When a beep comes through my headset, telling me someone is here, I groan to myself before saying, “Welcome to The Bean. What can I get for you tonight?”
Snickers come through my headset, and I roll my eyes, bite my tongue, and wait for the bullshit to subside.
“This is our first time; please be gentle.” A guy chuckles.
You have got to be kidding me. I cringe to myself. I hate these kinds of idiots.
“Any suggestions?” a smooth, low, raspy voice says, or sings, or tries to sound sexy—whatever.
Gross.
I don’t say a thing.
“Tell me; is there a secret bean that will make me crave no other bean ever again?” Yet another male voice asks.
“Bro, do not do that to her. If she tells you, she could get fired,” smooth, low, raspy voice says, or sings, or tries to sound sexy—again, whatever.
Again, Gross!
And then … all together, they laugh hysterically, and a couple different voices say, “For spilling the beans!”
“We close in two minutes, so either order or drive away with some dignity.”
“Oh, shit.” One laughs.
“Guessing that means no time for a sampling?” Another now laughs.
Fuck them, I think as I watch the clock tick to nine p.m. and reach over, killing the lights.
“Oh, come on; it’s a holiday. We’re weary travelers who want to chow down on the bean. Be kind and ask yourself: what would Jesus do?”
One of them whispers as if I can’t freaking hear them, “It’s Thanksgiving Eve, man; Jesus is next month, so it should be: what would the Pilgrims do?”
I hear a laugh. “Right, too much smoke.”
And now they’re pulling at my one heartstring. They’re high, which somehow makes stupidity a little more bearable.
I let out a long, exaggerated sigh then tell them, “You have two seconds to order, so save the one brain cell you share combined, and the history lesson, and place your order or jet.”
“Whatever’s easiest, babe. There are three of us,” smooth, low raspy says, or sings—again, whatever.
And again …
Gross.
“Babe?” I huff.
“Dude, ma’am, miss, sir, or whatever pronoun floats your boat, three coffees, three burritos, whatever flavor is convenient. We’re easy.”
Chapter 2
“Confidence is the sexiest thing…
a woman can wear.”
~Author Unknown
Patrick
“You two tryin’ to get my ass in trouble as I’m saving yours?” I ask, attempting to put them in check, but right now, they’re a damn trip, and it’s hard as hell not to laugh.
“Fucking brownies.” Max chuckles from the back seat. “Who’d have thought?”
“I’m gonna go with everyone else at the party, under the damn pier, but the two of you.” I shake my head.
Still waiting on a total, I look over at Amias then back at Max. “Look, I don’t want to have to do this, but you’ve given me no choice but to remind you of the rules. You two don’t take an open drink from anyone at a party, because—”
“Dude, we’re not chicks.” Max laughs.
“Or …” I pause long enough to make sure I have Cheech & Chong’s attention. “Buy a fucking brownie from a white guy with dreads. Clearly, he’s not the head of the PTA, and obviously, it’s not a fucking bake sale at Saint Mary’s. You wanna hang with the big dogs without JT or me, you follow those rules. Or have Truth or Brisa—”
Amias laughs now. “We expect good advice from you. That’s some bullshit, and you know it.”
Max chimes in, “Yeah, I mean, let’s talk about where you went tonight and—”
“Let’s.” I arch a brow at him. “You interrupted my date.”
“Getting a dick in isn’t a date.” Max laughs.
Little shit’s right, but still … Could have gone for round two; at least given her another orgasm. I mean, shit, she’s the only one of the masses sliding in my DMs that was straight up wanting to fuck. How do I know this?
Her message: You’re hot. I’m hot. Let’s fuck.
Nothing sexier than a woman with confidence. Well, nothing except the next message.
Her: One time.
Me: I like that rule. No sense in catching feels at 17.
Her: *high-five emoji*
“I’d have left mid-thrust if any of you needed anything, but that’s not the point. The point is, follow the rules, don’t lie to a chick to get sucked or fucked. Plenty out there who know what they want. Don’t leave room for interpretation. We all know what happened to Noah Beckett, and we all know that’s some major fuckery of the me-too movement. And don’t put a damn thing in your mouth unless you know where it came from and where it’s been.”
From the speaker comes, “That’s nineteen dollars and fifty-eight cents, and add extra for my therapist. I’m going to need extra sessions to be able to digest the bullshit I just heard from you all tonight.”
I smirk as the boys begin to laugh, and then I put the Jeep in drive.
At the window, I watch as this chick, who I would have expected to be a fuck of a lot bigger than the maybe buck ten, based on her voice and give-no-fuck attitude, fills a bag. She’s in jeans that are too big, belted with black leather that wraps around her tiny waist, a tee-shirt tied in a knot in the back, looking like a bunny tail. Her jet-black hair is in pigtail braids, hanging about waist-length and thick as hell beneath a backward ball cap. Her ass, like an onion, brings a tear to one’s eye.
Max leans up and thinks he’s whispering as he says, “I got a fifty that, when she turns around, she’s like sixty years old and has meth mouth.”
She whips around as Amias leans back and “whispers” to Max, “Nothing wrong with older women, especially ones who look like that from behind. At least they know what the hell they want.”
Her large, almond-shaped eyes are several shades of brown, maybe even yellows and a tinge of whiskey. They rival the beauty of the season that is now all but gone. Lashes, long and thick, naturally frame them. Truth be told, if they weren’t the
