Dont ever look up reviews for the company you work for.
So i work for a mail order pharmacy and last night i got damn curious. I googled the company i worked for. For laughs i said. People are always saying how horrible the reviews are gor us and they didnt lie. But the thing is while reading the little sob stories and complaints i noticed how privelged these people were. They were complaining about stuff we couldnt even help with. Things that were out of our hands. But like most privelged first world people they expect us to be able to do everything to make them happy even illegal shit. People don’t understand next time you are mad because Walmart wont do something a small business would its because big business cant do it most of the time legally. Like Medicare requires us to treat everyone equal. The FDA requires certain legal documents to be regarded as such. Most of my job is listening to people complain about how unfair things are. I put them on mute and say oh well its unfair that i dont have a unicorn.
He was powerful, wealthy, handsome and thirsty. The club was noisy, full of people that were giving away five-dollar bills like candy to the pretties up on stage and to the ones serving. Jensen Ackles, leader/King Pin of the finest mob in the East Coast, took off his fedora and pea coat to sit down in the balcony of the Blue Pearl strip club.
Rosey, the owner of this establishment, had encouraged him to come witness his newest act 5 nights ago and Jensen now couldn’t stay away. He was mesmerized by the tall, built like a fucking God, sexy as fuck, young man only known as ‘Jay’. He had to possess the young man, body and soul, or he would go out of his fucking twisted mind.
He watched as the pretties on stage squirmed and wiggled through their routines, not very interested, as a waitress walked up onto the balcony with his usual order of whiskey blue label on the rocks.
Charming, sweet, built like a fucking God, and hung like a damned horse, Jared 'Jay’ Padalecki was due on stage any minute. Nerves ate at him as he pulled the red lace up over his muscular thighs, over his plump ass, trapping his huge cock and rubbing just so against his balls. It always felt delicious and naughty to put the lacy panties on.
Once his tight black tear away pants, thin black scarf, and stylish black fedora were in place, 'Jay’ was ready to perform for the hundreds of people out by the stage to admire his gorgeous body. Only one man had his attention recently. A bright-green-eyed man who had been sitting in the balcony for the last 4 nights peeked his interest.
'Gangsta’ by Kehlani came on, introducing him just like the last few nights. The song was slow and sensual. Jay slowly made his way up to the stage, lip syncing to the song as his bare chest glistened with sweat, his ab muscles rippling with every movement. He bent his head down and off to the side, a hand holding the fedora on top of his head as he rocked his hips forward, thrusting them a little.
He turned around to show off his perky ass in the tear away pants, bending over slightly, thumbs in the waistband of the pants and he tugged them off, revealing the red lace that covered his well-toned ass. He bent down further as he touched his toes and wiggled his backside for all to see. Looking over his shoulder at the balcony, he could feel eyes on him more than he could see them.
Jensen was harder than Fort Knox once those black pants tore from the man’s body. He groaned inward as he watched the movement of those sexy hips and that ass! Oh how he longed to wrap his lips around that ass, tongue it deep and have the man ride his face, wanting to hear the pretty noises he might make just from his tongue alone.
Once backstage, Jared changed out of his costume. He pulled on a pair of tight, worn jeans that had rips down the thighs and in the knees, and were frayed at the bottom. He slipped into an equally worn Batman t-shirt. Removing the fedora and scarf, he hung them in his locker. He grabbed his book bag out of the locker, swinging the strap over his shoulder. Rosey, his employer, came out back looking for him.
“Leaving so soon?” Hissing like the slimy snake he had tattooed around his wrist, as he rolled his maroon dress sleeves up to his elbows.
“I have somewhere to be,” holding out half of the money he’d earned to the sleaze dressed cheaply in his bargain dress pants and button-down dress shirt, right down to his tacky snake skin boots.
“Keep it, you earned it,” licking his lips, looking Jared up and down, tongue slithering out of his mouth.
A shiver ran cold over his skin as the bald perv looked at him like he was a piece of meat.
A throat cleared behind them. Jared turned around to stare into the greenest eyes he has ever seen.
“Rosey,” said the mystery man from the balcony.
“Mr. Ackles. What can I do for you?” asked Jared’s employer with a bit of shock.
Jared stepped to the side toward his make-up counter to grab his brush, shoving it into his bag.
“I was hoping to speak with one of your dancers,” smiling politely, gaze flicking toward 'Jay’.
“Excuse me,” said Jared quietly as he made for the exit, wishing it was him that the green-eyed man, Mr. Ackles, was hoping to speak with.
“Which one would that be? Dani isn’t available, she broke her ankle during a practice,” said Rosey as he eyed Jared walking out the door.
Finally, he could breathe. The musty smell of stale cigars, old booze and sweaty bodies still coiled in his nose, but the misty fresh smell of the oncoming rain was wonderful to Jared senses. He hitched his bag higher up his shoulder as he briskly walked down the sidewalk toward his dilapidated apartment he shared with his longtime friend-with-bennies, Sandy.
As he walked down the street he couldn’t get the green-eyed man out of his mind. Rosey had called him Mr. Ackles. Maybe he was a big important businessman or something. If that was the case, he wouldn’t want anything to do with the likes of Jared. “Dont kid yourself, man. People like him just come for the show.” He said to himself shaking his long hair out of his face as the rain came down plastering it to his forehead.
A sleek, black Jaguar F-PACE 3.0 pulled up to the curb at the end of the street Jared was walking on, just idling. Making it look like they were waiting for someone to come out of the all-night pharmacy. Jared put his head down and continued walking toward home, not really worrying about the car.
The back window rolled down before Jared walked past the beautiful Jag, and a man’s voice, sweet like honey, called out, “You care for a ride?”
Jared shook his head, smiling. The wet tendrils of curls whipping about his head as he continued walking.
The SUV slowly advanced forward to follow him.
Jared smirked, “Seriously, I can make it home just fine.”
“I’m just as serious that you will get sick walking out in the rain,” said the honey sweet voice.
“If you wanted to ask me out, there are better ways than being a stalker!” Coyly, Jared yelled above the sounds of rain as he crossed the street to the front of his neighbor’s house, not wanting the stranger knowing exactly where he lived.
He watched the SUV drive by and smiled to himself as he squeezed through the opening in the fence that separated his driveway and his neighbors yard.
Jensen, in the back seat of the Jaguar, watched the rain come down through his window. The kid was a smart-mouthed, pretty thing that he wanted to claim as his. Jensen wasn’t used to hearing the word 'No’ too often, so he knew he would have to work harder with this one.
Jared never went back to the Blue Pearl after that night. He had made more than enough to cover his last 6 months of college tuition. He, however would never forget gorgeous, green eyes that studied his body from the balcony.
6 months later;
Jensen Ackles sits at his desk, staring at the old flyer of the Blue Pearl that featured a stunning man with long, wavy, chestnut hair, perfect Abs and built like a fucking God. “Jay”, the club’s former star attraction of 5 nights, was a mystery. No one knew the man’s real name. Jensen had everyone on his payroll looking for this extraordinary creature that had captured his interest. No leads so far, all a dead end.
Every time he heard the hit song Gangsta on the radio, it reminded him of Black tear away pants, red lace panties and that perky, firmly muscular ass. None of his visits to the Blue Pearl could come close to the intense lust “Jay” had released in him.
'I’ve wanted you since the first time you touched me….Nothing but dark magic had ever felt so powerful, and when I touch you, its a thousand times worse…’
He stares at the cursor on his tablet, reading the line he just typed for what seemed like the hundredth time. Finger hovering over the delete button. After about a minute, he decides to leave it and let his editor deal with it.
Tristian Ashings (aka Jared Padalecki) is a well-known romance novelist who broke onto the literary scene in just six short months after graduating from a small community college in the East Coast.
After his biggest selling book 'A Soul for My Heart’ hit stands six months ago, he has been tirelessly working on his next big seller.
'A Soul for My Heart’ was about a young man that gave up his childhood dreams of a fairy tail romance long ago. To repay his father’s debts, he’s forced to serve his spoiled cousin, Lady Bea. But Elliott Chambers has devised a secret plan to escape his life as a drudge. A plan that is thrown into jeopardy when he is kidnapped by a mysterious stranger.
It literally flew off bookshelves at the local mom and pop bookstores and mini marts in the first week it was published and available for sale. Tristian Ashings was a household name and readers were demanding more. His publisher was at the top of that list, but unwilling to sell his newest book 'The Beautiful Frost’ at a higher standard than the first.
Jared decided it was time to find a new publishing company. Preferably one he wouldn’t lose his editor to. Sandy was one of a kind when it came to editing. Jared couldn’t lose her now that he was becoming popular with the female 20-40-year age bracket.
'The Beautiful Frost’ would hopefully hit bookstores in late fall. If, that is, he could find the right publishing house. As it was, Jared hated this book. He felt it was forced writing, although his editor and former on again/off again friend-with-bennies loved it. He hadn’t been in a real relationship since… well forever. He felt his real life was stale, and his writing this time was reflecting that.
His secondary character in both books, The Dark Stranger, had green eyes and a smooth whiskey voice. Qualities which he had seen and heard long ago in an amazing dream. A dream he had the pleasure of experiencing six months prior, with those characteristics being the only thing Jared could recall of the man that Rosey had referred to as 'Mr. Ackles’.
Jared never did get around to googling his mysterious stranger from the balcony of the Blue Pearl. Every time the song that he used to dance to came on the radio or his playlist, Jared would change it.
November 1970: When you were a newborn I didn’t have to let you take a firm hold on my heart–it could have easily been jealousy–but I did. You were novel. I would always sit ghostly quiet at the end of your crib. I rubbed the downy hair on the crown of your head and listened to our parents fight. You cried, of course, but what baby doesn’t? I couldn’t comprehend Mom not caring nor Dad saying, Just let him scream; He hastolearn. I thought, learnwhat? I was three and even I knew, deep down, that you were too helpless and fragile-small to learn anything.
June 1976: When you were a six year old I didn’t have to let you bound and prance around the family room, but I did. You were so full of energy and of giggles. It seemed to give you such joy to jump from couch to chair and back. Clearly, by this time I had learned that Dad was a total and absurdly ridiculous hypocrite. His favorite words in regards to you were, Stopcrying, Son; Mendon’t. He was right, they don’t but I’d already taught you that.
January 1977: When you were a seven year old I didn’t have to let you ignore me, but I did. You didn’t smile at me for an entire year. Not even when I did all the funny cartoon voices that usually kept you in stitches. That year you built your own snow castle with innumerable rooms. I wasn’t allowed inside any of them. I finally asked why I couldn’t play Marco Polo with you and your little-boy voice never waivered when you answered, I stopped liking you; I want a different brother.
February 1982: When you were a 12 year old I didn’t have to let you worship me again, but I did. You smiled at me often then–mostly you smiled at only me. The narcissistic heart inside of my chest rejoiced at that. We laughed at everything to keep away awkward tears, even the fact that I’d made you an addict–a slave to abuela’s lemons. We kicked up dirt and kept our eyes down. You asked about the real birds ‘n bees and I told you, No it doesn’thurt. You looked up at me and immediately went pale.
May 1985: When you were a 15 year old I didn’t have to let you suffer, but I did. You liked poetry and tender-hearted, Zen shepherds like yourself. I couldn’t be that for you; I couldn’t go there with you. Also, you were no longer my golden, young shadow-brat. You became withdrawn. Dad shut your bedroom door in my face, calmly said he needed to talk to you. I stood there for the longest time, frozen. My nose was inches away from the wood. My hand was on the doorknob but I never turned it. I just stood and I listened. He made you cry. I could’ve performed a quick hug but that wasn’t what you needed. Instead I went to the all night pharmacy–discreetly–for anti-nausea pills and numbing cream.
August 1989: When you were an 18 year old I didn’t have to push you, but I did. In our entire lives the hills around us had never seemed so daunting, so smothering. You drove like a maniac. You picked fights with dangerous kids. You mocked policemen who double-checked your fake ID. You gave up studying. You bought a gun. You slaughtered the baby lamb you once were. I look back and wonder if you were–subconsciously or not–flirting with suicide. Somewhere along the way I lost my downy-headed baby brother.
Now I Know: I didn’t have to leave you by yourself, but I did. I didn’t have to be first at everything, but I was. I didn’t have to laugh at your expense, but I did. I didn’t have to project my inadequate feelings onto you, but I did. I didn’t even have to worry about you in the end. Turned out you were better than me from day one.
Nothing better than spending the weekend at the pharmacy bc on-call duty. I’m soooo tired but I don’t want to go to sleep, cause people ring the door like every 20 min and the sound always startles me…:(
Gladly I finally remembered (more like: tried til I got it right) the pharmacy’s wifi password 🙌🏻
After being awake for 21 hours so far, my make-up was beginning to get gross, so I used one of the samples from the pharmacy to reapply and at first I was like “nice, maybe I buy it for myself” and now 30 min later my whole face is itchy 😰
It’s a Saturday morning, just like any other. My father and I are sitting side by side at the kitchen table in our apartment, eating breakfast. Coffee for him, juice for me. Toast for him, cereal for me. It’s still early, but the sun is already high in the sky, illuminating my father’s newspaper with muted rays of light as he reads today’s business section. As usual, we eat quietly, our silence broken only by the small clinks of glassware and the rustling of paper as my father turns the pages of The New York Times.
I get up to pour myself another cup of juice, and my father watches me over the metal frames of his glasses.
“Yeah, but I’m still kind of tired,” I reply, grabbing the O.J. from the refrigerator. “Did you?”
“Not bad,” says my father, stretching in his seat. His hair is all messed up, matted down in the front and sticking up wildly at the crown of his head. His upper lip is slick with Vick’s Vapo-Rub. “But your mother was tossing and turning all night. She’s still not feeling well.”
“That’s too bad. Is she still asleep?”
“Not sure. Why don’t you go check?”
I tip-toe to the other side of the house, knowing better than to be loud. My father gets mad if I wake her up too early.
Slowly, I open the door to my parents’ bedroom, willing it not to creak. It’s dark in there, the shutters closed and the blinds tightly drawn over all the windows. I wait a few moments, listening for any sounds of movement. I don’t hear anything, apart from the hum of the dehumidifier and the slight puff of the plug-in air freshener. A heady wave of pine scent washes over me.
“Mom?” I whisper, but there’s no answer. She must be asleep.
I shut the door quietly and shuffle back to the kitchen, my slippers scuffing against the carpet.
My mother’s not well. She hasn’t left the bed in almost a year, not since she got pneumonia last winter. But my father and I take good care of her. Our medicine cabinet is as well-stocked as any pharmacy, and every other night my father gives her a sponge bath. During the day, we roll the TV into the bedroom so she can catch up on her soaps.
“I’m the luckiest woman in the world,” she always tells us. “Two handsome men to wait on me hand and foot.”
Back in the kitchen, my father is finishing his last slice of toast.
“How is she?” he asks. His voice is casual, but I know he worries about her. My parents have been married for 19 years, going on 20 this May. If she’s better by then, my father’s going to surprise her with a trip to France.
“Sleeping,” I say. I clear the dishes without asking, like I’ve been taught.