5. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Kane
Maybe a sweet treat would help, I think to myself.
Even if it is to satisfy the hunger pangs and nothing else.
Jasper never allowed sweets in the house.
Like the rest of my life with him, everything was structured, scheduled, and pre-planned, even our meals.
It’s not that I couldn't have had something sweet then, but I would have had to ask for it, and honestly? I would have rather guzzled glass than ask Jasper for anything. Because that would mean I owed him, and I didn’t want to be in his debt.
I never asked to be adopted. I never asked him to send me to private schools or pay for expensive therapies, or to buy me the latest toys or tech.
And as far as I’m concerned, he could never give me anything I wanted because the one thing I wanted was dead because of him.
No cake or cookie was ever going to change that, no matter how sweet it probably was.
Though now I don’t reach for sugar unless I’m drunk.
For the most part, I try to eat healthy; stay in shape.
I work out every day, usually first thing in the morning when I get up.
Margaret says my working out is just another form of control.
I think she’s full of shit, but what do I know?
I’m not the one with the degree. I dropped out of Syracuse after my first semester because I’d only gone to placate Jasper, who insisted I needed to go to college to get a good job.
If only he could see what I do now. He’d probably have a heart attack, considering I make more than he does, and I don’t even have to leave my house.
Still, the smell of cinnamon and sugar is too much to ignore, and I can’t deny that I could go for a coffee right now, if only to warm up my insides after being exposed to the bitter cold and because the coffee group provides us tastes like leftover burned sludge.
I rarely drink it because of that reason, opting instead to hold it to keep my hands warm because the heat in the room doesn’t always work right.
Besides, I think I deserve it after that disaster session with Margie. Maybe it will make me feel better.
So I follow the scent of cinnamon rolls and strong coffee, my footsteps echoing in the cavernous lobby.
I don’t usually spend much time up here on the main floor, on account I usually head straight to the elevators and take them down to the floor where group meets.
But some of the guys have tried the new cafe that opened up here about a month ago and said it’s pretty good, and it’s close, so I figure why the hell not.
I glance at the coffee kiosk, at the sign that reads Nectar Coffee of Mama’s blue velvet dress that she’d wear sometimes when we needed to get dressed up.
Not that we did that often; I can only remember getting all gussied up twice in my life.
Once for a funeral, and once when Mama took me to see a play downtown.
Phantom of The Opera, I think it was. Though I can’t be sure, it was a long time ago, and most of my childhood memories that I do remember are sort of hazy and vague at best. But as I look into those deep, vast pools of sapphire, I can’t deny something inside of me awakens; something foreign but familiar at the same time.
I take in the sight of him; of his youthful innocence juxtaposed with an intriguing darkness.
His complexion is fair; a hauntingly beautiful contrast to his deep blue eyes and dark brown hair. I don’t miss the way he checks me out; the way his gaze drifts from my eyes to my mouth, or the quick glance that dips lower before rising back up to meet mine.
“Can I help you?” he asks, his voice smooth and decadent like sweet icing.
There’s an intrinsic desire; a spark, if you will, that wants to ignite within me. Part of me wants to tell him yes, I know precisely what I want.
Him.
Or more specifically, to watch the pupils of those big, sapphire eyes dilate, while my cock disappears between his plump, perfect lips. Because I’m a fucked up asshole who can only be with strangers whose names I’ll forget in the morning along with the memory of any pleasure.
The urge to switch on that persona—the bold, dominant part of me that knows how to command, how to get exactly what I want, at least when it comes to boys like him—boys I can break and put back together again piece by piece—is tempting.
But that isn’t why I came here, and though I know it would be far too easy to let go, to give in, I can’t bring myself to do it.
But I want to.
More than I should.
Maybe if we were anywhere else—a cafe in the city or a bar, or a club—I wouldn’t think twice about flirting with him, about telling him exactly what I want him to do to me.
Something tells me he would like that. Call it Master’s Intuition.
But this place, this building, is sacred.
It’s my sanctuary, the one place I can be myself, even if it is only in bits and pieces.
I don’t need to taint the one good thing I have with memories of mistakes I shouldn’t be making in the first place at my age.
For an hour or two, every Tuesday, here in these walls, I can just be Kane.
The guy who lost his mom and misses her more than anything.
Who wishes he could have stepped up and saved her.
Who holds onto the smallest bit of hope that one day he’ll know true happiness, even if it seems elusive at best. Maybe it’s a pipe dream, but it’s better than a nightmare on repeat.
I steal a glance at Mr. Cute Barista’s name tag, noting his name and its rather unique spelling.
Ryder.
Of course, even his name sounds like something straight out of a romance novel. Ryder, the sizzling young barista who makes the older, emotionally unavailable and traumatized son of a psychopath swoon like a damn princess in a Disney flick.
Maybe I should stop reading all these gay romance novels when I should be sleeping. Clearly, they are rotting my brain and not helping matters.
“No,” I grunt defensively. Ryder raises an eyebrow as I shake my head. What the fuck? “I mean, yes, obviously, I—”
“Do you need a minute to look over the menu?” he asks, his voice careful but also strangely judgmental. Probably because I look like a total weirdo, stammering like a damn idiot who doesn’t know how to talk to people.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Am I really this starved that I can’t think straight or speak coherently in the presence of a cute guy who’s probably way too young for me, anyway? Apparently, I am. Which is precisely why I have to ignore that nagging voice in my head.
Food, Kane. You need food. You’re just hungry, is all. Or is it hangry? Is there such a thing as horny-hungry?
I clear my throat again, shaking my head.
“Yeah, actually.”
Ryder nods. “Take your time.”
I glance at him, then at the menu. There’s a myriad of stuff on here, from fancy lattes to iced coffee and tea, and smoothies. It’s a lot.
Too much, in my opinion. What’s wrong with a simple, regular coffee? Why does everything need shots of this and that and whipped cream and what the hell even is cold foam? Isn’t that still whipped cream?
His gaze softens, and his smirk fades a bit as he speaks, pulling my attention.
“Rough day?”
I should tell him to just get me a damn cinnamon roll and a black coffee, and make my way downstairs to indulge in my contraband guiltily in isolation.
It would be the smart thing to do, no doubt.
But the words that escape my mouth are rougher than they should be; almost as if they’ve been unearthed from a grave deep inside of me, and I make my dumbest mistake yet today.
I answer him. Honestly.
“More like rough life,” I say with a sarcastic smirk. “What do you recommend for that?”
I’m not sure what I expect him to say or do. Maybe just ignore me and ask if I’m ready to order, but that’s not what he does.
Ryder smiles faintly, nodding in understanding.
“Whiskey, honestly.” He chuckles.
I can’t help but laugh at his sweet, smooth voice and the humor in it. And it’s like an entirely new switch has been flipped. One that I didn’t know existed until this very moment.
“I’m more of a beer guy,” I say as he bites his bottom lip, chewing on it.
“Whiskey is only good for funerals and divorce proceedings.”
Ryder laughs, the sound so genuine and carefree, it makes me smile and chuckle myself. The sight, the motion, sends a jolt of electricity through my entire body. When he stops, he shakes his head, that devilish smirk appearing once more, making my cock twitch and my heart flutter.
He’s got a sexy smile if I ever saw one, and I can’t deny the sight alone makes me think of all the ways I could elicit a response like that.
What would it take to make him smile other than bad jokes about alcohol?
To make him bite his plump lip like that?
What would the flesh of his lips taste like between my teeth?
Ryder shrugs as he lets out a sigh.
“Well, I don’t disagree with you, but the best I can do is a Mocha Mushroom coffee, if you’re looking for something to chill you out.”
“Mushrooms? In coffee?” I make a disgusted face. “That sounds terrible.”
Ryder shrugs again. “It’s not that bad.”
“You drink the fungus coffee of your own free will, or do they just pay you to say that?”
Ryder laughs again. The sound is like music to my ears. I’ve never heard something so beautiful before.
“No, but I wish they did,” he says.
Something about his voice, his sweetness, makes me feel better, even if it’s only for a moment.
“Alright then, Ryder,” I say, tasting his name on my tongue. “I’ll take one of your not-awful-not-paid to endorse-mushroom coffees and a cinnamon roll. Hot.”
“You got it, big guy,” he says as I pull out my card. I watch as he nods, ringing me up in the system.
“Name?”
I think for a moment about what to say. I don’t make it a habit of ordering coffee from fancy kiosks or cafes.
Though sometimes I order food from Door Dash or book reservations for things under my dominant persona, Mister K.
, since it’s vague and professional enough sounding and not difficult to fuck up spelling.
But when I open my mouth, it’s not my professional moniker that escapes my lips.
“Kane.” I tell him solidly.
Truthfully.
The fact that I’ve never told anyone other than the guys at group my name is not lost on me. But before I have a chance to change my mind, the whir of the receipt printing echoes, and a moment later, he’s handing it to me.
I take the flimsy paper from his hand, my fingers brushing the edge of his briefly before he turns away to start working on my order. And as I watch him—watch the way his shoulders move, watch the way he walks and moves, I tell myself it’s just coffee. Nothing more.
So why does it feel like my life’s about to change?