Hot Merchandise

Hot Merchandise by J.M. Snyder
It’s Friday night and the only music store in the mall, Da Hot Spot, is the place to be. Crammed with a young, rowdy crowd, the Spot pounds with a steady hip-hop beat that draws in the customers and keeps them milling in the aisles.

When an employee sees two guys casing the store, she advises manager Bill Jackson to call security. But the last thing Bill wants is to cause a scene, particularly one that might incite racial tension. In the hopes of settling things quietly, he asks the alleged shoplifters to empty their pockets.

Jamal Bey and his cousin Tyrece have long been regular customers at the Spot. Jamal knows Bill, but neither Tyrece nor Bill’s employees know just how well. When he’s asked, Jamal agrees to show Bill what’s in his pants ... but only in private.

So the two head for the back room, where Bill discovers just how hot Jamal’s merchandise is.



Bill sighs. Not tonight. “I’ll do something,” he promises. With a final look at the two -- the taller guy is watching him again, a faint smile playing over a pair of full, dark lips -- Bill turns back to his notebook, mind racing. “Just ... keep an eye on them and let me know when they’re heading out.”

“Um ...” At the hesitation in Angie’s voice, he looks up. “I think they’re heading out now.”

Bill rolls his eyes so he doesn’t have to lift his head and, sure enough, the duo are heading toward the store’s entrance. The guy in the jacket hasn’t taken his hands out of his pockets, and that looks bad. But Bill’s gaze is drawn to the swinging package at the front of the guy’s sweats. The fleece caresses the bulk hidden beneath it as it moves, outlining a bulge that makes Bill’s throat dry to think of it. He can imagine a thick, black cock encased in a white jockstrap, partially aroused from the sheer motion of the guy’s sexy strut. He pictures his fingers encircling that shaft, pale skin on dark, the purplish-red bulbous tip bubbling over with pre-cum that sparkles like stars in the night sky ...


Angie’s elbow almost knocks him over. At the dazed look he turns her way, she shakes her head. “I’m calling security.”

Bill catches her arm before she gets too far. “I said I’d handle it.”

“Well?” With a jerk of her head, she reminds him they’re heading out. “Whatever you plan to do, you better do it now.”

His palms are suddenly clammy, his throat tight. Wiping his hands on his slacks, he straightens his tie and reminds himself he’s the night manager. This is his store. Even if the guys aren’t stealing, Angie can get him into a lot of trouble if she decides to report his lack of action to the general manager. Sheila would review the security tapes, see the same suspicious activity Angie picked up on, and he’d never hear the end of it. Best to handle it now.

When he clears his throat, he realizes he’s scared. He doesn’t want to do this. But the resolute set of Angie’s jaw tells him he has to, if he doesn’t want to lose face. Damn it.

He hurries down the length of the counter, coming out at the store entrance just as the two guys approach. “Excuse me, sir?” he asks, speaking to the taller guy. He keeps his gaze high, off the sweats, and silently prays, Please.

The guy stops, an amused smirk on his handsome face. “Yo, me?”

His friend comes up beside him and glares at Bill. “Jamal, who the fuck’s this?”

“Chill, man,” Jamal murmurs, holding out his arm as if trying to keep his friend back. To Bill, he says, “What you want with me?”

Oh, God, you don’t even know.