Morning Coffee
It has been a week .
A week of staring at her pictures.
A week of driving past her house like a fucking stalker, just to make sure she is home and safe.
A fucking week since the murder of that creep with the neck tattoos.
I knew who he was as soon as they showed his face on the news. I remember seeing him in the bar, always doing his best to win over Thalia. My Thalia. Oh, fuck. What am I saying?
I haven’t stopped thinking about her since I brought her back to my house, and it fucking scares me.
The memory of that night plays over and over again in my head.
The way her mini skirt hugged her ass, sitting between her perfect thighs, was enough to send me over the edge.
Her smooth skin under my fingertips and the way she sounded when she came on my dick are all I think about. I miss her. Fuck, I miss her.
I told myself I wouldn’t do this shit after my divorce.
I’m not going to let some broad consume my thoughts again.
I told myself my ex was the last person I would ever let put me through that shit again.
I can’t fucking do this. My knee bounces in agitation as I sit in this tiny cafe just outside the city.
My hands clutch the black case on my phone as I wait here in these fucking uncomfortable wooden seats for Alan to arrive.
He isn’t late. He is always on time; I’m just early.
I needed to do something other than sit in my house and spiral into the thoughts consuming my mind.
What am I thinking about, you ask? Long fucking red hair barely covering the best pair of tits I have ever seen.
I will distract myself anyway I can to keep from calling Thalia or jacking off in my shower for the hundredth time.
Oh, good, the bastard shows up . He’s just in time for me to try to come up with another topic in my head.
Alan climbs out of his silver Lexus. His long black coat, pristine as ever, moves just out of the way of the door when he shuts it.
I think he would go fucking nuts if it weren’t smoothed out perfectly.
He gets out of his car like he thinks he’s a male model or some shit.
His face is smug as it always is when he looks towards the front of the building and casually nods at the sight of me sitting in the window. Like a fucking gentleman, I nod back.
“What’s up, asshole?” Alan asks, pulling out the wooden chair in front of me.
“What do you mean, ‘What’s up?’ You asked to meet me out here, you fuck.” I look up from behind my phone.
“Yeah, dick. We’re here to talk about the newest episode.” He laughs.
“I know. You sure you want to talk about what happened last week?” At this point, I am still not exactly sold on the idea .
“Absolutely. It’s still fresh in people’s minds. It’s the case people want answers to.” He stares at me with his eyes behind his glasses. His frames sit in the middle of the bridge of his nose.
“You don’t think we’ll have any kind of backlash from this? I meant what I said the other night. If I lose any business because of this shit…”
“Lee, we won’t get backlash from doing an episode on what everyone is already talking about,” he confidently informs me, using air quotes around the word backlash. “I doubt you’ll lose any business,” he adds.
Looking down at the menu, he continues, “Now, let’s not worry about the people who’ll bitch about the idea, and think about the listeners who will love it.” His eyes scan the options and pick an Americano, his usual choice.
“You know what you want?” He asks, setting down the one-page menu on the small wooden table between us.
“Yeah, black coffee,” I answer, not even looking down at the menu.
“Black coffee? That’s it?” He raises his eyebrows at the question.
“Yeah.”
“You can just make black coffee at home.”
“Fucker, I don’t know what the hell all of this other shit is. Black coffee is what I’m comfortable with.”
“Alright, order the fucking black coffee.”
“Okay, just let me have my fucking black coffee in peace.”
“Hey, I’m not stopping you.” He smiles and crosses his arms around his chest.
“Are you guys ready to order?” A pretty little brunette comes up to our table and takes our order. Her bright red lips turn up in a fake smile while she waits. She looks at Alan first.
“An Americano, please.” He hands her his menu and flashes her his winning smile. I swear she fucking melts right there. Arrogant prick.
“And for you, sir?” She looks at me.
“Coffee. Black.” I hand her my menu. “Thanks, Sweetheart.” I notice her cheeks flush. Her lips turn into a soft grin as she turns towards the bar.
“Sweetheart?” Alan asks. His eyebrow raises again at the question.
“Yeah. It’s a term of endearment. Broads like that kind of thing.”
“Yeah. They do. Thalia likes that kind of thing.” He smirks behind his phone.
“Shut the hell up, asshole.”
“Here’s your order.” The waitress comes back to our table and gently sets both of our white mugs in front of us. “One Americano. One black coffee.” Alan and I both nod in unison. She heads back in the same direction as before.
I pull out the tiny bottle of bourbon in the pocket of my leather jacket and pour about two shots into my small coffee cup.
“Black coffee?” Alan asks, taking a sip of his drink.
“Black fucking coffee,” I answer, from behind the rim.
I inspect the prick’s fingers that I stuffed in a clear plastic bag before picking them up, and examine them closely.
The memory replays in my mind.
The feeling of my switchblade sinking into his flesh, it giving beneath my weapon like butter before a hot knife, has goosebumps covering my arms. The thought is dark and devious, but it fuels the fire burning under my skin.
I need more.
The plastic is clouded with moisture from the rotting flesh it contains. The once tan skin is now turning darker, tinted with gray. The few tattoos he had on his fingers are harder to make out, the bloating making the ink look like black blobs.
Perhaps I should have considered the trophy I picked up that night.
Maybe I should have taken the fucker’s phone instead.
I would replay the sounds of him gasping for air every day.
It would be a reminder of the day I got rid of the bastard that touched what didn’t belong to him.
My cock goes rigid at the thought, and I adjust myself in my pants.
The asshole’s eyes are staring at me from behind an empty jar I brought from my kitchen cabinet. I filled it with alcohol I had in my medicine cabinet, a homemade attempt at preserving my prize . The two eyeballs float from the bottom and stay around the middle of the tall mason jar.
“What am I to do with you?” My fingertips stroke my chin as I ponder out loud. I move the jar upside down to scrutinize the way the spheres flow through the clear liquid to the top of the silver metal lid, then back down to the bottom of the jar.
With one look at my fingers, I wonder what someone would have done with mine in this situation.
I know one thing: they would have needed more than one of those fucking sandwich bags.
While I stretch my fingers, I compare the length to the ones sitting in front of me on the table.
Who am I kidding? There is no real juxtaposition.
The metal chair creaks as I stand up, planting my feet on the solid concrete. The legs echo through the room as I push it under the white folding card table.
One day, this room will be filled with trophies—trophies that will remind me of the times that I saved Thalia. For now, there are only two, but deep down I hope–no, know–there will be more.
I will be the one to rid her of the people who stand in her way.
I will be the one who always keeps her safe.
Even if she doesn’t know it.
My footsteps echo in the empty storage unit while I walk to my large metal shelf on the other end of the room and place the jar and clear bag right next to each other, placing an index card in front of them.
Ruben is written roughly in black pen. I ponder what name will be next to his.
The thought leaves me curious as I leave the small space and slide down the red metal roll-up door, locking it up with my round, silver key.