Delivering the Virgin

By: Cassandra Dee






CHAPTER TWO


Tucker




The order popped up on my terminal, the screen flashing to life. I squinted at the monitor, scrutinizing the shopping cart. Hmm, it was definitely a lady ordering this stuff or at least a dude who wanted to buy his girl some nice things. Because the soap and shampoo were fancy brands, French-milled soaps scented with lavender and the robe was a flimsy thing from an upscale boutique nearby. Well, no worries, NYC Concierge was on it.

Because I work for a start-up, a concierge service that’s accessible through an on-line app. It’s just like an old-time concierge service but instead of calling someone and placing an order, you type your request on a phone for delivery. It’s not so different from the old days except the app streamlines things, makes the experience more efficient. Without a human person on the telephone, there aren’t any missed words, we can read your order verbatim, and we have a handy countdown clock so you know exactly when your package is arriving.

Speaking of which, the stopwatch was already running. Heaving myself up, I stretched mightily, throwing muscled arms into the air before hopping off my stool. One of the great things about being a delivery guy is that it keeps you in shape walking all over the city, going up and down stairs, logging in hundreds of miles. So I worked out all the time, making sure I was athletic and flexible while also strong. You never knew if someone was going to order a microwave or god forbid, a refrigerator, and you were the only person on shift, manhandling that monster up a steep set of stairs. Fuck, I hated those deliveries, it was like they expected fucking Superman or something.

But this one was gonna be easy. I pulled on my delivery jacket, a nondescript grey zip-up with the logo NYC Concierge on the sleeve, and smashed a baseball cap on my head. Yep, very much an anonymous delivery man now. Clattering down the stairs, I hopped onto a Vespa and zoomed off to my first stop, Coeur L’Amour. Mopeds are girly but uncannily useful in the City, able to wiggle through traffic jams, even jump sidewalks when need be. And pulling up in front of the boutique, I switched off the motor only to find the door swept open in welcome.

“Mr. McGrath,” purred Amelia the salesgirl. “So good to see you.”

Fuck, the blonde recognized me. I’d been here more than a few times to buy stuff for ex-girlfriends, women that I’d fucked, anyone who needed something to shut them up and keep them happy. And unfortunately as a high-end place, Coeur L’Amour associates made it their business to remember every high roller, even my uniform and baseball cap hadn’t been a sufficient disguise.

So I decided to make the best of it.

“Hey,” I grunted. “I need a robe.”

And the blonde winked slyly.

“I have just the thing, Mr. McGrath,” she purred again, “Let me show you.”

And she led me to a rack in back filled with lace fripperies, silky things that were barely two inches long and three inches wide. What the fuck? This shit cost five hundred bucks, were they kidding me? Hell, I should go into the lingerie business, this was clearly a high margin industry.

But at least the rack of robes was a little better, at least there was a decent amount of material. Amelia pulled one, then another off their hangers, a pink thing, then a purple one, the array dizzying, all sorts of colors with lace and embroidery in tasteful patterns.

But this was a delivery and the customer could be a sixty year old crone for all I knew. So I picked one that was middle of the pack, decently long, pink satin with a tie at the waist.

“I’ll take it,” I grunted and Amelia cooed.

“Excellent choice, Mr. McGrath, I’ll ring it up for you. And should I gift wrap it?” she asked, fluttering her lashes. I shook my head tiredly.

“Not this time, thanks,” I said shortly and Amelia was off, her fingers flying at the register, her long nails click-clacking on the keyboard. And finally, she folded the silk into a tiny square and deposited it in a fancy bag.

“Here you go!” she chirped. “And here’s your receipt,” she said, handing me a slip of paper with a wink.

I grabbed it, crumpling it in my hand. But once outside, I took a glance and the bile rose in my throat. It wasn’t the purchase price that was shocking, it was the fact that the salesgirl had drawn a heart on the receipt and added her name and phone number. What the fuck!?! Amelia had done this last time and I’d ignored it, grinding my teeth at the come-on. She was absolutely not my type, skinny, blonde, with the nails like Cruella de Ville. What the fuck, this bitch couldn’t get a clue, and I was ready to barrel right back in there and chew her out, waiting customer be damned.

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