Some Sort of Hero

As elaborated in my bio, I write 'choice and consequence' stories. At the end of all chapters will be a list of two or more actions the character(s) can make. Vote in the comment section for whichever choice you would like, but be advised, all choices will yield heavy consequences. I, the god of these cursed swamps, will tally the votes in four days and apply them to the next installment. So hurry and vote or sit back and watch as others potentially fuck shit up. Nothing can be undone, so choose wisely.

If you hate FLA (For the Love of Art), you're not alone. I, the author, hate it as well but push through anyway. If you like FLA, I'm sorry to say, but something's wrong with you. But dis rite hur, I do like, cuz I love the premise. The MC male is black, the MC female is white. This first chapter is fairly slow paced . If you're just here for bbc, this story isn't for you. If you're here to get off, wait until later installments are released to get out the fap lube. If ur here 4 da good story rich intricacies of palpable characters and the lives they live, then grab a water bottle, get hydrated, and enjoy the ride.

Long Disclaimer: SSH is thick with character establishment and internal conflict (yaaawn, right?). That being the case, depending on the story's course, later installments may contain highly controversial subject matter across the scale, strong language, and the grueling things some may scrunch their noses at and hurry to press 1 star because it doesn't conform to their moral standard. Negative ratings do not dissuade me. I do not fade to black on anything (within the domain of Lit's rules, ha). I encourage debates in the comment section, as the story itself is specifically geared towards them, but do not condone amature, offensive expressions of displeasure. Also, I like never reply to comments, only the emails I get.

TL; DR: This story is not to get you off (yet), but it will contain too much explicit content to post on my other platforms, so Literotica gets it. Reader discretion is advised.

*****

I liked Mondays. You had the downtown Cincinnati rush hour, where people were allergic to letting you into their lane. The new diet try-out and 'this week I'm stickin' to it' mantra floating around your head. It was also the only day of the week where striding into the employee lounge singing about your affection for Mondays effectively evoked the sweetest melody: a choir of groans.

Those essential elements aside, I mostly liked Mondays because I got to see her.

Monday through Wednesday, 10 to 6, anyone could find me at the local Walgreens, the one across from Costco, Aldis and the barbershop with the weekly horrifying slogans. I was the one way in the back, behind the counter, behind another counter, propped on a stool and processing new patient prescriptions. As far as I was concerned, this was my Walgreens. I wasn't the district manager, but I was the manager of three pharmacies central to the Cincinnati area.

People knew me. People loved me. People went out of their way to go to one of my three pharmacies to get their prescription filled, not because I and my staff were extra polite and left them with a smile for here or to go, but because those who worked behind my counters had a unique, carefully selected personality. They didn't wait for you to get to the back and tell them you were here to pick up your Xanax. No, they leaned over the counter with a 'I know that's not Connie over there!' It was always a friendly environment.

I took pride in stalking those Yelp reviews. I took pride in those 4.8 stars, and knew not to beat myself up about the .2 gap. Couldn't please them all.

Thing about it was, we were probably the least professional pharmacy in Ohio. The staff flirted with one another consistently, had the most lewd and crude remarks about the front register boy's tight ass and how they'd love to use his toothbrush after him. And me, I definitely was no saint.

Girls, somewhere dangled in their twenties, would walk back there, see me, and the game changed. 6'1''. White coat. Brand new trimming from the horrible sloganed barbershop. To them, I was the shit. At the time, these barbies with babies from ex-boyfriends paying child support would be talking that nonsense my ears liked, and they had a body that my eyes liked. And hell, by the time three rolled around and the pharmacy was dead, I became no better than my employees. Leaning across the counter and giving them what I shamelessly considered my chocolate dazzle smile.

These women, they meant absolutely nothing to me. Just something to pass the time. Because, to be completely transparent, half the people that came to the back were one hundred percent the reason McDonald's had warning labels reading 'warning: hot' on coffee you ordered extra hot. It may not have been my place to judge one's intelligence, but after the fifth woman to come in complaining that the suppository ointment wasn't doing anything after they administered it orally—when it said clearly to apply in the rectum or vaginal canal—you were awarded the right to be a little critical.

Most days, everything was mellow and routine. Then there were those days. The days where the little things were big things and the big things became life things. Call me superstitious, but I'd swear these things only happened on Mondays.

It all started with digoxin and a ridiculous joke.

I had been in back, tapping away at the IntercomPlus system, going through the doctor repository database. Thirty-five years of age and having been playing manger for a good five of those years, multitasking had become second nature for me. I always had my eyes on the screen and my ears on the goingson of the staff. That day had been no different.

Sonya and Korey were working the counter. Bill had drive-thru. It was just us four and we were in a dry spell. I liked Sonya. She'd been with me for a good minute. She was prone to erratic bursts of glee, reminding me of my sister. I liked Bill for one reason alone: the more upset customers became in the drive-thru over trivial matters, the more polite and happy he became. Korey was a different story. He was interning there before he started rotations. I knew he was hardworking, a little reserved, but he had a whitewashed charisma about him that was up my lane—right up until that day when I heard him go, "Listen lady, it's fucking pimobendan!"

Never had I moved so fast in my life.

Korey jumped when I appeared beside him. A real skinny kid, tall and lanky. He was red in the face, blue eyes unfocused.

At the time, I hadn't needed to know the situation or the cause of it. Instead, I'd spoken calmly, knowing all too well how raised voices attracted bystanders. I would not have my 4.8 dipping to a 4.79. "Korey, wait for me in the back."

Only when the boy reluctantly headed to the back did I turn to the customer. Nice looking lady. She didn't look nearly as upset as Korey. She had brown curls, defined cheekbones. In her hand was the blue slip for her prescription. On the counter sat a box of what looked to be pimobendan, better known as Vetmedin.

"I'm so sorry you had to hear that. I assure you he will be dealt with properly." Inside, I was boiling. "What was the problem here, ma'am?"

She sucked in a deep breath, looked behind me, then shook her head. "It's fine, really. My vet put in a prescription for digoxin. It's for my dog. But I was given pimobendan. I understand, it's a common mistake. I'm just in a hurry. I have a really important exam in an hour."

I nodded, sympathetic. It actually was a common mistake.

Korey wasn't alone. I understood tempers. I myself had a horrible one, despite my aforementioned chocolate dazzle smile. Little things used to have my blood pressure sky rocketing and my fists ready to swing. But I learned long ago, anger and aggression was seldom, if ever, the answer. And ten years of dealing with assholes in the workplace more or less desensitized me to these little things.

The woman in front of me was everything but an asshole. In fact, she was a painful contrast.

I'd gone to the back to run the prescription, check the vet signature, and sure enough, 5 mcg digoxin tablets ran across the screen. But there was a blip, where someone at a separate pharmacy ran it as Vetmedin. So really, it hadn't been Korey's fault or the lady's.

Didn't mean I wasn't steaming mad. Whenever I got that way, it was as though my staff adapted a sixth sense to it. They got real quiet, avoided eye contact and walked on eggshells for the rest of the day. Which was just the way I preferred it.

When I finished putting the prescription in the system, I rejoined the woman, refraining from cranking my jaws. My pharmacy. Korey had decided to lose his goddamn mind in my pharmacy.

I smiled. "It appears as though there was a mixup with a separate pharmacy branch. It happens sometimes when people switch over from CVS and it seems that's what you've done. As well, I know you have an exam, but I'm afraid we couldn't fill the prescription for another twenty minutes."

That day, something miraculous happened.

The woman had closed her eyes and I'd held my breath, readying for the full blow of a lady on a schedule.

It never came.

She opened her eyes, looked at me, then breathed a sigh. "I'll wait."

Now let me tell you, I've had people ready to claw out my eyes over a five minute wait because the mall would be closing in twenty. I've seen people fling prescriptions into the drive-thru tray when a mix-up occurred and skid their tires as they sped off. People were babies. They wanted it now! This woman had a legitimate warrant for a temper tantrum yet wasn't cashing it.

So of course the lady's patience had me spitting angry at this point, because there was absolutely nothing I could do to honor her godsent soul. And whenever I was upset, it took a hard run and a night of sitting at home in my condo with the lights off, record crackling in the background, some Jackson 5 singing the kinks from my shoulders before I cooled.

I was waiting for her to have a seat so I could get on handing Korey his backside, but she never left. She lingered, watched me just close enough to get me self-conscious.

Just as it was bordering on invasive, she settled back into herself and said, "You look mad."

Understatement. But still, I'd meant to conceal it from her, from my intuitive staff.

"Would you like a cape?" she asked shortly after, and her brows were marked with a seriousness that left me confused.

"Pardon?"

"I said, would you like a cape . . ." She peered to the stitched name on my coat. "Christian."

"A cape? For what?"

She looked at me. Deadpan. Then, "So you can be Super Mad."

A common mistake people made about me was that I was a grump. A professional, certified killjoy. Truth was, I was the most immature man one could find in this field. That being the case, the snort of laughter was out before I could stop it. This lady had to be like twenty-five, twenty-six and yet the joke was so simple and dumb, she'd lured me in good. "Okay, yeah. I'm going to give you that one."

She was smiling, like she knew just how ghastly the joke was. Worse than a dad joke even. "Internet supplied it," she confessed.

That made it more hilarious.

"You're laughing," she said. "But trust me, I can see you're firing him five different ways in your head."

That got rid of my smile. She was right. I was firing Korey five different ways in my head. "Ma'am, we take customer service very serious here. I will issue proper protocol and do everything I can to make sure it never happens again."

But then, this lady—this lady with a soul rubbed by angels—took me off to the side like I was the wronged customer, started whispering in a sound, reasonable fashion, "Listen sir, what that young man just did, it was entirely unacceptable in a place like this."

I didn't do embarrassment. I didn't do the jeopardized workplace. And to have a customer usher me off to the side to tell me what I already knew, it was a new sort of low. So I nodded my head, hearing her out. "You're completely right, ma'am."

She finished, "But I'm asking you, please don't let it cost him this job. We've all been there, we've all had one of those days. Before, he was speaking to me very kindly. Very respectful man. It was something I said. Something just made him snap."

I wasn't sure how aware she was of the fact, but all day long, the pharmacy was a hotspot attraction for douchebag customers. Everyday you're gonna get customers that just take you there. From the thirty year old balding guy sitting there angry and clogging up the drive-thru like a blood clot, to the street-harden woman that refused to leave until she received her medication her way—as if this was Burger King or something. But you had to be able to deal with that, or at the bare minimal, bite your tongue and revert to silent obedience. You weren't allowed to "just snap".

"Ah," she chided, holding a finger up. Then, digging in the depths of her purse, she pulled out a floppy, handsized action figure of one pissed off looking Superman and jiggled it. She mimicked the toy's deep frown and said in a gremlin growl, "Don't be Super Mad."

Like that, I was trying like hell not to double over the counter. "Why do you even have that?" My employees were sneaking glances our way questioningly. Thankfully the convenience aisles were empty and there was only one car at the window.

The humor left her, overcome with a somber gentleness. "Nice to have a hero around, even if they're super mad about it."

Some people, you never really sit back and truly look at them. We're too caught up in ourselves, searching for amusement, distraction, hedonistic things that make us forget last night's chosen sin. Then there were some people who came along, and their actions were so humanized and pure, so unexpected in today's world, you were made to put aside you for a minute and just take in them.

Her name was Lorraine. A real old-timey name. One you'd find on a smudged nametag pinned on an elderly lady closing down her breakfast shop on the side of some blacktop New Mexico road. Her eyes were a bright brown, like a shiny new penny flipped in the sunlight, but her hair was a deep, ruddy auburn, hanging in large ringlets down to the waist. She was plus size and carried it well, though she was hidden behind a knitted beige cardigan and dark blue jeans. Everything about her was well-kept, frighteningly just right. Down to the smooth, light drift of coconut that accompanied her every movement.

Not to mention, she had a face I hated to let down. "I'll see what I can do for him," I said, knowing damn well Korey's ass would be as good as dirt when I finished with him.

We looked at one another for a moment, the both of us smiling. That was when I knew I needed to know her. Everything about her. Because never had I gone from a raging ten to a one in so short a time. Her smile, her childish humor, it'd whispered away the tension and left me wanting more. More of her voice. More of her subtle, free gestures.

She looked away, closing her eyes with a shake of her head, that grace never leaving her posture.

Had I not had work to do, I'd have waddled around that counter like a lost duck. But the prescription wasn't going to fill itself and the phone was ringing.

Fifteen minutes later, I returned, bag in hand. "What's its name?"

"Hm?" she asked, trading the bag for a few bills. "Oh, oh. My dog. His name's Titan."

"Vicious."

"He's sweet."

"I'll take your word on it. And I'll let you go. Good luck with the exam."

Her nod was quick and just as I thought she would turn and leave me to the patchwork of the remaining hours, she pinned me with a strange look I didn't think I could ever forget as she said, "I don't want to have to bring you a cape next week."

"I'll behave. Promise."

Twenty minutes later, Korey was packing and for the rest of the day, I was walking around the pharmacy whistling the superman theme song.

So now, on Mondays, I would abandon my task in back to greet her like a dog waited at the door. And every Monday, she and I, we talked. I would ask her how Titan was and she'd smile like I just made her day before saying, "Better." She would ask me how my day was going, and I'd smile and say, "Just got better."

It was some fairly corny shit, if I was being honest with myself. But I liked it. I liked her. Everything flowed so easily back and forth. Like today.

"School been doing you good?" I asked.

Last we talked, she had told me she was in school to become a paramedic, had just started her second year in the program. Just now, her eyes lightened, like nobody had ever asked her this before, and she was ready to spill. Fumbling around her purse, looking for the prescription note I was required to look over, she shook her head, then snorted. "It's destroying me from the inside out."

"No, not the inside," I said in horror.

She looked up at me, putting her phone and keys down on the counter. "Yes, the inside. You're a pharmacist, I'm sure you know all about the packets from hell."

"Can't say I do. I always skimmed and said a prayer before exams. Somehow, I made it."

After a scoff, she groveled, "I envy you. What pill were you taking? What's your secret?"

I could only laugh. "Pill called luck. But no, for real, hang in there. The work pays off. You get what you put into it. The horror show ends. Eventually."

"Oh, I'm hanging alright," she muttered. Finally, she pulled from the endless purse, the little blue paper from the vet. Handing it to me, she perked. "And, oh, Christian, you have a very beautiful laugh. Never fails to brighten my Mondays. I hate Mondays."

I pretended not to hear that last part. "Back at you. Don't know what you're hitting your coffee with, but you're always so jolly." I narrowed my eyes. "Is that your secret? Sneaking jolly ranchers in your morning Folgers, like some backstreet heathen?"

She looked at me. Then tilted her head the slightest. And she laughed, hard. I wasn't lying. She had a beautiful laugh. It was different. There was never anything caging it. Never was it obnoxious. It was clean, sweet. But there was always something sad in her eyes. Always something glossy and strained, like she shouldn't be there, standing with me beneath fluorescent lights, enjoying herself too much.

"No secret." She stashed her keys back in the purse. "You're a funny guy. I need that right now in my life. Then again, that could be your training talking."

"I'm offended."

"What? That is what they do, isn't it? Train you on customer service, proper field etiquette. But it's free laughter, so I can't really complain. In fact, I'm not. Keep doing what you're doing."

"Maybe I'm just naturally charming?" I suggested, wounded just a little.

"How did charming get into the picture?"

"Taking no prisoners, are you?"

The way she looked at me had me confused for a second with my preferences in women. I liked them smart, independent and never wanting a second date. I also liked them a little on the tall side, wild side, an updo that begged men to notice their swan neck and an attitude that said don't get too carried away. As well, I usually went after black women. Nothing against the other races. Nothing at all. Except when it came to sex, black women didn't ''make love''. They laid it on like they had daddy issues and something to prove. Their past often made them not chase after me, so much as my wallet. Which always gave me a valid excuse to end the relationship, and I used the term 'relationship' tentatively. But then again, gold digging seemed to be a universal language these days.

Though the way she looked to me, eyes doing a full body assessment, said she wanted nothing more than to take me prisoner. When her eyes returned to mine, whatever she saw in them caused her to flush.