Chapter 2
2
E zra
Two months later
“Fuck!” I jump backward as the scorching hot coffee splashes all over my gray wool pants for the second time this week.
“Sorry!” the pink-haired disaster cries out as she circles the counter at the speed of light and starts dabbing a towel over my burnt cock. “I’m really sorry,” she mumbles, trying to push harder to get more liquid out but only making more mess. “I don’t know how that happened.”
Sure as hell you don’t.
The towel drops to the floor, but it doesn’t stop her from continuing the task she’s been doing. Instead of a towel, she starts using her palm, trying to spread the coffee all over me. I push her hand away, but she’s reluctant to be rid of my pants apparently, and in the process, she keeps brushing my cock with her hand. Once. Twice. I step backward, and she follows with her damn hand on my genital area.
“Sorry, I really don’t know what happened. One second it was there,” a brush over my thigh, “and the next, it’s flying.” Another one.
I swat her hand away, and she stays away this time, looking sheepish for a change. I know how it happened, but I’m too fucking mad to say something. This… creature has been fucking up my coffee order for the past two months since I’ve started coming here.
How can one fuck up a cup of black coffee? one might wonder. Ask her, she knows. She burns the beans half the time, and the other half she either ‘accidentally’ drops sugar in it or a splash of whole milk. I don’t tolerate lactose. So I found out about the damn milk when I took a sip. A single sip is one sip too much.
I haven’t had a decent cup in the morning in two months. Ever since Martin, my assistant, announced he won’t have time to pick up coffee in the mornings because he’s dropping off his dog at doggy daycare. And when I don’t get my coffee before I open my laptop, the day goes downhill before it even starts.
We had a routine. He used to pick up my coffee and wait for me at the revolving doors by the entrance on the first floor. I got my cup, and we were good to discuss the agenda for the day. And now, ‘our schedules don’t align,’ according to him. What the fuck am I paying him for?
Ever since, by the time I reach my floor, I’m ready to spill blood. And she is the reason for that. She’s been messing up my mornings on purpose, I’m certain of it. Since the first moment I saw her. She was wearing a wet shirt. Obviously, it wasn’t intentional considering it was most likely coffee all over her chest. But she also wore a very thin bra underneath. Light purple. I close my eyes and still fucking remember how her nipples stretched the lacey material. They drew me in like damn lighthouses. I don’t think I noticed anything else that day .
Needless to say, that day I came to work with a half-mast and shitty mood, feeling like a creep.
It hasn’t gotten better since. Every time I see her, she has something peeking out: The strap of her bra—she likes bright colors. Her arm tattoo—I never thought I was attracted to them. Or even her damn tongue when she lets it out to lick her lower lip which is sometimes painted red. Sometimes, it’s natural. And I don’t know which one I hate the most.
Today, she apparently decided to up her game. When she placed the cup of freshly brewed, probably poisoned with sugar coffee in front of me, I was ready to bolt before she came with the milk. Then my credit card fell from her hands onto the counter. She went to get it and knocked down the display cups in the process, which knocked down the wooden stand with candy, which knocked down my coffee. Right on my lap. And it didn’t have milk, I can tell that much judging by the temperature—scorching hot.
“Oh, Mr. King, I’m sorry!” Jerome comes out from the back. “I don’t know what happened.”
“It seems to be the motto around here,” I say, staring at the girl whose name tag reads Mae . I’ve heard them calling her that. What type of name is that? She sends me a quick glare before dropping her eyes down like she’s the innocent party here.
“Mae will pay for the dry cleaning,” Jerome announces loudly, getting a nasty look from her.
“Why will I pay for it?” Her already big eyes bulge out even more.
“You spilled it, you can pay for it. And Mr. King’s coffee is on you today. Go make some more for him.”
Her little nostrils flare; her hands ball into fists. “Entitled pricks,” she mumbles under her breath .
“What did you say?” I ask quietly, well aware that Jerome didn’t hear her. But she doesn’t know that. Let her be scared.
Clamping her mouth shut so hard I can hear the sound of her clacking teeth, she marches behind the counter and starts making a new cup. I edge closer to her so I can see if she adds a pump of her spit to it. I wouldn’t be surprised. I can tell she wants to because she keeps sending me a side-eye with every move she makes.
“I apologize again, Mr. King. Mae is new, she’s still learning.”
I’ve been coming here for two months. How long does a person need to learn how to make a cup of coffee?
Something drops rather loudly—again—and we both look at her. With a toothy smile, she picks up part of the grinder that had fallen out and pushes it back. She looks positively like a shark, ready to attack. Shameful to admit, but I’m scared to drink my coffee now, and I probably won’t.
“It’s her last warning,” Jerome chimes in. “She’ll be fired after that.”
Another clack. Louder this time. The girl’s movements turn jerky. Firing her wasn’t my intention, just to rile her up in return. Like she riles me up.
A few moments later, she comes back and places a cup on the counter between us.
“Here you go.” Her cheerfulness is forced. So is her shark smile. “Sir.”
The coffee must have burned all the common sense out of my dick because it jerks in my wet pants. Silently grabbing the coffee, I walk out, ignoring Jerome’s continued apologies behind my back. I wish I could say I feel bad for her being possibly fired, but I don’t. There’re a lot of people in this city looking for jobs who are willing to actually work. She’ll be fired by the end of today—I’m sure she’ll fuck up somehow.
The coffee shop is on the ground level of my building, and it usually takes me half a minute to reach the doors and then the elevator. But today, I pause. For some reason, I stop outside when I notice a musician by the light pole. He’s here nearly every single day, right in front of my building. I don’t know what he’s expecting because no one in this building sure as fuck has the time to stop and enjoy the music.
I do today though. To my utter surprise, I stop and enjoy the music. Something I haven’t done in who knows how long.
He’s playing the sax. Very masterfully. And the crowd around us agrees. Is this crowd here every day? I look around, watching people’s faces. They’re fascinated. They’re in the music. I used to love jazz, and the saxophone was my favorite instrument to listen to. It’s soulful, with room for perfectly flawed mistakes.
That was before though, before I was turned into this damn emotionless machine thanks to my father.
I shove my hands into my pockets, searching for cash, but find nothing. I don’t remember the last time I had cash on me; it’s all done with cards or by Martin. He usually takes care of everything.
I turn around and walk back to the coffee shop. When the girl sees me, her face turns positively scared. She sure did something to my coffee—she probably thinks I came back for revenge.
“Mr. King? Is everything okay?” Jerome asks, rushing around the counter to me.
“Give me a hundred cash.”
“W-what?” He blinks.
“I need a hundred. Cash.” I open my palm, expecting him to obey. People usually do.
“Sure.” He spurs into action. “Mae, get me the cash.”
The girl reaches into the drawer and produces a hundred- dollar bill. Jerome grabs it from her hand and pushes it into mine.
“Here you go, Mr. King.”
I take it and turn around without saying a word. The man is an annoying prick who treats his employees like trash. The line isn’t any shorter than when I was getting my coffee, and he clearly isn’t offering any help. Having only two or three people for an establishment with such a demand during rush hour goes against any humane laws.
Avoiding the narrow-eyed stare from the girl, I turn around and walk outside—right to the man playing on the street. I drop the cash into the open sax case and head to the door of my building. A security guard meets me right when I’m about to walk in.
“I’ll take care of him, sir,” he says with a nod. But I grab his shoulder, stopping him.
“Don’t,” I say with a small shake of my head. “Leave him there.”
The guard glances between me and the musician with a confused look but retreats back to the building with a short nod.
I walk into the elevator a few seconds later, and people scatter out right away like scared roaches. The cloud of anger following me probably has something to do with it. I press the button for the top floor and mechanically take a sip of my coffee, forgetting about my own warning to not drink it, and spit it out right away. The little shit managed to put salt in it even under my watchful eyes.
When the doors open, they know. The whole floor does because there are no sounds other than a keyboard clicking. Someone from downstairs warned them I was coming. Jessica, the receptionist at the front desk, is standing by the elevator, a leather folder in her hands. Who the fuck knows why she does that every single morning because she doesn’t report to me. She’s just a pretty face to greet people and make them comfortable. Noah picked her.
“Good morning, Mr. King.” Her pretentious, cheerful voice is annoying. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Her eyes dip to my wet lap. She’s clearly curious what type of liquid is on me, and in ten minutes the whole building will know. Unless someone from downstairs missed a giant wet puddle on my black pants.
I pointedly glance at the cup in my hands, and her cheeks turn bright red. “Right. Have a good day then!”
I could use a cup of coffee because this one is spoiled, but for the love of everything, couldn’t she see I already have one in my hands?
Marching toward my office, I glance around. People scatter everywhere as I go, burying their heads deeper into their computers and trying to avoid my gaze. I don’t handpick people for the office tasks; I leave it to my brother and HR. I simply don’t have the time for that. So I don’t know half their names and don’t care to. I pay them good money to stay on top of their game, and it doesn’t require me to smile at them.
“Mr. King,” Martin greets me with a raised eyebrow just as his eyes land on my dick area. “Good morning?” He’s the only one around here, besides my brother, who can get away with sarcasm addressed at me. And with refusing to align our morning schedules.
My heavy glare makes him chuckle as I pass him. He follows me hot on my heels.
“You have a meeting at eight fifteen and then another at ten. I moved your dental appointment to midday and your lunch to one.”
I pause walking toward a bathroom in my office to stare at him.
“Oral hygiene is important. You’ll thank me later. ”
I nearly roll my eyes but let it slide because I don’t think I can function without Martin. Out of the whole floor, he’s getting the highest paycheck. And for good reason. I probably should lower it because I stopped getting my morning dose of caffeine, and it was literally part of his job description.
Through the bathroom door, I hear him continue. “You have a call at three and then a board meeting at four.”
“Board meeting?” I ask, pulling new pants on. “I wasn’t aware of that, and it’s my fucking company.”
“Yes.” He pauses. “I received the email this morning with the request for the meeting and approved it. I thought it would be best or they’ll think something is wrong.”
I open the door to eye him. “Who requested that?”
“Lebovski.” Martin’s voice drops, and I know why.
Leonard Lebovski has always been a very eager member of the board. He’s the one who never agrees with my decisions and questions them during the meetings, trying to make me look incompetent. His family came into money by marrying into old families with power. Who the hell knows why those families agree to these matches, because other than the pretty face, they bring nothing to the table. I’ve heard his brother works as some clerk for the city while his wife organizes galas and monthly balls for the rich in her own circle.
I walk to my chair at my desk. “What does he want this time?”
“The rumors fly among us simple folks that there might be an idea of pushing the vote sooner than we predicted.” He waves his hand in the air theatrically.
“Is it his idea?”
“Yes.” Martin’s tone turns serious. “But almost all of them agree. Only Wrong is neutral right now. He’s on vacation with his family somewhere, as usual.” Martin chuckles because I don’t think we’ve seen Wrong more than once since he joined the board—his family is always ‘vacationing.’ “So, he doesn’t care who will be in the chair.”
I level him with a stare. “I am still on the chair.”
“They keep forgetting that,” he chuckles. “But honestly, the feeling on the floor is like they’re getting ready to strike. It’s too quiet, you know. Too nice.”
I mull over his words. I’ve had this feeling for quite some time now, and Noah agrees. The board is getting ready for something big. They’ve been throwing little stones here and there since they were brought on by my father right before he retired, but nothing major yet. Nothing that might threaten we’d lose the company.
“Alright.” I interlock my hands on the table in front of me. “Keep your ears open.”
“Will do. Today’s schedule is in your mailbox.” He points at my laptop on the edge of the table, then at the coffee cup I placed in front of me. Who the hell knows why I’m still carrying it. “What did she do today? Besides the obvious,” he giggles, as if he’s enjoying my misery.
“Salt,” I sigh.
“Well.” He sounds almost…admiring while heading to the bathroom. “I’ll get your pants dry-cleaned.”
I grunt in response, hoping Martin will take it as a thank you. “Can you send a hundred cash to the coffee shop?” I ask suddenly, making him pause mid step. It’s almost theatrical.
He slowly turns his body toward me. “Why would we need to do that? Wanna leave a nice tip for someone?” His face brightens like he’s just heard the best news. What is happening?
Glaring at him with a silent reminder that I’m the boss here, so my actions are not to be questioned, I say, “Just send a hundred bucks to Jerome.”
“That sleazebag.” Martin winces. “What did you do?” He looks at me like I’m a misbehaving toddler.
“Cash to Jerome, Martin,” I growl, ignoring his further smirks.
“Yes, sir!” He salutes and rushes off.
Glancing out the panoramic windows, I sigh, feeling a ping of jealousy toward my brother who doesn’t have to fight silent wars and sit in stuffy boardrooms performing staring contests. He is an architect, and a damn good one, so the majority of his time is spent anywhere he wants, which is usually at the next project.
I miss the time when I could do the same, when I was a free kid at our grandmother’s farm who liked building treehouses and running around barefoot.
Pushing intrusive thoughts to the back of my head, I open my laptop and dig into my emails. It’s going to be a long day.