Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance (64 page)

I slipped the cups into a drink carrier and stuffed a handful of creamers, sugar, sugar substitutes, and stirrers in a bag, then grabbed a wax paper sheet to pick out scones.

When I turned back to him, he was staring at me, head still cocked playfully to the side as though he had never looked away.

“No number…
really
?” he repeated.

“Come on, Owen, fun is fun,” I said, as much to myself as to him.

“OK, then come work for us,” he shot back.

I pursed my lips and raised my eyebrows, somehow managing a decent impression of Melita, I thought.

“Owen, that will be $15.47, please.”

He pulled a clip from his tight front pocket and peeled a hundred off without looking, then laid it on the counter. I didn’t even glance at it. “You’re too good for this place.”

“The owner’s a friend,” I replied.

“But you could be doing so much more,” he insisted, dropping his voice. I felt the timbre tugging at my chest, willing me closer. If he didn’t leave soon I was going right over the counter after him.

“The owner is a really
good
 friend,” I persisted. “I’m just helping out until this place is out of the toddler stage. Then it’s off to seek my glory.”

He gave me a raised-eyebrow look and took hold of the coffee and pastry bag.

“Glory, huh?”

“Well, as close as I can get to it. I promise to call you first when I am job-hunting.”

“Good, good,” he nodded, then looked down distractedly as his phone started buzzing in his other very tight front pocket. “I guess that will have to-- Oh hey. Looks like Lyle called a meeting for this morning. Say, do you have… Um… One of those really big coffees?” he asked. “Like for a meeting? Eight people?”

“Oh,” I said helpfully, “like the MegaChug? This?” I held up a bag-lined cardboard box with a handle and spigot. He nodded. “OK, sure,” I continued. “Just, uh… Give me a few seconds to get a new pot brewing here for you.”

“OK, sure,” he said in a faraway voice, thumbing the front of his phone. “No worries. Meeting’s in forty-five and I guess the espresso bar is out. Lyle can’t talk without coffee…”

I set a new filter in the brewer basket and pressed the red light, listening to it spring happily to life.

“Wait,” I interrupted, “you have an espresso bar… in your office?”

He looked up at me, the sudden sight of his aquamarine eyes sending my heart into a swirl of tight circles in my chest.

“Um, yes?” he answered carefully.

“But you’re here almost every day…”

He smiled and stared steadily back at me. I felt the gauges in my mind all entering the yellow-warning zone. If he didn’t leave soon…

“Well, you haven’t said yes yet,” he murmured in a low purr, dropping his chin slightly. Something snapped hard against my belly like a rubber band,
twang.

Danger! Danger! Red alert!
 cried a helpful chorus in my head, and I swung around to grab the kit of cups and condiments that I had prepared for these sorts of sales. Melita was somehow beneath me, a puddle of soapy water around her knees from cleaning the pastry case. My heel hit the water and slid out from under me, dropping me on my ass, Charlie Chaplain style.

“Oh, shit!” Melita exclaimed.

“Oh no! Are you all right?” Owen asked, leaning over the counter, his voice tight with concern.

“I am so sorry!” Melita mouthed silently into the air. I nodded and held up one hand like, yeah, it’s OK. Please shut up.

Sitting still for a few seconds, I checked my body parts one by one for the second time in less than twelve hours. With the same witnesses and everything, I realized with a cringe. I seemed whole, even as I wished for a nice sudden loss of consciousness to drag me out of this humiliation like a pebble swept off a beach in a hurricane.

A big old ass-bruise,
 I thought ruefully.
Oh, and yet another ruined shirt,
 I noticed with a frustrated frown. The bucket-sized coffee had split open, drenching the right half of my white uniform top. It stuck to me like dampened Kleenex, gathering in ridges over my lace bra. I plucked at it with my fingertips, trying to turn away.

“I was trying to, uh, stay out of your way!” Melita hissed. Her eyes were panicked and bloodshot.

I waved her off, trying not to be mean about it even as my skin raced with goosebumps in the air conditioning. “It happens, it happens,” I muttered. “Can you please help this nice man with his coffee? I’m going home.”

Melita edged toward the register, her hands holding her face, her mouth in a contorted pout of apology.

Clambering to my feet as gracefully as possible, I breathed evenly through my nose.
It’s just a shirt,
 I reminded myself.
And a little dignity, maybe.

“Just bring it by in a half hour,” Owen said, his voice low and even.

I forced myself to meet his eyes. Soaked in coffee, thoroughly disgusted by my lack of grace and painfully aware that I was practically naked in front of him, I expected to see judgment or perhaps a bit of a smirk… But, no. His expression alternated between concern and intense interest at his eyes skipped over the drenched, now-transparent shirt that clung to my skin.

I was reasonably sure he could see my nipple through the lace bra by the way his eyes lingered in a tight circle thereabouts. He didn’t seem amused at all. He seemed… hungry.

“Owen, I need to go change. Melita knows where your office is. She can--”

“No,” he said decisively, his teeth clenched. All the usual lighthearted jokiness was gone from his voice. Part of me was taken aback by his sudden change, and part of me was turning swiftly to jelly.

“Bring it in thirty,” he growled, not meeting my eyes again. He turned on his heel and strode toward the door, leaving me at the counter with my mouth hanging open, my skin burning under the clammy fabric, my inner turmoil still at red-danger-zone levels.

The glass door closed again with another chiming of the bell and Melita and I stood there staring at it for long seconds.

“Brienne, I just wanna say--” she whispered. I flung up a hand between us.
Stop.

“I do not want to talk about it,” I growled through my clenched teeth.

“I’m just really sorry!” she squeaked.

“Dave?” I called out as I walked gingerly to the back room, holding my shirt out from my chest with my fingertips. “Uh, Dave!”

I heard the sound of chair wheels on the linoleum floor and Dave stuck his head out of the office door horizontally. Making a face, he retreated, then reemerged, standing. He held his arms out in dismay.

“Wh-- what happened to you?”

“Um, coffee? Coffee happened to me?” I looked down. I was soaked to my knee. “The splashing, burning kind?”

He waved me off like I was beneath contempt. “Fine, go,” he sighed. “Tell Carl we are out of two percent. Thanks.”

I grabbed my sweater and purse from the hook and snuck out the back door. Luckily, mornings by Lake Michigan were pretty chilly even in July, so I always brought a sweater when I started my shift at 4:30am. Now, it helped keep me from looking like a wreck and drawing too much attention to myself as I hurried down Clark Street toward our apartment on Waveland.

Chicago really sizzles in July, and a few pedestrians glanced at me as I strode down the blazing white sidewalk with my sweater hugged tightly around me. People quickly averted their eyes as I approached.

Oh great, they probably think I’m a bag lady run amok. Nice. I probably look completely nuts.

I fished for the keyfob in my purse as I walked, gracefully unlocking the security gate without breaking my stride. I ducked and waved at the postman who was rolling his cart up to the building just before mine, hoping he couldn’t see the seeping stains across the front of my body.

Keying into both heavy doors, I breathed a sigh of relief when the cool air blasted into my hair and the ring of coffee-scented sweat around my neck. I jogged lightly up the stairs and down the nearly silent hall, pausing at our door to pick the next key out of the bunch, then stopped.

A voice inside the apartment was laughing, getting louder. I looked up in surprise. The bolt snapped open and the doorknob turned.

“--Oh, I know, right?? Ha ha ha!” came a voice as the door swung inward.

“Whitney?” I said dumbly, squinting at her shadow in the sudden blare of light.

My friend Whitney spun around at my voice. I cracked a smile at her automatically, though I was confused. Did I get the wrong door? Why was she here? Whitney’s mouth opened and then closed. She went pale around the rust-red stain of her lipstick.

“What are you…” I stammered, confused. Then I realized I knew the look on her face. She was surprised to see me. In my own house. I was not supposed to be here.

“Oh no,” I growled, the wave rising in my belly. “Not again! Oh, no no no!”

Stepping forward, I pushed the door the rest of the way open. Whitney put her hands up and backed against the hallway wall.

“Where is Carl?” I demanded, my voice a crazy bleat. “Carl?? Carl!”

Carl stumbled out of the hallway in a pair of baggy pajama pants and no shirt, skidding on the shiny wood floor in his bare feet. His eyes flew wide and his mouth opened as though ready to offer some explanation. Then he looked me over with shock and concern.

“What happened? Are you OK?”

I saw myself briefly through his eyes: sweat-soaked, coffee-stained, and red-faced from the hot walk. I probably looked terrifying. I sure hoped so.

But when I opened my mouth, nothing would come out. Whitney edged toward the hallway and I spun on her, pointing. She stopped in her tracks. Carl held out his hands.

“Listen, this is not what you--”

“Stop!” I said, finding my voice again and disappointed by how thin it sounded. “This?” I asked nonsensically, my hands flapping toward Whitney, toward the apartment, toward his shirtless, skinny torso.

A thousand things rushed through my head in a swift, torrential monologue - how could you? How could you do this again? Why Whitney? To hurt me more? Why not just leave? After everything? After I moved here to be with you? After I get up at 4am every day to work your stupid lame coffee house you ungrateful pig? WHY?

But instead I looked from one to the other and said nothing.

Fighting is what he wants. And I am not giving him what he wants.

I took a deep breath and glared furiously at each of them, then turned on my heel and stalked to the bedroom. I dragged a rolling suitcase from the back of the closet and stood with it in my upraised arms. The bed was unmade, the blankets scrolled into an S across the rumpled sheets. The pillows were bunched and sideways. I felt like I could smell them, all oily and curdled like it a fog in the room.

Biting back a groan of pain I flung open the case on the bed, yanking the drawers out of the dresser and just dumping everything inside.

“Brienne,” Carl called meekly from the doorway. “Can we talk?”

I refused to open my mouth, afraid of what might spill out. The taste of blood coated my tongue as I bit my lips closed. I threw my jewelry box in the case and got another suitcase from the closet.

“Bree, it really didn’t mean anything…”

The urge to vomit surged in my belly, a rusty orange swell of anger and confusion. I swallowed it back and pulled two drawers from the bathroom cabinet, then upturned them into the case.

“It’s just, things… I mean you have to know that things haven’t been good for a while…”

Shoes? The suitcases were getting pretty full. I grabbed some flipflops and two pairs of canvas sneakers. Melita would keep me in trashy heels forever if she had her way.

“Bree, say something, please,” he pleaded from the doorway.

Handbags? Fuck it. I’m just taking the Coach ones.
 

I grabbed a new t-shirt and jeans from the bigger bag and laid them aside on the bed.

Wait, Plain Jane? No I do not think so.

Vengefully I stuffed the jeans back in the case and drew out a pretty, flowered a-line dress, instead then zippered up the cases for good.

Turning, I walked toward Carl who backed quickly into the hallway with a terrified look and his hands up around his ears. As soon as he was clear, I slammed the door in his face and snapped the lock into place.

That felt pretty good
.
At least he finally cares how I feel, even if he’s just afraid I’m going to hit him.

Peeling off my damp, sticky clothes, I turned on the bathroom tap and threw a washcloth under the water. A shower would feel great, but I wasn’t about to get naked with him anywhere near me ever again. The razor glinted at me from the corner of the tub and I stopped, washcloth in mid-air.

You know what, fuck this.

I left my clothes in a pile on the floor and turned on the shower full blast, stepping in when the steam was choking and too hot to bear. I scrubbed the coffee off me with the cloth, nearly scalding myself, rubbing too hard at my neck and underarms, suddenly feeling as though I’d been coated in shellac. I wanted it all off.