Melvin's Magic Love Juice Ch. 02

Melvin's first clue that something was different happened as he rode the elevator to his office, his brain running numbers and fractions and percentages like a human calculator. About halfway to his floor, on the verge of adding profit margins mentally, he noticed the woman standing next to him sneaking sly glances in his direction.

She was a middle-aged woman, blonde, slightly attractive but nothing that would send men drooling or whistling if she passed by on the street. Still, the fact that even a woman as attractive as this one was casting looks towards him made Melvin's neck feel warm and uncomfortable around the collar. He fidgeted with his briefcase and straightened his glasses. He'd lost his good pair sometime during the duration of the previous night, and the spare set he always kept in his briefcase sat on his nose funny.

She made eye contact with him, her face blushing a bright red, and she squeaked, "Hi!"

Melvin's throat felt tight, and he had to force himself to keep from loosening his increasingly suffocating tie. He'd made a woman blush? Something funny was going on here, or this woman had serious problems. Melvin figured her as some kind of head case.

"Hi," he replied and smiled. She smiled back and then glanced away with an expression of embarrassment. Definitely a head case.

The elevator beeped, and the doors slid open.

"My floor," Melvin said apologetically and stepped out. As the doors closed behind him, the woman gave him a shy wave, and Melvin returned it. His head swooned with thoughts, many concerning his strange dream of the witch and the love potion she'd concocted for him.

Her voice: "Melvin, women are going to be eating out of your hands."

But that hadn't been real, had it? It couldn't have been. In his dream, he'd blacked out at her store. How'd he get home? His BMW had been parked in front of his apartment building this morning, so who'd driven it? The events of last night were a fuzzy blur, and he couldn't see through the fog of intoxication that seemed to cover it all.

The only explanation that made sense was that after Crabapple, his cold-hearted bitch of a boss, had chewed him out yesterday, he'd gone to a bar to drink away his problems to nothingness. The whole thing about the witch and her love potion was merely a dream caused by an abundance of alcohol and his lack of luck with women. Right?

He thought about the woman in the elevator. Weird. If only he could remember what had really happened to him. He didn't like the idea of passing into an alcoholic fugue state and waking up in his bed the next day with no memory of the night before. He turned, trying to see if he could get a bearing on Crapabble, the last person he needed breathing down his neck at the moment. She was nowhere in sight, and Melvin made a break for it.

Olivia Crabapple was on him as soon as he stepped into the maze of cubicles that Melvin had to navigate to get to his office. She swooped out of the sky like a vulture setting its talons into fresh road kill, her eyes flaming, her lips curled back in a snarl. Olivia was insanely jealous of Melvin's talent although she'd never admit as much, at least not out loud, and she took pleasure in watching him squirm like a worm on a hook, dangling his work in front of the hungry fishes on the Board of Directors and claiming it as her own.

Did it really matter, anyway? Melvin had no sense for leadership, no business savvy, and that's really what being a partner in the firm was all about, wasn't it? Olivia figured she would be just that, a partner, before the year was up, thanks to stealing everything of Melvin's she could get her claws on.

"Where have you been?" she spat at him. Melvin checked his watch.

"I'm early," he said.

"Who cares what time it is? I need you here when I need you, and I needed you twenty minutes ago!" she paused for a moment, her snarl disappearing, her face subtly changing expressions, and added, "What's different about you today?"

Melvin was caught off guard by the question and thought fleetingly of the woman in the elevator and his odd dream about the witch's love potion before he said, "Nothing. Nothing at all."

Olivia regarded him for a moment. She tapped a finger against her chin, her long nail painted dark red. Olivia wore a smart charcoal business suit, oozing professionalism but at the same time accentuating her curvy femininity, making her an intimidating sexual being. It was as if she was daring some poor schmo to make a pass at her, if only so she could tear out his throat and threaten him with a sexual harassment suit. Her green eyes narrowed suspiciously as she looked over Melvin.

"Something's definitely different about you," she said.

Melvin shrugged and said, "I'm just gonna get to work." He slipped past her, ducked into his office and closed the door behind him.

Olivia continued to tap her chin with a finger. She had approached him this morning with every intention of declaring that Melvin would be no longer in need of an office before stripping it away and demoting him to a tiny cubicle like everyone else on the floor (except her, of course, her office was large and luxurious as suited her engorged ego). She'd wanted to see his hopeless expression of resignation before he gave in, but now a new feeling stirred somewhere in the bottom of her stomach. She could still humiliate him, but there were better ways to do so. More fun to be had. Yes, much more fun.

She swiveled on her high heels, growled at an underling to get busy, and thumped her way to her office. She had to prepare for her weekly meeting with the Board, and there was so much work to do, considering she'd have to familiarize herself with the numbers she'd taken from Melvin the day before. Her humiliation of Melvin MacMuffin would have to wait until after hours, anyway.

In his office, Melvin collapsed into his chair. What was going on today? He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The woman in the elevator. Olivia. They both had seemed to think something was different about him. His dream of the witch, her naked body gleaming as he knelt in reverence before her, seemed more vivid than it had when he'd first woken up in his bed, his wrinkled clothes from the day before still on him.

A knocking rapped from the other side of his office door.

"Come in," Melvin said, and Richie Golding poked in his head. Richie, the office clown, was one of the few faces that Melvin felt he could trust. They hung out from time to time, but Richie was a bit of a party animal and was more interested in attempting to get his "wicky sticky" (as he liked to say) than in sipping beers with a poor loser like Melvin. Still, Melvin considered him a friend.

"My main man, Mel! Saw that you got a visit from the Wicked Witch of the twenty third floor already this morning," he said with a grin. Richie stepped into the room, his arms stuffed with various files and documents. His light brown hair stuck up in the back as if it hadn't been combed after he'd slept on it. Most likely, Richie hadn't gone home last night and had crawled straight to the office from some poor girl's apartment that he'd tricked into sleeping with him.

"Brought these for you. More work for you to do, so Crabapple can steal it and make partner," Richie cracked with a raised eyebrow. Melvin tried to shake off the remark, but it clung like a wet towel.

"Drop them anywhere. Hey, Rich, can I ask you something? Do I look any different to you today?" Melvin asked, replacing his glasses on his nose. Richie tossed the stuff he'd been carrying into a disorganized mess on Melvin's desk and took a step back to examine him. Richie eyed Melvin carefully and smoothed back the hair that had been standing on his scalp, the clump of hair leaping right back up as soon as his hands passed it.

"Nope, same ol' Mel. And that's my professional opinion," he said finally.

"Thanks," said Melvin, and Richie zipped out the door. Melvin stewed at his desk as he turned on his computer. Well, Richie seemed to think that nothing was weird about him, and that was something. However, he was still not satisfied, and questions plagued him like irritated wasps, stinging him behind the eyes. Maybe lunch at his favorite cafe would get his mind off the strange morning, and he could even gaze upon his lovely redheaded waitress as he ate.

Melvin rummaged through the pile on his desk and got to work.

***

He slipped out for lunch before Olivia could see him and stop him; she'd rather keep Melvin in his office doing nothing than allowing him to escape an hour for some fresh air. She enjoyed her small tortures. Avoiding her was a kind of art he'd developed over the past few months, and Melvin considered himself something in the league of a Picasso in the department.

He mentally thanked God that the woman from earlier was not in the elevator as he rode it down. All he wanted was a nice and quiet lunch where he could sort things out. The images from his dream were growing stronger and stronger in his head, and Melvin had trouble separating reality from fiction.

Melvin drove to the cafe and found an empty table outside where he knew Courtney, his so-cute-it-hurt redheaded waitress, would be working. He'd learned her name from the tag hanging precariously just above her right breast, pinned to the front of her green apron, but he hadn't yet gathered the courage to call her by it.

He sat down, leaned back in the metal chair and let the sunlight fall on his face, its brightness warm and comfortable. He closed his eyes and let his mind empty, thoughts leaking out of his ears not unlike the blood that had leaked after he'd busted his ear drums at the only rock concert he'd ever attended. The thought was yet another reminder of his pathetic nature; he shuddered thinking about it.

"Hi, Mr. MacMuffin. Am I disturbing you?" he heard Courtney ask through his shut eye lids. His eyes fluttered open, and he took her in: smiling, dimples at the corners of her mouth, her teeth a spread of white pearls, her hazel eyes glittering in the sunlight, adorable freckles peppering her nose and cheeks.

The sound of her lovely voice saying his ridiculously absurd last name sent a sick chill slivering down his spine; it seemed Fate enjoyed its small tortures as well.

"No, no. Not at all," he said and returned her smile. As he had basked in the warm sun, he now basked in Courtney's presence.

"You want the usual?" she asked him. A pencil jutted up from behind her ear. She swiped her bangs off her forehead with the flick of her wrist, but they fell back over her eyes just as quickly. She was so cute, so sweet, that Melvin wanted to lather her in whipped cream and eat her all up. Screw the usual; give him a heaping plate of warm Courtney, and he'd sink his teeth right in.

"Yes, the usual," he told her, brushing away his thoughts of sexual cannibalism.

"Consider it done," she said, winked, and scurried away, her legs striding beneath her green apron. He watched her for a moment and then turned, in case anyone caught him staring. He sighed. If only a girl like that could ever be interested in a guy like him.

The musical ringing of his cell phone (Pachelbel's Canon in D, his favorite) interrupted his thoughts. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and checked the caller ID, the phone still jingling through Pachelbel. The number on the screen was not one he recognized. He shrugged, pressed the talk button and placed the phone against his ear.

"Hello?" he said.

"Hey there, babe. How's the day treatin' ya?" the voice on the other side of the phone was that of his dream, the voice of the goddess/witch. Melvin's heart caught in his throat, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze. Was this real? Or was he still in bed, still dreaming all of it? The yellow brightness of the day seemed suddenly surreal, filtering through his eyes in slow motion.

"It's real, Mel. Believe it, buddy boy. You don't really think you've dreamt every mundane detail of your incredibly boring morning at work, do ya?"

"How'd you get this number?" Melvin asked, peering around him as if he half thought the witch would be somewhere close by, stalking him.

"Duh! I'm a witch, remember? You can't have forgotten all about me already. Not after our little potion par-tay last night. You seemed to enjoy yourself. I mean, REALLY enjoyed yourself."

"What do you want?" Melvin said, eyes still darting around him. He noticed that Courtney was making her way back to his table, a tray carrying his chef salad and a glass of water balanced on her left hand. His heart began to drum against his sternum.

"Just wanted to make sure you're working your magic. Gettin' your groove on. I wouldn't want to squander my love juice on someone who's too afraid to use it. She's a lefty, by the way. Your waitress, I mean. Ever get a reach around from a lefty?"

Courtney was almost at his table. Her mouth turned up into a smile as she made eye contact with him. Melvin considered hanging up the phone, but who knew how a witch would respond to being hung up on? She might turn him into a frog or something.

"Melvin MacMuffin, what would be the point of turning you into a frog? Now, a monkey maybe. I could teach you to do tricks."

"I gotta go. I don't think your love ju... er... your potion worked, anyway," Melvin whispered, and he reached to press the talk button and hang up the phone.

"It works, Mel. You're about to find out," her voice buzzed in his ear, and then it was gone, his finger mashing the button and shutting off the phone with a shrill beep.

Courtney stood next to the table and slipped Melvin's salad in front of him. He admired her milky white skin, slender fingers, and her nails painted a light pink. It was a sparkly nail polish, something a junior high school girl might use, and it only reinforced her innocent charm.

"Anything else?" she asked after she'd finished putting down his water. A lemon bobbed up and down like a buoy between cubes of melting ice. Melvin licked his lips. Now was his chance. He'd ask her out. Now! Do it!

"No thanks," he said, giving her the biggest and dumbest smile he could muster. The imaginary voice of the witch called him a pussy in his head. Oh well, he'd been a pussy all his life, and he'd lived with it this long. What was another day? Courtney nodded and turned back towards the kitchen.

"Actually, uh, maybe you could help me instead," she said, twisting back around to face Melvin. She held the tray with both hands against her chest, her face glowing a light red around her nose and cheeks, along the area that her freckles populated. It took Melvin a moment to realize that she was blushing.

"Yes?" he asked. Was Courtney really blushing? He figured he must have embarrassed her somehow, by some rude statement or gesture or... what? Still, he'd made two different woman blush in the same day; it had to be some kind of record for him. Feeling self conscious, Melvin straightened his glasses.

"Uh, well. I don't know how to say this, but..." she stammered. She took a few steps back towards his table. Melvin questioned her with a raise of his eyebrows. Her cheeks flushed brighter.

"Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?" she said, forcing the words out of her mouth as quickly as she could, her eyes unable to meet his. Melvin sat, flabbergasted. Courtney the waitress, the girl he had been moping after and admiring from afar for three months, had just asked him out.

"I understand if you don't want to; it's ok," she added before he had a chance to respond.

"I... I'd love to," Melvin said. Courtney put a hand over her mouth and laughed in relief, the dimples returning. Her eyes finally gained the courage to rest on his. He liked the way her hazel eyes reflected the green of her apron.

"Oh, thank God! I'd have felt like such a fucking loser if you'd said no," she replied and then gasped, her eyes opening wide in shock.

"Oh sorry, Mr. MacMuffin! You probably don't say the f-word, do you? You seem way too nice!" she squeaked like a frightened mouse.

"Call me Mel, and it's fine. I say the f-word. Fuck! See?" he replied and laughed. His face burned a little as he said it, and he realized that he was blushing now, too. He didn't really say the f-word, but he didn't want her to think he was some kind of prude. She laughed with him.

"How's tomorrow night?" she said, nervously twiddling her fingers as she still held the tray against her chest. Melvin nodded. He would have said yes to any time she suggested.

"Sounds wonderful."

"Great! Why don't I give you my number when I bring you the check?" she suggested.

"Deal," Melvin said, and Courtney backed away before disappearing into the kitchen with a giggle and a cute wave. Melvin sighed. The potion... the love juice... it was all true. It was all real. What had he done to deserve such a thing? He had trouble thinking that the witch had given it to him out of the kindness of her heart. But what could she be getting out of the deal? Did she expect some kind of payment?

Out of curiosity, Melvin checked the call log on his cell phone. The last received call was from his mother in Oregon; the witch's number was nowhere to be found. He tried to dig it up in his head, but he found that he couldn't.

Strange, since he had such a strong memory when it came to numbers. In any case, if the witch wanted to contact him or speak to him, she apparently had his number. Plus, he could always go back to her shop.

Frowning, Melvin pushed all these thoughts out of his mind and let Courtney drift into his brain and fill him up. He couldn't wait until tomorrow night. Then all of his attention would be hers and hers alone. She would be everything to him for as long as she was with him. He grinned at the thought of it.

He was so excited, he could barely eat his chef salad.

***

The rest of the afternoon was a blur as Melvin zoomed through his work, Courtney always at the forefront of his mind. Her face peered back at him as he reviewed numbers on the computer screen. Her smile perked up from the memos sitting on his desk. Her supple bottom, an image that brought a guilty but exciting thrill, roamed about the reflections in his office windows. She was everywhere, in every thought.

Hours ticked away quicker than usual, and just when Melvin thought he would make it through the day unscathed, the dreaded Mrs. Olivia Crabapple paged him. He glanced at the clock and was shocked to see that it was nearly nine o'clock; everyone in the office would have left hours ago. He couldn't believe he'd lost such track of the time, and what could Crabapple be wanting with him this late?

"Melvin, my office," her voice squawked from his speaker phone. Groaning, Melvin stood up from his desk chair and stretched. His body was stiff from several hours of inactivity, and his eyes were bloodshot from staring at the glare of the computer monitor for so long. He didn't know how he could get so lost in his work, but numbers were just something that always clicked for him.

He loosened his tie, straightened his glasses, and opened the door to his office. The floor was dark and quiet. Everyone had gone home. The only light came from behind the closed blinds of Crabapple's office windows and a soft yellow glow from under her door. Melvin scratched his head as he headed towards her office. It was unlike her to be here so late; he'd figured that he was the only one on the floor who didn't have any life and filled his spare time with work. Probably, she needed Melvin to explain some of the graphs she'd taken from him.

Melvin closed his hand around the doorknob and pushed his way into her office. Then he stopped, dumbfounded. His eyes widened, and his jaw dropped at the sight before him. Olivia Crabapple stood on her desk in a black lingerie, her heaving bosom trying desperately to spill out over the lacy top. Her frosty, short blonde hair shone in the gleam from the desk lamp, and tall black boots ran up to her knees, her long and luscious legs covered in fishnet stockings. She held a leather whip in her hand, and a devilish grin curled at her lips. Her expression was somehow both coy and predatory.