Chapter 12 - Janella
“Janella?” Otto breaks through my trance.
I look out the window. We’re at the café.
“Oh, sorry,” I mutter, grabbing my purse from beside me. “I don’t know where my head is today, Otto.”
That’s a lie. I know exactly where my head is—and who it’s on.
Guilt wriggles like a worm in my belly. “You want to come in for a sandwich?” I offer.
I always do. And Otto never takes me up on it. At least he doesn’t look astonished I’m offering anymore. Baby steps.
“No, thank you, miss,” he predictably answers. “Have a nice day.”
I get out of the SUV. “Back atcha, Otto,” I say.
The cheer in my voice comes out sounding false.
Technically, that isn’t new to me. It just feels like it—and I’ve got no one but myself to blame for that. In a matter of weeks, I’ve stupidly let myself get used to my cocoon. Where there had previously been chaos and cruelty, my days are filled with routine and calm.
She’s not even my fucking type. Iosif’s mean, indignant words echo in my head for the hundredth time since last night. Like every time before, they humiliate me. They make me feel small.
Unlocking the café, I can’t help but hate myself a little for letting myself get used to feeling anything but.
Pushing past the mortification, I let myself in.
I can’t keep spinning out about this. I won’t.
It stings, but it’s better to know. I should’ve known better than to expect his perception of me to change just because mine has.
I remind myself he earned the change. He gave me this—gave me mom’s café.
Gave me a new lease on life. Gave me wonderful women to surround myself with, who build me up and trust me with their inner lives.
Don’t you think about him. It’s your own fault for misinterpreting his friendship. He apologized for jerking off in front of you because he regretted it. He told his brother his balls were blue, didn’t he? You were just around that night. This isn’t about you. He doesn’t think about you!
So what if I’m just his charity case?
I have so much to be grateful for.
I have to hold onto that.
Standing in the middle of The Great Escape, I turn in a slow circle.
This, I tell myself. This is what you need to focus on. You can pay him back what he paid for it. Buy it from him legitimately. Think about that. Not him.
If only it weren’t so much easier said than done.
***
The day passes. In the middle of the week, traffic is great. Boston’s gentrification has led to office buildings cropping up all around this spot. Throw in the quick, albeit not long-lasting, curiosity spurred by the digital age, and I’ve got no time left for my thoughts. Just like I wanted.
I run on autopilot, busying myself with everything from inventory to making my way through The New Rules of Coffee book.
I even volunteer to cover service, sending my baristas, Carmen and Jin, off to lunch.
I’m ready with my best and brightest smile in place when the bell chimes, signaling another customer.
“Hi!” I greet cheerfully. “Welcome to The Great Escape!”
The man who’s walked in is in his 30s. His navy-blue suit looks like it cost more than this month’s revenue. There’s something about the swagger with which he walks in that immediately makes me uneasy. He confirms why when he eyes my chest a moment later.
This is the challenge of customer service, though, isn’t it?
I refuse to let my smile waver.
“Hey there, beautiful,” he purrs. The smell of his cologne is overpowering, no matter how expensive I’m sure it was.
Keeping my tone as professional as possible, I ask, “What can I get you today, sir?”
“I came in here craving an Americano, but you can give me whatever so long as it has your number on it.” His smile puts his veneers on display. It’s cocky. Nerves flutter within me. I order my body not to squirm.
Politely, I nod. “Americano coming up!” I say, like I never heard the rest.
I turn around—breathe in, out, you’re okay—and go through the motions. They’re becoming more and more familiar to me. It helps. You’ve got this. I’ve handled worse, after all.
“So,” the man interrupts my internal pep-talk, “a place like this… You must be new, honey. I know all the hot spots around here. Besides, I’d remember a face like yours.”
Swallowing a grimace, I return to him with his beverage.
“We just opened a couple of weeks ago. Thanks for giving us a try!” I hold out the coffee. “Here you go. That’ll be three-fifty.”
He pulls out his wallet and throws a $10 bill on the counter with gravitas. “Keep the change, honey.” He winks. “You’re probably wasted working in a place like this. A girl like you shouldn’t be bussing counters in an apron.”
My face hurts from fake-smiling. “That’s very kind. But I actually own this place.”
“No shit,” he says, wearing his offensive surprise. For some reason, he takes this as an invitation to lean across the counter. “Well, honey, if your own boss, what’s stopping you from closing up early and letting me take you to lunch?”
“Oh, that’s very nice of you to offer, but no thank you.”
He dares to laugh, green eyes twinkling. Like I’m playing hard to get.
“You don’t have to play coy with me,” he entices.
“I’m not. I’m just not interested, sir.”
I barely register the chime of the door before the man is being yanked off and away from the counter.
“Are you fucking deaf? Get the fuck away from her, motherfucker,” Iosif growls, tossing him aside like a ragdoll.
“Hey! What the fuck—”
“Out.”
It isn’t a suggestion. Iosif more or less picks the man up and tosses him out. I can’t even begin to process it. What if there were other customers?
Somehow, I doubt it would keep him from making a scene.
Like he owns the place, he locks the door and flips the sign to CLOSED.
I can’t believe him.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I hate how whiny my voice comes out. My face is flushed with anger.
Iosif is unfazed. “I thought it was fairly obvious.”
Gaping, I try to find the words. They don’t exist. I can’t believe his nerve! I’m so sick of him. I’m so fucking sick of him stepping in to save me. I never asked him to.
“Go away,” I manage to spit out. Then I whip around and stomp away from him before I launch the pastry dome full of brownies at his head.
He doesn’t take the hint.
Instead, he follows me. “You don’t walk away from me,” Iosif says.
Bitterly, I laugh in his face. “Oh, get over yourself! I didn’t ask you to meddle. I can handle myself fine.”
His brows pucker in a frown. “You don’t have to ask.”
I’m not listening anymore.
“What, do you have some sort of signal for when I’m in distress? Do I look like a fucking damsel to you?” He looks me up and down. I see his mouth open and snap, “Don’t you dare answer that. That was a rhetorical question.”
When he takes a step toward me, I shove at his chest.
“Stop. It.” I don’t need his stupid comfort.
His concerned expression finally becomes a glare. Good. “What’s your fucking problem?”
“You! I thought it was fairly obvious,” I deepen my voice, facetiously mocking his words.
Lightning strikes in his stormy gaze.
“That bastard was hounding you. What did you want me to do, just stand by and watch?” he demands. My shove didn’t have any lasting impact. He steps forward again, undeterred and forceful.
“Did you ever consider that maybe I liked it?” I counter, lying through my teeth. “Maybe you’re not the only one with blue balls. Maybe I’m a hot, hot tease, and this is just how I lure men. What business is it of yours?”
I’m setting feminism back decades.
Yet I relish the way his face darkens. The way his jaw clenches, his teeth grinding together.
“Everything about you is my fucking business. You’re my wife.”
Again, I laugh—mirthless, mocking. “So divorce me,” I suggest.
My back hits the oven, its glass cold against my back.
How did I wind up in a corner?
“And why the fuck would I do that?” For the first time since the first night, he sounds dangerous.
“Because I can handle myself. I don’t need you,” I insist, palms splaying themselves against his broad chest. “I don’t want—”
The lie never makes it to its end. His mouth covers mine, incinerating every thought to ash.
Iosif’s kiss is hard, almost punishing. His tongue pushes my lips apart, and I surrender all too willingly.
My head falls back as he steps closer, claiming me with an arm that devours my waist. Desire sears me—my mouth, my breasts, my…
His palm cups my cheek, fingers tangling in my hair. He swallows the moan I can’t help.
My knees threaten to buckle beneath me.
I grip his t-shirt in desperate fistfuls to hold myself up.
My need spurs him on. His fingers dig into my hipbone.
Helplessly, I rise to my toes. I regret the mocha-brown sweater dress I chose today.
The thick wool, belted at my midsection no less, keeps his fingertips from me.
I’ve thought about those calluses dragging against my sensitive skin so many times.
Now, finally, beneath his hands, I can’t deny it. I don’t want to.
He rewards it with a groan that rattles my bones. It’s the same low and deep sound from that night.
“So—fucking—beautiful,” Iosif murmurs.
He’s all over me. Consuming me.
It isn’t long until I’m panting, my lungs burning for air that I crave less than his kisses. Our lips break apart only out of necessity. Even then, he mouths a hot trail down my throat, counting me up in handfuls. He hasn’t called me “doll” in weeks—but that’s what I feel like between his palms.
My roots burn where his hand twists in blonde tendrils. My flush spreads to meet his teeth, grazing at my clavicle.
He inches lower, mouthing between the valley of my breasts.
Turns out, he’s quite the innovator. He works from the top down, dragging the neckline down my shoulder, leaving me exposed to his wandering mouth.
“Iosif,” I whimper.