“Ryan? What’s up?”

I look at my crotch. “Nothing.”

Henry rolls his eyes. “That’s a Zeke answer.” His hand goes on my shoulder, the gesture respectful but filled with concern. “You seem distracted.”

“I’m waiting to hear about a grad school application,” I say, mind scrambling to find something to say other than I love Carrie and she doesn’t love me back.

“Really? Where are you applying? What field?”

“Electrical engineering.”

“Nice. Which schools? MIT? WPI?”

I appreciate the fact that he immediately goes to top schools. Henry’s working on his master’s degree at Harvard. He doesn’t judge me by what we do for a living.

“Stanford. Berkeley. Cal Tech,” I admit.

His eyebrows go high. “You’re leaving us?’

“Shhh. Only if I get accepted. There’s a professor at Stanford with a huge grant and he’s considering me as a research assistant for a January start. Maybe next August. Not sure.”

“I’m impressed.”

I shrug and center the police light right over my balls.

“The Bay Area is home.” This is weird. Awkward. I’ve spent two years working here and this is the most I’ve revealed about myself to anyone other than Carrie. Guys don’t stand around in g-strings and sex-play costumes talking about their feelings.

“Good luck.”

“Yeah, thanks. Hey, don’t say anything to anyone, okay? It’s not official. I don’t want to lose my job because Chloe thinks I’m not serious here.”

“You’ve more than proven yourself. We’d miss you if you left, but no one wants to hold you back from moving forward with your real career.”

Real career.

“Right.”

“Besides, you don’t have anything keeping you here.” Henry smiles. “No girlfriend. No wife. No mortgage. You’re still free to be.”

Free to be.

“Uh huh.” My fake gun belt cuts into my hip. I move it, unholstering the plastic pistol and checking to make sure the candies it shoots are properly loaded.

“Change is good. Grad school is great. Good for you.”

And with that, he leaves.

I can stall for only so long, other masseurs and staff streaming in. Finally, the time comes.

I walk into the hallway, starting the swagger I have to allow to inhabit my hips, my thighs, my shoulders, the cocky walk we create as part of the fantasy.

Fantasy.

That’s what my entire life is now.

Nothing but fantasy.

“Ryan,” Chloe says as I finish pinning on my fake badge. “Can you come to work on Thursday morning for a phone tree meeting?” Nick Grafton is behind her, holding a black leather portfolio and talking on his phone.

“Sure.” Shit. Carrie’s running that meeting.

Nick gets off the phone and looks me up and down, clearly suppressing a grin. “I like how you helped with the software issue. We need someone with more knowledge to take a look at their proposal.”

“You mean you want me to tell you whether you’re getting shafted by an overbid,” I reply.

He grins. “Have you thought about a different job here at O?”

“You mean one where I don’t wear cop lights on my dick?”

Chloe’s big, mink brown eyes turn into headlights. “Ryan!”

I ignore her.

“I suppose the software developers can wear whatever they want if you’re so attached to that feature,” Nick muses. The dry wit goes over my head for a second.

Then I laugh.

“Most of them just wear stupid sarcastic slogan t-shirts and jeans, though,” he adds.

“I’m good in the job arena,” I tell him, not wanting to share my future plans. “But thanks.”

He nods as Chloe’s phone buzzes. She turns away, murmuring something about her daughter into the phone, just as Carrie comes down the hall carrying a giant flat white box of City Donuts.

Like something out of a comedy, she catches my eye and stops short, tripping just enough that the entire box crumples up, the top flying open, the donuts bouncing up and pelting her chest and face like a little sugar missile test being conducted by the pastry version of North Korea.

I move to catch the box before it falls to the ground, everyone in slow motion, glazed sugar coating Carrie’s face and top while Nick catches a powdered jelly donut in each hand.

As I pivot and manage to get the half-filled box before the contents all hit the industrial-strength hallway carpet, something in my crotch pulls hard, a yanking feeling that brings tears to my eyes.

The unmistakeable sound of police sirens fills the air.

“Is your crotch on a 911 call?” someone behind me asks.

Snickers fill the air. I look down. Blue and red lights make my package look like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is fighting a Smurf in my pants.

“OH.MY.GOD!” Carrie finally gasps, hands splayed at her sides.

“You look like Carrie,” Zeke says with a snort. “You know. From the horror movie? Only instead of covered with blood, you’re covered with blueberry compote and cream filling.”

Carrie peels a maple donut off her right breast and wings it at him, so hard it whacks him in the eye and he screams like a little girl.

I can’t help it. I start laughing. But something in my crotch warms up.

Zeke, ego wounded, grabs the box of donuts from me and turns them into sugar bombs with Carrie as the target. She ducks into a conference room.

Nick stands in the middle of everything, his expression alternating between the need to assert control and the desire to join the food fight.

My crotch starts to smoke. The siren makes a dying sound, and I grab my belt, ripping the pants off at the Velcro seam down both sides.

My dick is on fire.

Literally.

“Ryan!” Carrie screams. “Your penis is on fire!” She grabs a Boston Cream donut from the floor and drops to her knees at my feet. Taking aim, she shoves the donut over my smoking genitals and squeezes.

Hard.

Goo covers my balls, my penis, the g-string pouch, the little plastic red and blue light chambers, and most of my groin area. Carrie starts patting my cock with the now-empty donut hull.

Someone starts humming the melody to Donna Summer’s song Hot Stuff.

“Stop it,” I hiss to Zeke.