"We're not stealing, I promise you!"

The man – whose simple name badge introduces him as Dean – looks from side to side and then back at me. He lowers his voice and leans in towards me. I am hit with the smell of after shave balm and sugar, and I gasp as the heat from his breath tickles my lips. "You can work it off for me."

For the third time, my jaw drops. "Sir, I'm here with my parents. And my friend. And his parents. I can't-"
"Then I guess I'll just have to press charges."

My eyes grow wide as he leans away from me, and I fight the urge to pull him back to me and beg him not to. So I just beg. "No, no, no, no, no. Pleeeeeeease don't." I whine. "You can't. Look! The right money is right here!"

"You took it without asking! It's the principle."

"Oh for fucks sakes." I flail my arms.

Dean seems taken aback by my outburst. Some emotion his face, but I can't quite tell what it is. He chews on his lip, then nods, apparently having come to some decision in his head. I hope he's going to let it go. I mean, we left the right money, for crying out loud, what else can he want? "Okay." He says. I hold my breath. "Take me to your parents."

I deflate. "What?" My voice comes out several octaves higher than I mean it to, and I clear my throat, my cheeks flushing. "Jesus H Christ." I mutter. "Fine. If you're going to be a dick about it, fine." My parents are scary. Maybe they'll frighten him off. One of the joys about being sixteen is that in the right circumstances, it is still acceptable to hide behind Mama and Papa whilst they sort out your problems for you.

Fat load of use that was. They shouted at me, apologized to Dean and agreed to pick me up at 9 that evening, after the market was closed and packed away. Dean seemed more than happy at that agreement.

So half an hour after that, I am standing in the van, leaning against the small platform, scowling. I can feel Dean looking at me, but I choose to ignore him. Not only has he gotten me in to deep shit with my parents for stealing, but he's made me wear this stupid fucking apron and a pair of shorts. I mean shorts! Who wears shorts? I have my Thursday socks on too, simply because they were the first pair I grabbed when I forced to get out of bed before 2 o clock in the afternoon on a Sunday, so now I look even more of a tit than if I had just been wearing the stupid shorts. I had pondered taking the socks off completely, but I had nowhere to put them, and something about no socks and sneakers was really unappealing. I turn to glare at Dean, and am horrified to find him smirking at me. "What are you looking at?"

Dean shakes his head, but he doesn't take his eyes off me. When he does, it is to peer at an approaching weary looking mother of three, being pulled at and harassed from every angle. Perhaps my fate isn't so bad.

"Yes okay, okay. Wait a minute. Now hush, so the nice boys can hear me, please." She looks up at me and starts naming things that are as familiar to me as ancient Greek. I stare blankly back at her.

"Sorry, Ma'am; he's new." Dean leans across in front of me and reaches out for the three bags and hands them to her. They exchange money, and he bids her a good day.

She smiles at him, and I recognize a slightly worn, but lustful look. That's when I notice Dean winking at her.

For the fourth time that day my jaw drops. "Are you for real?"

Dean looks at me, and he grins. "What? You jealous?"

I grimace. "What? No! Fuck you."

Something crosses Dean's face again, this time, it is dark. Sinister. "Watch what you say, boy." I peg Dean to be about 24, but sometimes, by the way he acts, and something in his eyes, he seems older. He holds my stare for another few unsettling seconds, then turns away to serve another customer.

Another hour passes, and my legs are sore, my back is aching and I'm tired. "I want to go home."

"You should have thought of that before you tried stealing."

I shoot him a look. "I wasn't stealing."

Dean smiles falsely and nods. "Sure." He nods to the next batch of approaching customers. "Your turn."

I am getting to know the names of the various candies and chocolates and bars now, and a lot of the customers are friendly and helpful enough to give you hints and direct you to the right item. There is a large family, eight in total, and the kids are jumping up and down shouting about what they all wanted, apparently in a contest of who can shout the loudest. Apparently, Dad wins. Once everyone is quiet again, he starts relaying the orders. He is a patient man – and with six kids all still alive, I guess that is kind of imperative – and he allows me to take my time in getting to all the bits he asks for.

Immediately after the ginormous family sidles off in to the crowd, another, smaller, family arrive. I can see more people showing interest in the van, and I try not to panic. I serve the first two lots of customers, then prepare for the third. This is another family. Just five this time, but it's enough. And they want a lot.

I am so busy trying to decipher what the lady is saying – I can't quite place it, but she has a strong accent, and anything other than loud, slow and clear has always been a sticking point for me – that it takes me a moment to notice the feeling on the inside of my knee. I rub my knees together in an attempt to brush away the itch. But it returns. Higher up this time. I want to swear, but I hold it in. I had already looked a wally wiggling around getting to the last itch, so I would wait until I had finished serving the customers before I got down and raked at this itch with my nails. The tickling sensation moves higher and I huff. I lean over to take the money from the short lady – who seems to give no thought to attempting to meet me half way – and gasp stupidly as the sensation rushes up my inner thigh. I grin and swap over money after a quick mental count, then hand the change over. Just when I think I can see to this nuisance, another family arrives. I curse them inwardly, but smile at them. We go through the same routine, but this time I am getting a little antsy. I try not to let it show. That tickling sensation is getting uncomfortably high, and I am going to have to stuff my hands down the front of my shorts to sort it now. Something brushes lightly over the sensitive skin of my scrotum, and I shudder. What the fuck? My eyes dart to the other side of the van to ensure Dean isn't watching me and laughing at me. He isn't. But where the fuck is he? Surely I would have noticed if he had squeezed past me and pushed off out. There was scarcely space to swing a cat, let alone for a full grown man to wander past unnoticed. I flush as I felt my shorts beginning to restrict. I shift my weight, praying that I wasn't going to get a boner. Not now. I hand over the change, and sigh as a young couple approach. I now have a raging hard on, and I bent over at a strange angle trying to make myself as comfortable as possible. I serve the couple, then reach down my hand to adjust myself. My eyes drop down, and for the fifth time, my jaw drops. "Dean?" I say, indignant.

He grins at me from under the counter.

"What the fuck are you playing at?"

He wrinkles his nose and taps on the side of it. "Don't tell me you didn't like it."

"I could get you done for child molestation." I hiss. Before I get a chance to continue my threats, another family approach. I put on my poker face and start serving them. I can feel what I now know to be a hand trailing up the inside of my thigh again, tickling at my groin. I have to stop myself from crying out when I feel Dean's nose nuzzle against my erection. I knee him in the head. I smile and pretend I haven't heard the subsequent thud and string of curses. "Is there anything else?" I ask politely. They shake their heads, thank me then leave.

Dean stands next to me, and my smile dissolves as I glare back at him. "What in the name of fuck do you think you're doing? If you touch me one more time-"

"You'll what?" Dean's hand brushes over my crotch and I shudder again. I am ashamed to say that I want him to do it again.

Perhaps I left one vital detail out. Dean is really fucking hot. I am talking male model; emerald green eyes, prominent cheekbones, rich, tanned skin, full lips, the works. Everything perfect a man can have, all wrapped up in one package. I'm not exactly gay, but I know a hot guy when I see one. And I might have had a steamy run in with one of the guys on my baseball team, but we were both high, so as far as we were both concerned, nothing had ever happened. Dean though. Wow. Just wow.

Just to clarify, yes the swap in tenses is deliberate (: It's like, it starts at one point, then goes back to explain what happened to get to that point, then it returns to the starting point and continues :)