Sinking Tide (Tidal #2)

Chapter 1

Aoi

“You’re a barista and can’t even make my iced Frappuccino right?! Then quit your fucking job!”

It’s eleven in the morning, and I already have to share oxygen with infuriating people. If I were a barista having to deal with rude customers like that bald-headed man, I would quit on the spot because that’s simply intolerable.

He looks older than he must truly be. He has to be at least in his late forties, but damn, he looks ready to retire with the way his beer belly is bouncing all over the place.

I really don’t want to get involved, but he’s causing a huge ruckus in the coffee shop and embarrassing an innocent worker.

“Excuse me, sir? If you’re unhappy with your coffee, you should simply say so. There’s no need to yell at the lady who’s just doing her job.”

The customer turns around to face me and exposes a huge, crooked nose. Usually, I wouldn’t comment on someone’s appearance, but this man has got to hate himself for how he looks. The worst is that it’s not even his individual features that are unpleasant. It’s simply his face.

He has a big, lumpy mole on the right side of his chin with a hair poking out of it. Maybe he’s being rude to the barista because he’s so miserable with his appearance that he has to make it everyone else’s problem?

Either way, that doesn’t matter. Who cares if he’s unhappy with himself? That’s not a reason to disrespect and humiliate another person. Man, I feel bad for the young lady. Working in retail is unnecessarily stressful.

His Frappuccino doesn’t look strange. It’s perfect, actually–from the liquid in the cup to the whipped cream on top. What on earth is he complaining about?

“What the fuck are you getting involved for, huh?” he shouts, and with every word, he spits a drop of saliva right into my face.

“Look sir.” I wipe the spit off my face with the back of my sleeve. “Take your drink and leave. That’ll be better for everyone. You don’t like this coffee shop, and clearly nobody wants you here either.”

His face flushes with rage, and I swear I see smoke blowing out of his ears like a damn locomotive. Way to be dramatic.

“You disrespectful little brat. You think you can look down on me because you’re young? Show some respect for your elders!”

Fucking hell.

Is it so hard for him to just shut the fuck up and leave? I literally don’t have time for this crap. In less than an hour, I’m supposed to be at the agency for an important meeting–but no. I have to stop some idiot from ruining everyone’s day.

Why am I even getting involved? It’s none of my business. I could simply take my coffee and leave, but the embarrassed face of that lady is making me feel bad.

Before I can talk back and calm him down, he splashes his Frappuccino right onto my shirt. My white shirt.

Arguing is pointless. Words only work on those who listen, and in this instant, I’m seeing red. Grabbing the hem of my sleeve, I begin pulling it up, and crack my knuckles.

Fuck being a decent man. I’m going to break his nose.

Someone better hold me back because I’m about to relieve years of pent-up frustration on this bald-headed donkey. It would only be right, but Dixon waltzes in.

“What happened? Why are you drenched in coffee?” he asks, alarmed.

Dixon is wearing his favorite navy-blue blouse with light grey pants and loafers that match his blouse. His brown skin complements the color of his top and makes him glow.

Somehow, out of all the people I know, the one with the best fashion sense is Dixon. He’s always dressed like he’s going to a fashion show, and I live for it. He makes the dullness of life a bit more colorful.

The old man, on the other hand, isn’t done messing with everyone’s morning. He goes on and on about how I was the one to provoke him first and how, apparently, I was especially rude to him.

“I wouldn’t have been rude if you hadn’t been a piece of shit,” I mumble under my breath.

He must have visibly caught me mumbling because he explodes in fury and attempts to grab me by the collar, but Dixon interjects. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, sir? Do you seriously want to add physical assault to the charges when we report you to the cops?”

The old man clearly doesn’t want to get involved with the authorities, but still can’t shut his mouth to save his life. Instead, he starts claiming that the barista intentionally made his Frappuccino warm.

“I didn’t! The Frappuccino was iced,” she counters in a tiny voice, embarrassed by the scene unfolding.

Goodness, how much time have we wasted here? If I’m late for my meeting because of this shit sack, I’ll come back and make him eat his belt.

I cross my arms over my now sticky shirt and say, “The coffee was clearly cold, because if it hadn’t been, I would’ve felt it, considering you splashed it right onto my white shirt.”

“The meeting is in forty minutes, and this moron had to dirty your outfit! Mr. Williams hates tardiness. He’s gonna murder me if we’re late!” He turns to the customer and cracks his joints. “You’re dead meat.”

Okay, now things are about to escalate.

Dixon points his thumb back at me while addressing the rude old man. “Do you have a single clue who he is? Hmm? He’s an internationally renowned author, and you had the audacity to ruin a shirt I personally chose for him? Do you have a death wish?”

I grab Dixon’s arm and attempt to drag him out of the coffee shop. “Dude, stop it!”

“What are you doing? I’m not done teaching this dog a lesson!” he grumbles, fighting against my grip.

I wrote each and every single one of my novels under a pen name, so Dixon revealing my identity in a coffee shop will only cause trouble for me. I can’t let him ramble any longer.

“Do you realize you’re making everything worse? Get your ass out of here!”

“Huh? Why? He deserves to be chased out!”

I widen my eyes and press my lips into a thin line, silently warning him to shut up and follow me.

It takes him a second, then his eyes spark with mischief. “Fine, I get it, but just one last thing.”

“Oh my god, Dix, please don’t.” I facepalm myself, silently praying for a way out of this mess. “You’re gonna get us in trouble.”

“Hey, you old pig!” he calls out, loud enough for everyone to hear. “When you make a grave mistake, you’re supposed to apologize!”

The old man’s face contorts in a mixture of rage and shame, but we can’t admire it for long because Dixon grabs my arm and leads us out of the coffee shop.

Thankfully, the car is parked right in front of the building. I urge Dixon to get in and drive us to RTStar before we actually end up being late. He settles behind the steering wheel while I climb into the passenger seat. As he’s about to turn on the ignition, his phone starts ringing.

“It’s Jason,” he points out. “He couldn’t reach you, so he called me instead.”

I pull my phone out of my back pocket. Four missed calls. It’s not as much as I expected, but still, he doesn’t have to call every second of the day to keep track of me.

Jason hasn’t changed much in the last eight years. He’s still as cruelly handsome and as possessive as he used to be. After the day I… Anyway, I packed my stuff from the apartment in Seattle and moved to New York with him.

I couldn’t bear to stay alone. One second in my thoughts sent me spiraling, tumbling down the abyss of guilt and self-hatred.

I’m better now. I don’t hate my guts anymore.

Okay, that’s maybe not entirely true, but it’s not a lie either.

At least, I’m happier. I moved on a long time ago, and I’m completely fine with what I did.

Not everything was horrible after that day. As a matter of fact, I signed my first publishing contract with RTStar around the same time. I had been working in the agency part-time for five years until Mr. Williams, the CEO, offered me a full-time job as an editor.

I turned him down, of course. My dream had been to become an author, and if I worked full-time, I wouldn’t have been able to work on my novels and finish my degree. So when he told me he wanted to sign me as one of his authors, I obviously agreed.

Dixon became my manager a few days after I signed with RTStar as a full-fledged author.

He was overjoyed by the promotion and wanted to treat me to an expensive steak.

I felt bad revealing I’m vegan, but then he told me that the only thing that mattered was that we celebrate together–not what we ate.

My life is pretty comfortable. I’m doing great financially, and I spend my days doing everything I want. In seven years, I wrote and published fifteen international bestsellers. Good job, me!

Nothing else changed. My life stayed pretty much the same. Like a cycle: I write, they sell out; after work, I find myself a hot man and get laid.

Well, until recently I did. Since I started dating Rachel Smith, a Hollywood actress, I refrain from sleeping around out of respect for her. We agreed to be in a relationship for our mutual interests.

She doesn’t know I’m gay and is only dating me to piss off her ex-boyfriend, which she made crystal clear. It sounds silly, but I don’t care, since it keeps nosy people from digging into my life and finding out I like to suck dick like a fucking lollipop.

“Aren’t you gonna call him back?” Dixon asks, taking a left turn.

I massage my temple. “No. He needs to learn the definition of personal space and patience.”

“Alright.”

“By the way, thanks for earlier.” I scratch my nape. “For defending me. That was nice.”

“We’re friends, Aoi. If I don’t defend you, please fire my ass.”

“I don’t think I could ever do that.”

He laughs. “You’re right. You’re too kind.”

My clothes are sticky, and I smell like coffee. It’s disgusting. Which means, he has to drop me off in front of the building before heading to my hotel room to fetch me clean clothes while I wait for him. He doesn’t waste much time before driving off, and I stroll into the giant lobby of RTStar.

I wondered for a long time, when I first started working part time, why the hell this building is so damn big.

Turned out Mr. Williams is passionate about books, and has invested a massive amount of his fortune in this agency.

He owns a chain of luxury hotels, a bunch of stocks, and has more assets than I can count, whereas his wife is a philanthropist and a scientist.

Rich people and their free time. I doubt I’d be as invested, even if I had their wealth and their life.

Mr. Williams takes care of RTStar as a side hobby more than a real job. That’s probably why he’s so carefree and spends loads on his authors, especially the bestselling ones.

The moment I enter the building, I’m greeted by a group of employees taking a coffee break on the couches. Jason is sitting on a white leather armchair, checking his watch like he’s running out of time.

He catches me walking in and immediately gets up, striding toward me. “What happened to your shirt?”

“Coffee accident. Nothing crazy.” I shrug. “Some asshole splashed his drink on me, but it’s alright. Dixon’s fetching me a clean set of clothes.”

He’s wearing a black tailored suit, and his hair is styled back. Perfect as usual. It’s infuriating.

“How is that nothing? Did you get burned?” he questions and grabs my arm to check for burns, but I yank it away. “Show me.”

“I’m fine.”

Jason grits his teeth and sighs exasperatedly. “With you, fine doesn’t mean much.”

I swear, I want to punch him right here and now. I hate when he insinuates that I’m lying when I say I’m doing well. Just because I messed up once eight years ago doesn’t mean it will happen again.

Either way, I don’t need the world to see us displaying public displays of affection. Other than tarnishing my reputation, it won’t do me any good to let people know about our destructive history.

Talk about a scandal.

I turn away from him and rush to the bathroom at the end of the hallway near the elevators. The door closes behind me, and I lean against the maroon and beige sink. The cool sensation of the marble against my sweaty palms brings me back to reality for a heavy second.

I’m nervous at the prospect of a meeting I called and have to present. It’s a never-ending story. I want to announce an important project, but I sometimes wish someone else could do the talking for me. Why can’t I just telepathically project my thoughts instead of forcing out a vomit of words?

Heart hammering in my chest and ears buzzing, I scratch the scar on my forearm. Jason’s presence hasn’t eased the tension at all. I don’t hate him, but the fondness I once felt regarding him has dissipated, and a darker, colder feeling took its place in my heart.

I suck in a deep breath, splash some cold water on my face, then swallow two pills. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, watching droplets of water dripping from the brown hair framing my face.

Maybe Jason’s right. I’m just a pretty face, but beyond that, I’m hollow. People like the shell they see, the projected perfect exterior. Not me. They wouldn’t like me if they saw even a fragment of what hides underneath the crafted smiles.

I shake my head and blink, slowly shutting my eyes with a deep breath.

I’m okay. It’s going to be okay.

I can do this.