Ignoring the peanut gallery, I pour myself a filtered coffee and breathe deep.
I really don’t feel comfortable talking to strangers. And it’s not that I don’t like them. It’s that I lose my cool when I have to talk and do math and perform under pressure. Making coffee, pushing buttons on a machine, and holding a conversation all at once? Especially a machine I’ve got no idea how to run? Nightmare.
Add in small talk and it’s sheer torture.
My eyes lose focus and my hands go still halfway through tying on an apron. Oh my God. What if that’s part of what I like about my nighttime escapades? We bypass all the awkward get to know you business and go straight for the good stuff.
“You all right?” I turn to face the crowd. The speaker is a middle-aged Black woman at the front of the line, in expensive gym clothes. She looks like she just left her hot yoga class. “We’ll be nice. Promise.”
“I won’t bite,” comes a deep voice from behind her.
“Unless you ask him to,” someone else calls out. Everyone laughs.
Others join in. “Might have to beg.”
“Nice apron.”
I look down and break into giggles when I see that it’s got enormous naked breasts printed on it. “Thanks.” Humming nervously under my breath, I do a half circle, open a fridge, pull out milk, find the coffee beans, the grinder button. Okay. There’s a wet rag here for cleaning the steamer. Cups are there. All to-go, which makes things easier. Muffins and donuts and cookies in the case. I can do this.
“Okay. What’ll it be?”
“Triple shot half-caff caramel latte with a third almond milk, a third soy and… Nah. Just kidding.” The woman grins. The motley crew behind her joins in. No one here seems rushed, so at least there’s that. “I’ll take a latte. Large. No bells or whistles.”
The look I give her is relieved. “Thanks.” I turn to make the drink and add a second, remembering poor Max back at the site, waiting for me. Probably worried by now. The woman, Jeanette—a spanking slut who has three partners, a dog, and a Sibian back home (and is possibly an over-sharer)—is happy to bring Max her coffee, especially since she’ll be heading to the burlesque class immediately afterwards and is dying for a chance to chat with her first. I push some buttons on the screen, have her swipe her card, relieved when it goes through, and move on to the next drink and the next, fueling myself with sips of my own coffee when I can.
The minutes speed by. By the time I get my head out of the weeds, it’s almost eleven, which I cannot believe. Bone-tired, I spray the counters and espresso machine, run a bar towel over everything, look over at the wall clock and catch sight of the message board, which I’d totally forgotten up until now.
Insides fizzing, I head over for a closer look.
19
Liev
I came straight backto my studio last night, where my hunk of granite called out like a long-lost siren.
I haven’t slept. I’ve only hammered. I couldn’t stop, not even to take a break. When it comes on like this—and it’s been a hell of a long time—chipping away at a rock is a compulsion I can’t deny, my hands and eyes and brain so focused on making, my other bodily functions cease to exist.
My eyelids are gritty, my calluses scraped raw, hands sore, arms putty. I need to piss, grab a coffee. I should probably eat. I need sleep, too, but first…
I have to check that damn message board.
I slug back a glass of water, refill it at the tap and down another. My body’s dead tired, my muscles stiff slabs of rock, my bones hurting like they never used to when I was a young artist, pulling all-nighters for the fun of it. I set the glass down and it’s smeared with dust. A look down shows my entire body in the same state. Shit.
Maybe I’ll call Lamé, check in on things and just casually ask if there’s anything new to report.
Before I can question myself too deeply, I grab my phone. Battery’s in the red, but it should be enough.
I hit call and wait. No response. Impatient, I try again, this time on the landline instead of Lamé’s mobile.
Immediately, someone answers. It’s definitely not Lamé.
“Um, hello. This is the coffee shop. Uh, Kink Camp coffee shop, I mean.” There’s a rough edge to the voice that makes me think I’m dreaming.
“Who is this?”And what is it about your voice that’s made my cock half-hard?
“Uh, this is Grace, filling in for Lamé. Who isthis?”
“This is Liev.” I shut my eyes and dig into them hard with my thumb and forefinger. I’m too tired to figure out if I’m imagining the similarity between this voice and my mystery woman’s “Where’s Lamé?”
