17. Your Usual
seventeen
Your Usual
Onyx: 2024
H ormones are worse than devil birds! They swoop in uninvited, peck around at your lady bits, and hover when you try to shoo them away.
The prick’s got me wishing I’d changed my thong before charging out of the cottage after him. He knew if he told me to stay, I’d leave, just to spite him.
Ugh, I totally let him mind fuck me!
The rich butterscotch scent intertwines with the bitter aroma, settling my hateful mood once I step in line. A middle-aged couple flirts disgustingly in front of me, to the point I almost gag. Who needs all that sickeningly sweet affection?
Someone who’s jealous of never getting any attention.
Maybe….
“You came back,” Amy gushes, her dark-painted lips stretched across her face, smiling at me.
Hesitantly stepping towards the counter, her joy setting me on edge. “Yup,” I answer, reading the sign above her, trying to avoid her bighearted stare.
She sways back and forth, oblivious to the heavy air hanging between us. “Your usual?” she asks, grotesquely sweet.
“Um… yeah,” I answer tensely.
How does one visit constitute a usual? Isn’t that a phrase most would use for a customer they’ve had for years? Or even months? I’ve literally ordered once, and the chick has it memorized?
I glance around the small shop, observing the few older people scattered around enjoying their day.
“Not my business,” she starts, causing me to flinch, not realizing she’d finished making my order. “It’s a little early,” she hints cryptically.
Glancing at my phone, my brows dip when I meet her questioning stare. “It’s almost eleven.”
She exhales as she leans on the counter, tucking some of the blonde strands hanging from her messy bun behind her ear. “I just meant, if you needed to talk…” her words hanging between us as she straightens to fold down the top of the small bag beside my to-go cup.
What the hell is she saying?
“Talk about what?” I ask somberly, letting out every bit of my confusion.
She finally catches my vibe, fidgeting with her dark nails. “Not judging, just sayin’, since you’re not at school…”
Annoyance drips over me. “I wasn’t feeling it,” I shrug, dropping my card on the counter, ready to cut and run.
“Sounds like a guy,” she throws out nonchalantly, one of her thick brows raised as she swipes the card.
“It’s not —” stifling my own words when I notice her read the name on the card before examining my throat.
This nosy bitch is stuck in left field without a chance in hell .
When I rip the card from her hand. “I get it. Guys are assholes.” She shrugs carelessly.
Fuck Vex! I hate turtlenecks!
“Whatever,” I sigh, grabbing the cup with so much force I almost pop the top off from how hard I’m squeezing it.
All I’m searching for is some damn privacy, to think. I remind myself as I hightail it to the back of the small shop and drop the small bag on one of the empty tables by the windows before falling into the empty chair. My mind spins as I take my first sip. Hendrix might be a lot of things, but I’ve never heard of him being an abuser. The few years he decided to hang around, he was… nice. I remember us playing dolls…
Noticing my phone on the table reminds me of the other task I need to handle.
He answers on the second ring. “Onyx?”
“Hey, Nolan.”
“What did you do?” he asks abruptly, causing me to roll my eyes and smile.
“Nothing. I’m Barbie, livin’ in her dream house.”
He sighs loudly into the phone at my joke. “Well, Barbie , shouldn’t you be playing school?”
I can’t help but giggle. “Barbie makes her own schedule,” I mock teasingly, happy to hear his familiar voice.
“Well, I’m not Ken, so get to the point. The real world’s busy,” he informs me shortly.
“Right. What are the privacy rules I’m being forced to endure in this agreement?” I ask, sipping my coffee.
“I don’t understand. You’re in the cottage, correct?” he inquires thoughtfully.
Licking my lips. “Yes. But, can the Donor Bag go in and root around whenever he wants?”
“I’ll have to do some checking. But in the meantime, hide your stash better,” he advises shortly as I hear him start shuffling around papers.
“Fine. Let me know what you find.”
“Behave, Onyx.”
“I’m always a good girl,” I mock before ending the call.
Smiling to myself as I lay the phone back on the table when I notice Amy standing at the end of the counter staring at me. My mood quickly darkens as I advert my eyes back to the window.
It’s nothing against her specifically. I’m just not that small-talk-share kind of girl. I don’t trust people enough to sit and talk about myself. I’m more of a sit in silence and listen while others ramble obnoxiously about their life. I don’t care if people think I’m mysterious, nice, or mean. I know I have RBF, and I’m fine with it.
Trying to shake off the dark mood that’s fallen over me, my mind spins like a Twister wheel, landing on an image of Carney and her clown from this morning. Snippets of past conversations I never cared to listen to float around my tired brain, forming hazy thoughts.
Vexen’s always been in or around my life, even when I tried to shove him away. When I’d gain a little distance, Mom would appear asking questions, which was the only time she ever took notice of anything I was doing. Unless you count the lectures she loved to give after discovering from Nolan that I did something she disapproved of.
It was never a secret that I was ‘ promised’ to Vex because of some bullshit bonding rule. Strip it down, and it’s just a way for the rich to stay rich without sharing it with the less fortunate. Certain names are meant to be together to gain power. Power I’ve never cared about because I don’t give a fuck about what goes on in some little town overlooking a dirty river. Honestly, money doesn’t mean shit to me. I’d rather live freely than be diagnosed under a microscope by people who pretend to know me.
So when did Carney get tossed into the salad?
If I’m expected to keep my hymen intact for a guy that I can’t stand, why does he get to dunk his noodle? How does that even add up? Never being allowed to date because my virtue was already given away like a cheap gift at bingo night.
Total double standards!
My eyes rake over the dilapidated building across the street as a memory presses against the back of my eyes.
The little girl on the swing snatches the two black roses from the boy's shaky hand and throws them at the bushes. “Roses are ugly! Only tulips are pretty!” the girl yells, tears spilling down her rosy cheeks.
Without thought, I shoved up the sleeve of my hoodie, my finger tracing the tattoo on my forearm. It’s a single black rose, wilting in the darkness, petals falling as they slowly die.
“Onyx?” her voice has me jumping.
Grace, Vexen’s mom, is standing a few feet away, worry etched on her face. “Hi,” I rasp before clearing my throat.
“Are you okay? You look a little lost,” she asks, glancing out the window at the rundown scene I’ve been staring at for lord knows how long.
Straightening in the chair, realizing I’ve lost track of time. “No, I’m fine,” I answer, quickly standing, ignoring the warm sensation covering my toes from the loss of feeling.
She watches me grab the trash from the table and follows me towards the trash can. “I was devastated to hear about Opal’s accident.”
“It was sudden,” I agree, tossing out the trash on my way to the door.
Her heels tap on the concrete as she follows me across the road to the gravel parking lot. “Vex said you’re having a little trouble adjusting,” she tries to question.
I spin beside the Jeep, hand already reaching for the handle. “Vex is wrong. I’m fine,” I assure firmly, hating the thought that he’s been talking about me. “See you around.” I wave, jumping into the driver's seat before she can speak.
I’m reversing from the spot before she’s reached her car.