I took a drink of my coffee, eyes dropping to her mouth as she wiped a bit of yolk from the corner, smiling. Her lips were plump, bee-stung, and heart-shaped. Almost like they were permanently set in a pout.
Kissable.
She wiped the egg off her hand and rolled her eyes at something her friends said, taking a drink of tea.
An insane thought overcame me.
Ask her out.
“Void?”
A woman with long blonde hair and light-brown lashes stood in front of my table. She wore jeans and a large hoodie, the left sleeve frayed like she’d tugged on it repeatedly.
Shit. Focus.
Thiswas why I was here.
“Tish?” I asked, standing to my feet a little too quickly. Feeling frazzled—fuckingfrazzled—by a woman and her avocado toast.
Tish nodded, and I flung my goddamn hand out in an attempt to invite her to sit. Instead, my hand collided with my coffee. It propelled backward, splattering right in my lap.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” she asked.
I smiled through gritted teeth, trying to convey calm and not at all let on that the fires of hell were currently burning my cock right off.
So this was not how this usually went.
What was supposed to happen was she’d sit down, I’d make some stupid joke to make her feel comfortable, she’d give me what I needed, and I’d leave.
“I’m great,” I said, gesturing again to the seat.
She slid into it.
“Did you find the place all right?” I asked.
It was a good thing I didn’t date, because my cock has melted.
My thoughts drifted to the avocado woman. Would she be into a Ken doll dick?
That was all I had to offer now.
Tish didn’t respond, gaze shifting nervously around the restaurant.
“I hope you’re okay with avocado toast,” I continued. “It’s on me. So no need to take out a second mortgage.”
Would it be weird if I poured her ice water straight into my lap?
She smiled half-heartedly at my bad joke, but the wrinkles in her face relaxed, and her shoulders slumped.
I’d been told I had a soothing voice, that my presence made people feel safe. They said it as if it were a sign of my moral character and not something I’d honed and crafted.
Fear made people unpredictable, and I didn’t do unpredictable. Everything from the brand of oranges I bought, to the number of people who knew where I lived, to the way I dated, was controlled.
Even this restaurant choice—busy enough that no one would remember my face or who I’d been with—was carefully crafted.
“Good,” I said. “Did you bring what I asked?”
She nodded, pulling out a grocery bag—another carefully orchestrated choice. A manila envelope all but said,Look at us, we’re doing something shady.
