9. Clara #2
“Yes, ma’am.” Samson has a bad habit of calling me ma’am, no matter how many times I tell him not to.
I think he does it just to get a rise out of me; the banter comes easy with him.
Sometimes he calls me Clar, and I find I miss the amused tone he uses when he calls me ma’am. Like I’m some well-to-do woman.
“I’m not an old lady, Samson. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m younger than you.
Stop calling me ma’am.” I roll my eyes, swiftly moving to prepare his usual order: A whiskey neat.
Blanton’s. Three fingers. He spends most of the night sipping it while we talk in between serving other patrons, and he never orders more than two.
His chocolate brown eyes watch every move I make. It was unnerving when he first showed up, but now I enjoy the way he watches me. Almost as if it’s all he wants to do. I slide his drink toward him and signal that I’ll be right back.
With practiced ease, I fill a number of orders and place them down along the bar. I can still feel his eyes on me while I work. By the time I make my way back to him, it’s been ten minutes of nonstop movement, and I eagerly rest against the counter.
“Busy night?” he asks. His voice is deep and husky. I like it.
“God, like you wouldn’t believe. I think this is the first time I’ve been able to stand still since I got here, and I’m not even sure how long this will last.”
“You need a night off, Clar.”
“I know, but I can’t. My car is in the shop.
It needs a new battery, and lord knows what else they’ll find while it’s there.
” I’ve had my car for ten years now, a little Mazda CX-3.
I’m thankful it’s lasted me this long, but buying a new car—or spending a shit ton on repairs—is not on my list of things to do.
Samson straightens when I tell him about my transportation predicament, and I pretend not to notice the look of disapproval on his face. “How are you getting to work and back if your car is in the shop?”
“Oh, I hitch a ride with Tamara. She’s like my own personal chauffeur,” I say as I search for her in the crowd.
She’s flirting with a table full of frat boys, earning her tips like the bad ass she is.
“Sometimes I take an Uber when I have to close and she gets off earlier, like tonight.” I bring my attention back to Samson and shrug. “It’s not a big deal.”
“How about I give you a ride home tonight?” At the look on my face, Samson lets out a chuckle and quickly adds, “Just a ride home. It’ll save you money, and you won’t have to wait for an Uber.”
I hesitate. I like Samson, and he’s been nothing but kind to me since the very first drink I served him. He’s shown an interest in my life and knows my dream of owning a coffee shop. He’s easy to talk to. Comfortable.
“I don’t want you to go out of your way for me. I’m here until two. That’s a couple more hours.”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to do it, Clara.” When I simply look at him, he adds, “I insist, ma’am.”
Taking an Uber and trusting a stranger to bring me home safely has always made me anxious. At least Samson isn’t a stranger. What could it hurt? And hell, maybe this could be the push he needs to see me outside of work. I think I might like that.
“Okay. Sure, you can give me a ride home.”
Two hours later, I say goodnight to my shift manager and head out. I’m not sure why I’m nervous, but I am. I try to shake the feeling as I walk across the street to the parking garage where Samson said he’d be waiting.
Halfway there, a man steps out of a dark Toyota Camry and waves me down. It’s Samson. I smile and wave back, hustling over to him. He opens the passenger side door, letting me slide inside before he closes it and walks around the car.
The ride to my apartment isn’t uncomfortable. Samson continues to be his charming self and engages me in conversation, asking me how the rest of my night went and if I work tomorrow. The nervous feeling from earlier is gone, and I’m content sharing stories and sitting in occasional silence.
When Samson pulls up in front of my apartment building, he parks and turns toward me. “Would you like me to walk you inside?”
“I think I can make it.” I offer him a smile and reach over to squeeze his hand resting on the gear shift.
Any other night, I’d entertain the idea of inviting him inside.
Not tonight, though; I’m too exhausted. My bed is calling me.
“But thank you so much, Samson. You have no idea how much I appreciate you.”
An emotion I can’t name flickers over his face before he hides it with a smile. “You’re welcome, ma’am. Any time you need a ride, you let me know. I’d be happy to do it.”
I shake my head at his antics, then, before I can talk myself out of it, I lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you again, Samson.” As soon as the words leave my lips, I collect my purse and move to get out.
The passenger door isn’t even halfway open before I’m jerked back.
A cloth is pressed tightly against my face, covering my nose and mouth.
I fight to free myself, attempting to remove the hand holding the cloth in place.
Just as I think I might succeed, I feel a sharp twinge in my neck and my vision starts to blur.
“You should’ve let me come inside, Clara.”
His voice is the last thing I hear before the world goes dark.