Page 12 of Bratva Sacrifice

That’s nice of him, but I really do need the money. Although that ninety-two dollars and change will cover my motel for two nights, which gives me a little more breathing room. “I’m not calling out of work horny,” I say beneath my breath, and Darren laughs as he gets back to restocking the lids.

“Damn shame,” he says with a grin as he crumples up the discarded plastic wrap. “I highly recommend it.”

∞∞∞

The evening rush parades through the coffee shop. Thank God there’s three of us on shift. Becky’s shift overlaps with mine by an hour. She’s a high-school senior saving up for her first car. Bubbly and bright, she’s always humming along to the music or chatting with the customers who love her for it. Jared—a twenty-something who never wakes up before noon—came in just after my afternoon break. He and Becky close the store together on weeknights.

Even with the three of us, there’s not a moment to spare for the entire hour. It’s the same dizzying rush night after night; cups stack up beside the register as we multitask to the best of our ability. Darren is making constant runs to the storeroom to refill specialty syrups—toffee, in particular, is popular today—and retrieve gallons of milk to restock the fridge, which is in perpetual threat of running empty.

The tip jar, however, is full. Darren’s coffee shop is popular with the locals, who seem to prefer independent stores over chains, and while I’d normally expect the morning customers to give the best tips—since the under-caffeinated are also sometimes over-grateful—it’s actually the night shift that picks up the bulk of the tips. I mostly attribute this to Becky’s innate exuberance. It seems that every time she rings in a sale, at least a couple of dollars go straight into the tip jar.

And there’s a lot of sales this evening.

I’m on my hands and knees behind the counter, sponging up a spill that happened when a customer didn’t properly put on his coffee lid after adding cream when Darren freezes in his tracks somewhere behind me and lets out a soft, “Whuh.”

I know that sound. It’s the one Darren makes when he sees a particularly attractive guy. There’s a couple of regulars that elicit that sound, one of whom Darren’s been not-so-subtly flirting with, and who has been flirting back. If they’re not already dating, I’m pretty sure they will be soon.

Becky sidles up to the point-of-sale system. I can hear the cheery smile in her voice as she asks, “What can I get you this evening?”

There’s the rap of fingertips on the counter. “Cat. She is still here?”

A shiver runs down my spine even as heat curls in my stomach. I recognize that deep voice; the softly-accented syllables. Alexei is Darren’s whuh.

“Oh!” Becky says brightly, and I can feel her gaze landing on my shoulders where I’m hunched on the floor behind the counter. “Cat?” she asks.

I’m embarrassed. I don’t even know why, but my cheeks are hot. Maybe it’s because I’ve been caught here on my hands and knees mopping up a spill while this strange man who can afford to drop a hundred in the tip jar like he’ll never miss it is standing at the counter asking for me. Maybe it’s because I can still feel the heat of his fingers on mine, like a brand seared into my skin.

“Cat,” Darren whispers, and it’s not in the tone of a business owner demanding obedience. Instead it’s laden with undertones of Girl, you are crazy if you don’t stand your ass up right now.

I’m a mess. I look like I’ve been put through the wringer. Which I have, because it’s been an exceptionally busy day. I’m sweaty from using the milk frother for nearly an hour straight, my hair is frizzy and poking out in straggly strands from beneath my baseball cap, and I’m pretty sure I have marshmallow in my ponytail from a mishap with the topping for our toasted marshmallow latte.

Definitely a downgrade from what I looked like six hours ago, when Alexei first came in. Not that I looked great—but at least my hair looked like it had been brushed this century.

There’s an expectant hush as I climb to my feet. Becky shuffles to the left, busying herself with refilling the napkin dispenser. Jared darts off toward the storeroom, probably for another restock. Darren looms over my shoulder, his effervescent giddiness obvious even with my back turned toward him.

And Alexei waits at the counter, as if he has all the time in the world to spare. He’s not concerned about Darren, or the half-dozen other patrons scattered about the coffee shop at their tables. He grins as I emerge from beneath the counter, that same sharp wolf-smile that makes my stomach flutter.

“Uh,” I say, inanely. “Hi.”

“Hi.” That grin widens, carving a dimple into his cheek.

Darren makes an enthusiastic little sound behind me, like he’s watching a soap opera play out right in front of him. My cheeks burn hotter. I don’t know how Alexei manages that easy, casual aura, as if he genuinely doesn’t care that at least three people are staring directly at him. “I guess you liked the coffee?” I asked.

“No,” he says, though he’s still smiling at me.

“No?” Huh?

“No,” he says, and he rests his forearms on the counter, leaning in.

I’m befuddled. “But you came back.”

“Yes. Try again, Katya. Something else, something that does not taste like a garden dipped in sugar this time.”

“Um. The toasted marshmallow latte”—I turn my head toward Darren, who shakes his head and makes a slicing motion across his throat—“is probably too sugary,” I conclude. “How about a dirty chai latte?”

“Dirty chai latte,” he repeats, his accent suddenly thicker, as if the words are unfamiliar. “What is dirty chai latte?”

“It’s, uh—it’s a chai latte with a double shot of espresso,” I say. “It’s a little sweet, but also spicy.”