Chapter 6
I’ve Got This
Iarrive at Coffeelicious twenty minutes early because I couldn’t stand being alone in my flat anymore.
Felix is already there, leaning against the counter in full goth glory.
Today’s lipstick is deep burgundy, his eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass.
He looks like he could murder someone and get away with it because no one would dare to get in his way.
I wish I had even a fraction of his confidence.
“You look like shit,” he announces before I’ve even taken off my jacket. So much for subtle greetings.
“Good morning to you too,” I mutter, grabbing my apron from the hook behind the counter.
His dark eyes narrow as he studies me with that unnerving intensity he has. “Your aura is all over the place. Did the wards work? What happened?”
I busy myself with tying my apron strings, focusing on getting the bow just right. Anything to avoid his penetrating stare. “Nothing happened.”
“Liar.” He says it flatly, without accusation. Just stating a fact.
I sigh and turn to face him properly because there’s no point trying to hide anything from Felix. He can read me like a book, always has been able to. “The wards worked. Sort of. He couldn’t get through the barrier, but he showed up anyway.”
Felix’s eyebrows rise towards his hairline. “And?”
“And he thought it was adorable that I tried to keep him out.” I grab the coffee beans and start refilling the grinder, the familiar routine soothing my frayed nerves. “He said I have claws and he wants me to use them on everyone, not just him. He also explained what feeding would involve.”
“Oh my Satan.” Felix’s eyes widen and he leans closer, practically vibrating with curiosity. “Tell me everything.”
Heat floods my face and spreads down my neck. “I’m not telling you everything!”
“Come on! For research purposes!” He’s grinning now, shameless and eager.
“You just want to know if it’s spicy.” I give him a flat look, but my lips are twitching, fighting a smile.
“Well, yes. Obviously.” He doesn’t even try to deny it. “So?”
My face is burning now, and I focus very intently on measuring out the coffee beans. “He said he would need to touch me. Kiss me. Make me feel good. And he would feed on the energy from that.”
“Holy shit.” Felix leans against the counter, looking fascinated and maybe a tiny bit envious. “That’s actually really hot.”
“Felix!” I protest, but it comes out weak.
“What? A powerful supernatural being wants to give you orgasms? Sign me up!”
“He’s a shadow creature!”
“What? I’ve dated worse.” He waves a hand dismissively, his many silver rings catching the light. “Remember that guy with the ferret?”
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and my stomach immediately sinks when I see the caller ID.
“I have to take this,” I mutter, already dreading what’s coming.
I step into the back room and answer, trying to inject some cheerfulness into my voice. “Hi, Mum.”
“Adam! Finally! I’ve been trying to reach you all morning!” Her voice is shrill with irritation, as if I’ve committed some terrible offense by not answering immediately.
It’s seven-fifteen. She’s been trying to reach me for maybe twenty minutes at most, but I don’t point this out. “Sorry, I was getting ready for work.”
“I’m hosting a dinner party next Saturday, and I need you to be there.” She doesn’t ask. Never asks. Just tells me what I need to do and expects me to comply.
“Mum, I work Saturdays.” I keep my voice even, reasonable. Already knowing it won’t matter.
“So get the day off.” She says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like jobs are disposable and bosses are always understanding.
“I can’t just get the day off. We’re short-staffed as it is and my boss…”
“Adam.” Her voice takes on that sharp edge, the one that makes me feel like I’m seven years old again and have disappointed her in some fundamental way. “This is important. Your cousin James will be there with his new fiancée. The whole family wants to meet her.”
“That’s great for James, but I really can’t…” I try again, already feeling myself starting to cave under the pressure.
“You’re just being difficult.” She sighs heavily, as if I’m the greatest burden in her life. Like my existence is nothing but an inconvenience. “You know, James just got promoted again. Senior analyst now. Making very good money.”
Here we go. The inevitable comparison. I close my eyes and press my free hand against the wall, trying to ground myself.
“That’s great for James,” I repeat, my voice flat.
“He’s your age, Adam. Same school, same opportunities. But look at the difference between you two.” She doesn’t even try to soften the blow. The implication is clear. James is successful. James is doing something with his life. And I’m not.
I close my eyes tighter. “I’m happy for James.”
“Are you though? Are you happy serving coffee for minimum wage? Living in your uncle’s flat like a charity case?” The words hit like physical blows, each one landing exactly where it hurts most. She knows my weaknesses, knows exactly where to press to cause maximum damage.
“It’s not minimum wage,” I say weakly, hating how defensive I sound. “I make fifty pence over minimum.”
“Oh, well done. What an achievement.” The sarcasm is thick enough to cut with a knife. “Your father and I didn’t pay for your education so you could waste it making lattes.”
I didn’t finish my education. I dropped out in second year because I had a mental breakdown, because the pressure and expectations and constant comparisons became too much. But she conveniently forgets that part. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.
“I’m doing my best, Mum.” My throat is tight, my chest aching. I want to hang up. Want to tell her to leave me alone. Want to scream that I’m trying, I’m really trying, but everything is so hard and I’m so tired.
“Are you? Because it doesn’t look like it from here. When are you going to get a real job? Meet someone nice? Stop hiding away?” Her disappointment radiates through the phone, making me feel small and worthless.
But I don’t say any of that. I never do.
“I’ll see what I can do about Saturday,” I hear myself say, the words coming out automatically. Easier to agree than to fight. Easier to give in than to stand my ground.
“Good. Wear something nice, not those awful casual clothes you always have on. And do something with your hair.” She hangs up without saying goodbye. She never says goodbye.
I stand in the back room, phone still pressed to my ear, feeling like I’ve been hollowed out. Like she’s reached inside me and scooped out everything that matters, leaving only an empty shell behind.
You let people push you around. Smile and nod and swallow your anger.
Hex’s voice echoes in my mind again, and god, he’s right. He’s so painfully right. I just let my mother say all of that. Didn’t defend myself. Didn’t stand up for myself. Just took it like I always do, like a pathetic doormat.
The door swings open and Felix pokes his head in, his expression softening when he sees my face. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie, shoving my phone back in my pocket.
He gives me a look that says he knows I’m lying but won’t push it. Felix is good like that. “Come on. Morning rush is about to start.”
The next two hours pass in a blur of coffee orders and forced smiles.
I make cappuccinos and flat whites on autopilot, my hands moving through the familiar motions while my mind is elsewhere.
A woman snaps her fingers at me when I don’t respond fast enough to her order.
A man talks on his phone the entire time I’m trying to serve him, holding up one finger to silence me like I’m an interruption rather than a person.
Someone complains their coffee is too hot, as if I have any control over the temperature of freshly brewed coffee.
I smile through it all. Apologise. Make it right. Swallow my frustration as I’ve trained myself to do. Just like always.
Around nine-thirty, a man in an expensive suit walks in, already on his phone and barking orders at someone. He doesn’t look up as he approaches the counter, doesn’t acknowledge my existence beyond being an obstacle between him and his caffeine.
“Large black coffee,” he snaps, still not looking at me. His voice is sharp, impatient. Entitled.
“Sure thing,” I say with my customer service voice, the one that’s pleasant and empty. “That’ll be three pounds twenty.”
He tosses a five-pound note on the counter without looking, doesn’t even hand it to me properly, and keeps talking on his phone. I make his coffee as quickly as I can, the familiar routine automatic. When I set it carefully on the counter, I try to give him his change.
“There you go. Your change is…”
He grabs the cup without letting me finish, takes a sip, and immediately makes a disgusted noise, as if I’ve just served him poison.
“This is cold!” He slams the cup down hard enough that coffee sloshes over the side, creating a brown puddle on the counter. “I want a refund.”
I blink at him, genuinely confused. “I just made it, sir. It should be...”
“Are you calling me a liar?” He finally looks at me properly for the first time, and his eyes are cold. Contemptuous. Like I’m something he scraped off his shoe. “This coffee is stone-cold. I want my money back. And I want to speak to your manager.”
It’s not cold. I literally just made it thirty seconds ago. The steam is still rising from the cup in visible curls. He’s lying. He’s lying, and he knows I know he’s lying, and he doesn’t care because he thinks I’ll cave. Because people like me always cave to people like him.
“I can make you a fresh one if you’d like,” I offer, trying to keep my voice level and professional. Keeping myself small the way I’ve always been taught. Trying to de-escalate the way I’ve learnt.
“I don’t want a fresh one. I want my money back. And I want to speak to your manager. Now.” Each word is clipped and sharp, designed to intimidate.