forget about it. Let's go to the pub up the road."





Pressing my hand to the side of my head, I inquired, "What? No 'You doing anything tonight?' I could have epic, crazy plans for this evening. My roommate from college could've asked me to test drive a new sex toy with her."





Stretching his shoulders, Greg asked, "How is Colleen lately?"





"Living in the Bahamas with a sugar daddy according to recent...postings. My point is I could have plans. I don't but I could."





The levity usually inherent in Greg's demeanor faded. He clutched his palms together and asked me flatly, "It would mean a lot to me to just have a night like we used to. Just chill, have a little fun. Come on..."





I cast a wary look at Greg and held my tongue for a bit before slapping my knees and saying, "Alright. You wore me down. It's a date. But I won't be drinking."





No way I wasn't drinking.





The pub was just a block up the avenue. Pretty much any pub was within walking distance. This one was named The Cherry Lass, of course. Not that the names mattered. They were all owned by the same company. Some guy decades ago parlayed a particularly clever bet into an American pub empire which replaced several fast food chains.





It was still early enough when we arrived that there were mostly kids and families in the garden area with a small soft rock band playing. According to the chalkboard in front, poetry-reading and a standup comedian were later with karaoke finishing off the night.





Slim, fancy mahogany stools lined the bar area with long, snaking pipes above the row of taps. Oak panelling covered everything. To the right, the garden area filled with a cascade of cheers. To the left, a long, quiet stretch of plush booths with the occasional small table flanked by chairs. Hanging tiffany glass lamps provided the mood lighting.





We picked a table about halfway down the row. A small but friendly group flanked us. Greg immediately took note of the redhead with her arm on the bar and her eyes, beneath gray-rimmed glasses, wandering the room. Her hair had more orange than Babs' and braided, as it lay across her peach hoodie.





"I'll get first", Greg announced, hopping up from the chair to slip over to the bar.





I turned my hands up and muttered weakly, "Yeah. Sure. Get me...whatever." Greg gave a quick smile and a nod before looking towards the lone redhead.





While he waited there, I got up and used the restrooms in the back labeled "lads" and "lasses". A fair-haired woman in snug pants blurred past me to the appropriate door. I rushed to mine.





After the urinal, I stood in front of the mirror and dabbed a little water on my face. What was I doing? I rubbed at the edges on my shadowed, hazel eyes. I combed back my dark but ginger-tinted, frizzy hair. I always looked like I used chili powder as a conditioner. Babs even asked me the first week where I got it dyed. No dye, just a genetic quirk or some forgotten ancestor.





The rest was no jackpot either. 'Twiggy' was being kind. Lean, slim, and soft everywhere, save the blotches of dark stubble on my cheeks and ancient acne scars by my eyebrows. I gave Lucy so many of the wrong ideas when I was clean-shaven. I adjusted and loosened the belt of my dark, cotton twill slacks, untucked my sky-blue button-up top, and stretched my feet. Much better.





Returning, I saw Greg had a plate of breaded mushrooms, a ragged golden field of nachos, and a heady pair of Irish Red Ales called "Erik the Red" arranged for us. I resisted my natural compulsion to sigh and joined him.





The ale was sweeter than I expected, more like tea than beer though still strong enough to feel going all the way down. After eyeballing the mushrooms and the spicy ranch sauce, I looked around for the redhead from before. She was seated next to and smiling at a man with a full, sleek silver beard.





I raised my glass and offered, "To friendships through the years."





Greg swirled his ale and clinked my glass. "Yeah, man. I'll drink to that."





On the second glass (my round), with a bit of fish and chips on the side, little stories about the quirkiest screw-ups at the office became richer comedy than whatever bit was planned later in the garden. Our efforts at the pub trivia games were always futile, even with a clear head.





After discussion of the third round and maybe some meat pie, Greg noticed a new redhead in a slinky, blue dress with feathered ruffles along the hemline. Her hair had a 90s Gillian Anderson thing going on, only much longer. She might as well have hung a hypnosis spiral on her head to Greg.





I fanned my hand in front of him a few times before he noticed. I remarked, "You sure have a type."





Greg pouted before gazing off again. "But it's amazing. Soo bright. Like...magic fire."





I tapped him on the shoulder and took a necessary restroom break. Since things were getting busier, there was an uncomfortably-long line for "lasses".





Heading back to the table, Greg had his eyes on me all the way and pronounced, "You have a type too. Those girls by the restroom."





A prickly, encroaching clamminess sunk into me. I forced a smile on my face and Greg reflected it with an easy laugh.





Looking at the remains of his drink, Greg calmly eased back and said, "You know what? We oughta do a bet. It's been forever. Come on...for fun."





I searched for some posted pub rule against betting but there was nothing I could see. The B word drew the eyes of a few curious people within earshot.





With a shrug, I pointed out, "Aren't we... having fun?"





"Yeah, man. And this'll be fun too. Just gotta get a good one. Umm...Oh!"





Steadying himself, Greg first pitched he wouldn't even look at a redhead, "as a challenge". But we both knew it would be unwinnable. So he worked it into physically indulging those desires. As for me, it was always gonna be pee.





He claimed it was "sorta for my benefit" but "don't tell the bet bookie". I countered that it might not be healthy, a weak argument considering anyone could easily overcome physical limits with the right bet. We couldn't decide on a win/loss reward/penalty so invoking resulting consequences meant the unseen, mystical force that presided over official bets would choose for us. Lovely...





Soon after that, handshake, silent audience of nearby pub-goers, a pair of purple eyes, and screwed.





I pushed my ale to the side. With a teasing smirk, Greg nudged it back. I'd been tempted to spill everything Lucy had learned all those years ago but I couldn't.





I couldn't tell him I was irrationally turned-on by needing to pee. My kink. My secret. My shame.





It was incredibly hard to talk about and that wasn't just being euphemistic, especially with the situation I was in. I sweated thinking about all the stuff through college on my computer. Girls with crossed legs. Girls on the floor, uncomfortable. Girls rushing along. Bad to reflect upon.





Actually going, whether in the right place or not, did nothing for me. Questionable liquids did nothing for me. I was drawn to that frozen moment of straining. Like a subdued weightlifter trying to push back gravity for as long as possible before it finally won. I pulled closer to the table and slid down my chair to hide. At least this would stop the dam.





I tried to lead Greg's eyes to the girl like Scully with Miracle Grow. But he countered by sloshing what was left in his glass before downing it. I avoided trouble from that but a lady rushing past with a hand to the hem of her dress was too much for me.





"Gonna go check out the...garden. Stand-up comedy, I think." I said it a little too loud for the situation. Our bet watchers had dwindled but an older man in the corner still had his eyes on us.





My legs tickled and nearly trickled with a hot but chilly cling of sweat as I crouched when standing. Greg held up my cup and quipped, "Hope there are a flood of jokes."





I snagged it from him, held it near my hip, and staggered as casually as I could manage towards the garden area. The frost-laden mug helped in some ways but also dripped condensation.





No problems for a few steps. Lessened tension as blood flow returned to its regular paths. Then, my mind had to wander. A flash in my head. A video from long ago, real or imagined, of a girl locked out of a gas station restroom, her hands fussing with her snug jeans. Bastard brain.





I pranced my way to the garden until the visual noise of plants and auditory noise of giggles pummeled my brain into submission. And that was when I had the realization the air over my face was moving differently.





The garden had open stretches and the evening breeze was wandering through but that wasn't the point. My face was cold and clear, naked in heightened ways that not even raw, meticulous shaves provided. I had a vivid awareness of what was happening but my conscious mind told me it was just a numbing chill from the outdoors. Besides, I needed to scowl at the trickling water fountain.





I nearly took a sip from my mug but I didn't need to buckle my bladder further. Instead, I set it aside on a bare counter and wandered to put the running water noises out of mind. The air still felt intimate against my skin. My collar felt damp and no fanning of it helped. That just puffed the air on tender spots.

I caught the edge of a woman grasping her purse and striding back the way I came. Her perfume lingered along with a flash of bright hair. My slacks crumpled against my skin as I turned. The material scuffed me like butcher paper. I'd used Nair once for reasons best left at "Lucy". The countless, screaming ingrown hairs were not worth it.

Logically, I knew there was no way anyone had used that on my legs because the hairs had been there just a minute or so before. But now they weren't. In the same moment, I had a fluttering vision of my legs, soft and smooth like a girl's, entwined for relief.

I was sinking fast and into a pool of sweat. On the nearest wall was one of those metal decorations, the label and sigil of some fancy, antiquated brand of beer. It had a clearer reflection than some mirrors. The face that stared into it was not the one I'd seen in the bathroom.

My stubble was cleared away, leaving fair, soft skin. My hair was deflating, the frizz and plumes flattening like they'd been steamed down. Locks drifted towards my eyes. It was hard to tell through a metal wall ornament but the rosy tint looked brighter.

Oh shit. The bet-keeper was playing dirty. I turned away from the reflection and tried to keep it out of mind. No thoughts of a girl with a face like that being pushed to the edge. Please no thoughts.





So, the surest way to get the thoughts you don't want is to tell yourself not to have them. They came as a clammy, slick sweat that reiterated my smoother legs, my softened face, and lustrous hair.

But the tidal wave didn't hit until I noticed the turgid, sensitive area at my nipples. I could reach for cold air explanations again but flattening my shirt against my hips revealed a faint mound around the obvious points.





To that moment, I suspected that the bet-holder was just teasing my weakness. But seeing and feeling all that together, along with a random quip by the comedian about ladies and restrooms, made it click that this was going full Colleen for me.





I would soon be a girl who really needed to use the restroom. It was like metaphorically losing my belt to hold up my pants, except my pants were feeling quite snug.





I crept on the far edge of the bar. Greg's was distracted by another long-haired redhead as he downed his glass. A cascade of my own bright hair went thankfully unnoticed by him. Each step jiggled ever more from behind to in front.

There was a line for the restroom. Both ladies in front of me had their focus on their phones. With heels, they had a few inches on me for height.





I melted ever more into a trickling, sweaty abyss. Pressing my legs together was a vital action for parts I hoped I was steadying correctly. My only respite was the lack of a mirror. When the door opened up, I hustled in and locked it behind me. Turning, I saw...my reflection pause in the mirror above the sink. My familiar face, flush with stress and an oncoming flood.

Only by peeling my snug jeans to my ankles and seizing the toilet, did I finally have some damn relief.





Ohhhh, that felt fucking better. Ran right through me.





Good value. The Cherry Lass didn't water down and I got half-price for my locks. But maybe enough for one night.

Why had I come around here? Well, I didn't need to set out till tomorrow at the earliest. I could only stand some family in limited doses. And, besides, Greg sometimes stopped here for a few drinks. I wanted to thank him. In so many ways.





I wanted to do more than simply thank him but he couldn't take a hint. Nearly brushing him. Always being around. Asking for beefy, muscular help. Finding opportunities to talk. I wanted him wrapped around me, warm and strong.

Fuck me, I wanted him.

I will be posting this on RoyalRoad.