Page 91 of At His Beck & Call

There’s a great little coffee house a few doors down from the office, and I go inside, passing a woman with a tiny cockapoo in her arms, running out into the snow.

I order a latte and watch the flakes passing by, wondering where Lissa is this evening and considering my options of what to do about her.

In my mind, there are three:

One: Fire her. Get rid of her before my stupid heart gets more involved than it already is. She doesn’t want me, not in the way I want her.

Two: Continue as we are, but keep it strictly business. No more vulnerable moments where I allow her to see my past, or the history written on my skin.

Three: Tell her the truth and let the chips fall where they may.

I turn to grab my coffee and walk back out into the street, a wry smile on my face. The mere thought of the third option is ridiculous to me. As if someone like Lissa would ever care about me—a man who pays her to fuck him.

I grimace, coming to a stop in the center of the sidewalk, staring at my reflection in the store window beside me.

My hair is covered in little speckles of snow, my nose red from the cold.

You’re nothing. Nobody.

My father’s voice in my head echoes, loud and angry. I try to shake it off, pushing away the feeling of inadequacy that rumbles at the back of my mind, but it’s hard to silence the words you’ve had inside your head your whole life.

As I step into the center of the sidewalk, there’s a screech of tires behind me, and a moped trying to avoid the traffic on the road speeds past me as I leap out of the way.

The driver yells something inaudible as the front tire skids on a patch of ice, swerving to avoid me. The moped slides into several bags of trash, turning onto its side.

The driver is thrown from the seat and into the road, almost getting hit by a cab, which stops just in time.

Resting my coffee on the windowsill beside me, I run over to the moped driver, who is lying on his back in the trash, cursing loudly. Several other people have stopped, and three of them are filming the whole thing, and another is just uselessly gawking.

Sometimes I really hate people.

“Here,” I say, offering my hand. He grabs it and staggers to his feet. “You hurt?”

He pulls off his helmet and shakes his head. He’s a Latino guy, good-looking with a short beard and a broad smile.

“I’m so sorry, man, I was trying to go around the car and didn’t see you. Are you okay?”

“I’m good. You’re sure you’re not hurt?” I ask him.

“I’m good, but I hope my bike’s okay.”

We both turn to look at the moped lying in the pile of trash, one wheel still spinning.

I haul it up for him, and he laughs, punching me lightly on the arm.

“Dude, you are fuckin’ huge. How did I miss you? Thanks.”

The cab driver yells angrily, throwing his fist in the air before he drives off, and my companion just waves at him cheerily.

“You stay safe, okay?” he says, throwing one leg over the side of the bike and winking at me as he puts his helmet back on.

“Keep off the sidewalks,” I say as he chuckles and slams his hand onto his helmet before speeding away at a stupid pace, shooting around cars and pedestrians and off into the night through the haze of snow.

I go back to my coffee and take a sip. I listen instinctively for any more screeching brakes, unable to imagine that guy is going to make it through the night at this rate.

Reaching the top of the street, I look to the left and right to head across the road. But I see something in the window of a restaurant further down on the right-hand side that catches my eye.

I go still, my heart hammering, as I stare at Lissa’s smiling face, sitting at a table in the window. She’s laughing; happy and carefree.