Page 14 of Taste Test

Friday had rolled around again, but instead of being stuck in a marketing lecture hall I was sweating like a glassblower’s arsehole behind the counter at Brew & Bean.

Ordinarily I only worked Friday afternoons, since lectures chewed up my mornings, but Dash had rung me the night before in a full-blown panic, bleating down the line that Amber had called in sick and he desperately needed cover.

I’d wanted to tell him to shove it—I technically had lectures—but the truth was they weren’t for papers I was struggling with and had no real excuse beyond “couldn’t be fucked.

” So I took pity on the dimwit and said yes, convincing myself the extra pay would be worth it.

By mid-morning, though, I was starting to regret agreeing to the extra hours.

The café’s air-con had shat itself, and the place felt like a sauna designed by Satan.

Sweat was prickling down my back, my shirt stuck to me like clingfilm, and my balls had glued themselves to my thigh in a way that made every step feel like a slow torture session.

He’d also hacked the sleeves off his Brew & Bean tee, the frayed edges brushing the tops of his lean brown arms. The back of his shirt read “Espresso Yourself” in cheerful white lettering—one of the café’s collection of coffee-themed puns that we were forced to wear as part of our “uniform.” Management (Dash’s father) called it “fun workplace culture,” though most of us called it corporate torture.

The irony of Dash wearing a shirt encouraging self-expression while looking like he’d rather set the place on fire wasn’t lost on me.

Speaking of fire hazards, Jared had almost burned down our kitchen a couple days ago after deciding to “wing it” with pancakes while FaceTiming his little brother.

He’d somehow managed to set off the smoke alarm twice before producing a plate of charred frisbees, and then still insisted they were edible.

It had been funny in that exhausting flatmate way, but also nice—things felt like they were back to normal again.

There’d been no more offers of warm cum in a whisky glass and we’d settled back into our usual routine: Jared juggling training, games, and study, and me buried in coursework while trying not to throttle rude customers here at the cafe who treated “please” and “thank you” like optional extras.

I’ve always been big on manners. Sue me.

A final customer shuffled out the door, latte in hand, leaving the café empty.

The only sounds left were the hiss of the machine cooling down and the faint thump of bass leaking from Dash’s phone in the stockroom.

Then he wandered out in those sprayed-on jeans, tight enough to accentuate that neat little bulge of his.

He joined me behind the counter, smelling faintly of cinnamon syrup and boy sweat.

“Did you restock the oat milk?” I asked, mostly to distract myself from the jeans situation.

“Was I supposed to?”

“It’s literally the first thing on the list your dad left us.”

“Oh.” He scratched his head, sending a puff of purple hair into the air like toxic fairy dust. “I got distracted. There was this guy on TikTok doing backflips in a Pikachu onesie.”

“Maybe you should put your phone in the locker. You know... so you can actually do some work?”

“And maybe you’d like to remember I’m still your boss, so watch your tone, barista bitch.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re eighteen.”

“Yeah, and you still do what I tell you. Speaking of, there’s a piss situation in the staff dunny again.”

“For fuck’s sake, Dash. Not again.”

He nodded solemnly. “I know. It’s bad. Like, splashback with intent.”

“Maybe it’s time you consider sitting down to pee like a woman since apparently you’re incapable of pissing like a big boy.”

“Oi. What makes you think it’s me?”

“Hello?” I gestured around the empty café. “We’re the only staff on today.”

“Maybe it was you.”

“I’m not the one around here who needs to be potty trained.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You fantasise about it.”

“About strangling you, maybe.”

“Kinky,” he said with a wink.

It was a damn good thing for him he was cute or I’d have throttled him for real.

I turned away before I could tell him to go fuck himself or say something wildly inappropriate, like your arse looks edible or I’d forgive the splashback if you let me lick the sweat off your collarbone.

Instead, I grabbed the mop and headed for the staff toilets.

When I came back from cleaning up punk piss, Dash was perched on the counter like it was his personal throne, legs swinging, phone in hand. Tinny moans leaked from the speaker.

“Seriously?” I said. “Porn? At work?”

He turned the screen around to show two women grinding back-to-back on a double-ended dildo, one of them moaning like she’d just discovered God. “It’s educational.”

“In what universe?”

“Relax. It’s not like I’m jerking it.”

I tried not to look at his crotch. Tried harder not to imagine what he’d look like if he was jerking it.

“Oi,” he said, catching my stare. “Eyes up here, pervert.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re obsessed,” he said, scooting off the counter. “Anyway, I’m heading out back. Gotta finish inventory.”

He disappeared into the stockroom, orgasmic moans still spilling from his phone. I’d barely turned around when the door chimed and a familiar ginger head ducked through the entrance.

Connor Walsh. Jared’s former best mate and current persona non grata.

The ginger giant was a slab of man, a second-row unit with a thick neck, thighs like concrete pillars, and a resting face that said you won’t like me when I’m angry.

It was hard to wrap my head around why Jess would cheat on my handsome flatmate with a guy whose nose had been broken at least once and badly reset, and whose ears were bubbled and scarred from years in the forward pack.

“Casey,” he said. “How’s it going, mate?”

“Alright,” I replied coldly. “What can I get you?”

“Just a flat white, thanks. Large.”

I nodded and started prepping his order. Connor had never been particularly friendly to me. Not hostile, exactly, but he’d always treated me like furniture. The gay flatmate who existed in the background of his and Jared’s bromance. Now, though, he was looking at me like I might be his only hope.

“So,” he said, watching me work, “how’s Jared doing?”

“He’s fine.”

“Right. Good. That’s... that’s good.”

He shifted his weight. Looked like he was gearing up for something.

“Listen,” he said, “d’you reckon you could put in a good word for me? I’ve been trying to call him, text him. But he’s not picking up.”

He’s not answering because you’re a slimeball who went behind his back and face-fucked his girlfriend.

I kept my mouth shut, focused on finishing the order. When it was done, I slid the cup across the counter. “Four fifty.”

He handed over a fiver, waving away the change.

“It’s not what he thinks, Casey. What happened with Jess... it wasn’t planned.”

“No?”

“No. We were wasted. Off our faces. One minute we’re talking, next minute... I don’t know. It just happened.”

“You don’t remember the bit where she ended up with your dick in her mouth?”

My tone rattled him. His eyes locked with mine. It was a struggle for him not to look away, but he held steady.

He sighed. “I get it. I sound like a jerk. But I swear, it wasn’t like that. She was drunk. I was drunk. Neither of us knew what we were doing. Then Jared walked in and... yeah. That was that.”

“Right. The classic accidental blowjob.”

“I know how it sounds. But it wasn’t some premeditated betrayal. It was a fuck-up. A bad one. But still, just one fuck-up. And now three years of friendship is gone.”

One fuck-up. Like sticking your cock in your best mate’s girlfriend’s throat was on par with forgetting his birthday.

“Maybe he just needs time,” I said.

“It’s been over a week.”

“And you think that’s long enough to get over walking in on your girlfriend cheating with your best friend?”

He looked like he wanted to argue but knew better.

“All I’m asking,” he said eventually, “is that you talk to him. Just once. Ask him to hear me out. That’s it. I know if he agrees to talk with me then we can work it out and everything can go back to how it’s meant to be.”

My gut reaction? Hell no. I wasn’t signing up for this soap-opera bullshit. It reeked of jock-and-cheerleader drama. Plus, he’d hurt Jared, and as I was starting to figure out, I didn’t like people who hurt Jared.

“No offence, Connor, but I’d rather not get involved.”

“Look, I’ll level with you,” he said, looking like he was losing patience.

“Jared’s not just my mate. He’s my lifeline.

The only chance I’ve got of scoring a Super Rugby contract next year is if they pick us up together.

Coaches keep talking about our connection on the field, how we read each other’s game.

With him, I’ve got a shot. Without him, I don’t have a shit show in hell of ever playing at that level. ”

Jared was right. You are a fucking snake.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, shoulders sagging. “So yeah, I fucked up. A massive fuck-up. But I can’t lose him. Not as a mate, not as a teammate. And if you can help me get one minute with him... please. I’m begging.”

“I don’t think anything I say is going to change anything. He’s pretty stubborn when he’s been hurt.”

“I know. But he listens to you.”

“Does he though? Because he’s never once put his dirty socks in the laundry basket no matter how many times I tell him to.”

“That’s house shit. He listens to you when it comes to real shit.”

I wanted to argue that sweat-encrusted socks on the lounge floor was indeed real shit.

“I think you might be giving me way too much credit,” I said.

“Nah.” Connor shook his head firmly. “Jared trusts you. More than he trusts any of his other mates. He reckons you don’t just blow smoke, you tell it straight. Said once you’re the only one who’ll call him on his bullshit. He listens to that. He needs that.”