Here comes the asshole of the morning.There’s always one. This time, it’s someone new, someone I haven’t seen here before. And nearly everyone here is a regular at this point. People stop by to grab their morning coffees before a long day at work, and then they come back to refuel during lunch.
I bring my eyes to a usual level where I’d expect to see a person’s face. But I’m met with a chest. A very wide chestdressed in a white shirt and rather expensive gray suit. One that probably costs more than both my kidneys combined.
I lift my eyes a little and nearly whistle. I mean, c’mon, I’ve been living in New York for the past five years. Attractive guys are a dime a dozen here. And yet, I want to whistle. His face is so symmetrical, it’s annoying.
His dark hair is cut short on the sides and a little longer on the top. Not a strand out of place. A normal human activity like walking or breathing would turn my hair wild. Not him though. It just sits on his head in the perfect shape he probably was born with, the damn symmetrical asshole. His face is disgustingly perfect, with a straight, big nose and somewhat plump lips which should never belong to a stuck-up guy like that because those lips are not meant for barking orders.
His pale skin looks like it has never seen the sun, and he might as well be a vampire. Under the bright lights of the coffee shop, he looks almost translucent.
The obvious lack of vitamin D makes his eyes look dull and bored. Like the look on the face of someone who’s seen it all and tried it all and now he’s bored to tears but he’s too bored to even cry, so he just looks like a mannequin from a mall. A very attractive mannequin with very dark circles under his very hard eyes.
“If you’re done staring, can I finally get my fucking coffee?” he says. His voice is low and rumbly. So rumbly, I nearly clamp my thighs shut because I feel his voice right between them, vibrating all the right places.
“I’m not.”
“What?” he asks in a quiet voice.
“Not done staring.” I lift my chin.
He narrows his eyes while they dart toward my eyebrow piercing, and I immediately get the sense he’s making judgments. So I squint my eyes even more in return. His nostrilsflare. But I don’t miss the moment his eyes dip to my front this time where the wet used-to-be-white shirt is still clinging to my chest, probably revealing the purple bra underneath. With no padding—it’s too hot for that.
I quirk my pierced brow, letting him know I’ve noticed, and his well-defined jaw clamps shut. So hard the muscles pop.
“Of course Mae will get your order, Mr. King,” Jerome interrupts the beginning of what could have been a fun story of a barista sticking a fork into one man’s eyes. “It’s such a pleasure to see you here. Very unexpected too.”
Even his last name is pompous. Mr. King my ass. I’ve never met a King in my life but heard of plenty. None of them sound like decent folks.
I plant a smile and go to make his coffee, because I can’t afford to lose this job now. Doesn’t mean I can’t have some fun with his coffee.
2
Ezra
Two months later
“Fuck!” I jump backward as the scorching hot coffee splashes all over my gray wool pants for the second time this week.
“Sorry!” the pink-haired disaster cries out as she circles the counter at the speed of light and starts dabbing a towel over my burnt cock. “I’m really sorry,” she mumbles, trying to push harder to get more liquid out but only making more mess. “I don’t know how that happened.”
Sure as hell you don’t.
The towel drops to the floor, but it doesn’t stop her from continuing the task she’s been doing. Instead of a towel, she starts using her palm, trying to spread the coffee all over me. I push her hand away, but she’s reluctant to be rid of my pants apparently, and in the process, she keeps brushing my cock with her hand. Once. Twice. I step backward, and she follows with her damn hand on my genital area.
“Sorry, I really don’t know what happened. One second itwas there,” a brush over my thigh, “and the next, it’s flying.” Another one.
I swat her hand away, and she stays away this time, looking sheepish for a change. I know how it happened, but I’m too fucking mad to say something. This…creaturehas been fucking up my coffee order for the past two months since I’ve started coming here.
How can one fuck up a cup of black coffee?one might wonder. Ask her, she knows. She burns the beans half the time, and the other half she either ‘accidentally’ drops sugar in it or a splash of whole milk. I don’t tolerate lactose. So I found out about the damn milk when I took a sip. A single sip is one sip too much.
I haven’t had a decent cup in the morning in two months. Ever since Martin, my assistant, announced he won’t have time to pick up coffee in the mornings because he’s dropping off his dog at doggy daycare. And when I don’t get my coffee before I open my laptop, the day goes downhill before it even starts.
We had a routine. He used to pick up my coffee and wait for me at the revolving doors by the entrance on the first floor. I got my cup, and we were good to discuss the agenda for the day. And now, ‘our schedules don’t align,’ according to him. What the fuck am I paying him for?
Ever since, by the time I reach my floor, I’m ready to spill blood. And she is the reason for that. She’s been messing up my mornings on purpose, I’m certain of it. Since the first moment I saw her. She was wearing a wet shirt. Obviously, it wasn’t intentional considering it was most likely coffee all over her chest. But she also wore a very thin bra underneath. Light purple. I close my eyes and still fucking remember how her nipples stretched the lacey material. They drew me in like damn lighthouses. I don’t think I noticed anything else that day.
Needless to say, that day I came to work with a half-mast and shitty mood, feeling like a creep.
It hasn’t gotten better since. Every time I see her, she has something peeking out: The strap of her bra—she likes bright colors. Her arm tattoo—I never thought I was attracted to them. Or even her damn tongue when she lets it out to lick her lower lip which is sometimes painted red. Sometimes, it’s natural. And I don’t know which one I hate the most.
