Vadim
I've just stepped into a packed coffee shop. There's a long line snaking toward the counter, and all the tables are taken, but who do my eyes immediately land on? Preston and his roommate, that's who.
Another coincidence, but I bet Preston would have a hard time believing that. They're seated at the two high chairs farthest from the door, mid-conversation, neither of them looking up.
I join the queue even though turning around and leaving would probably be the smarter option. The coffee here is meant to be amazing, though it's wasted on me. I only came in because I finished a meeting around the corner and needed a caffeine hit.
I pull out my phone to distract myself and avoid the temptation of looking over at Preston. I fail on both counts, re-reading the same email five times as my eyes keep finding him anyway, sitting there by the window.
The guy who showed me his ass three nights ago.
I'll never forget the way his legs quaked when I gently breathed over it, the look in his eyes as he confessed it felt divine, his sensual moans as I kept going, stopping only once he got so loud I was the one to put a stop to it, worried he'd disturb his roommate.
I thought that experience would have earned me a yes when I asked for his number before I left.
It didn't.
Which means I'm going to have to get creative in protecting him and ensuring Farkas never gets near him ever again.
The line moves quickly, and I order my double cortado to go.
"Name?"
"Uh…" My eyes cut to Preston. He probably won't hear it being called out over the din of the place, but you never know. Vadim isn't exactly your run-of-the-mill name. "Bart Simpson."
"Got it."
The Gen Z cashier doesn't get the reference, which makes it an even better choice.
I go to stand with the rest of the caffeine-deprived zombies when I notice Preston getting up. He heads toward the bathroom. I glance over at the barista. They haven't even started on my order.
I don't know what propels me, but I start toward the roommate, Ellie. Wall of red flags, my ass. Who the fuck does he think he is, and why does he have it in for me?
I approach him from his right side. "Hello."
No reaction.
He's flicking through an interior design magazine. I try again, a little louder this time. "Hello."
He ignores me again.
I check his ear closest to me. No earbud.
So he's just a rude prick.
When I try again and he doesn't respond, I tap him on his arm. He jolts, turning to me as he pulls out an AirPod from his left ear, and smiles. "Sorry. Were you saying something?"
"Yes, I said hello. Twice."
I stare at him, wondering what sort of game he's playing since he seems to have no problem hearing me now.
Still smiling, he brings his fingers to his right ear. "I'm deaf in one ear," he explains.
I shuffle on my feet, feeling like a dick. "Oh, right."
"Vadim?"
Preston returns, and as soon as he utters my name, Ellie's smile vanishes. "You're Vadim?"
"Double cortado for Bart Simpson!" I hear cutting through the noise.
"What are you doing here?" Preston asks, exchanging a brief look with Ellie before thinking better of sitting back down next to him, and instead, planting himself in front of me, peering up at my face with those swirly hazel eyes.
"Coincidence, I swear."
Ellie mutters, "Yeah, right," as the barista calls out my order again.
"My coffee's up. Can we talk?" I ask.
Preston nods, slinking into his chair as I shoulder my way to get my drink.
When I return, I hiss out a breath through gritted teeth.
Ellie is shit talking, poisoning Preston against me for no good reason.
I can tell just by looking at him, the way he's leaning in, speaking intensely, and the confused frown creasing Preston's forehead as he takes it all in.
What the fuck is this dude's problem with me?
I'm about to find out.
Or not.
Because as soon as I show up, Ellie collects his magazine and his few other belongings, forces them into his backpack, and vacates his chair. He gives Preston a long look then glowers at me for a solid beat. "I have to go."
I move out of his way. "Don't let me keep you." I settle into the still-warm chair as Preston watches his best friend leave, chewing his lower lip. "What's his problem?"
Preston makes sure Ellie is out of the coffee shop before answering. "You. He thinks you're…bad news."
I bring my coffee to my lips. "And what do you think?"
Preston pins me with an intense stare. To be a fly on the wall of his mind.
He's got his best friend in his ear, badmouthing me, and yet, I'm the guy he bent over for and exposed his pretty pink hole to.
If I'd had his permission to touch him, I'm convinced I could have made him come in just a few strokes.
He stirs his drink, a citrus tea bag still steeping in it. "I'm not sure. I don't like strange men coming at me on the street."
"That won't happen again."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I promise you it won't."
I drain the rest of my coffee. I'm meeting with my older brother this afternoon to discuss how best to handle the Farkas situation.
Back in the day, I could have just taken him out, easy. But Marek marrying the big man Baranov's only daughter has made things…complicated. By no means are we in a truce with them; it's more like a holding pattern.
The stakes are so much higher now. Both families still hate each other, but there are now three children involved who share both bloodlines. Attacks can no longer be direct, hence the Baranovs bringing in a lowlife like Farkas to do their dirty work for them.
Every action and counteraction carries consequences that need to be carefully considered. I'm not much of a deep thinker, so it hasn't been a fun time for me.
"I have to go," Preston says, finishing his tea with a noisy slurp. "Don't want to be late for my shift."
"Let me drive you."
"No, thanks. I work nearby."
"Can I get your number at least?"
"Also, no." He stands and slings his messenger bag over his shoulder, then he smirks as he brings his finger to the side of my cup. "Looks like you've already got someone's number."
"Huh?"
I glance down to find a name, a number, and a smiley face scrawled on the side of the cup.
"By the way, thanks for the other night." Preston presses his arm into my shoulder, brings his mouth to the shell of my ear, and whispers, "I slept really well after you left."
I close my eyes, my mind filling with the most deliciously dirty visual, which is deeply, deeply unhelpful right now. His hand leaves my shoulder, and he bustles toward the entrance.
I stay exactly where I am, unable to move until my erection dies down.