Control

Chapter 1

Harlow🦋

"I would like coffee. Black. No cream, no sugar, 3 shots of espresso. And a chocolate croissant."

I put in the order of the businesslike lady in a perfectly pressed navy pantsuit.

As she pays and walks off to the side I feel two hands wrap around my waist.

"What's the order, Beautiful?" A male voice questions in my ear.

I shove Carson off of me. "Check the screen. I'll get the croissant."

He walks over to the machine and starts to make the drink. "You need to learn not to talk to your superior like that."

"Shove off, Carson. Just because it's your parents place doesn't mean you are my superior."

He scoffs and turns back to making the coffee. "You wouldn't have this job without me."

Carson, my brother from another mother. It's just me and my Dad. Or at least it was. Now Carson and his family are all I have left. I work for them at the cafe while I look for a more permanent job to actually use my degree in. I went to school for photography. But honestly a job in arts that pays well isn't easy to find. Still it's my passion.

My Dad was in the army and he named me after a guy who died in combat, saving his life.
Harlow Mason Alden.
I got picked on a lot for that name in Elementary school. Apparently it was too boyish for a girl, but when Carson beat up one of the boys who made fun of me for it no one else said anything. He's two years older than me, but we instantly became best friends.

His family became my second one. And when Dad died my last year of high school, they took me in and even helped me pay for my college. Dad was an only child and my family from my mom's side stopped talking to us when Mom died shortly after I was born. I never got the full story.

But I still have the wonderful family that took me in. Carson is the only child and so was I. We spent a lot of time together.

"Black coffee, three shots of expresso."

I take the drink from him and put the croissant in a small bag to give to the lady. I watch her exit.

The morning rush has already passed. Meme is probably at home working on a new project. Whether it's new drink ideas or just a new recipe to cook for dinner tonight. Pops is in the back working on the books. He rarely comes out.

The bell above the door dings with a customer.
I look up and it's them. They've been coming here around the same time each day for a week.

Two big burly guys in all black following behind a guy in a black suit. And as nerve-wrecking as it was to watch them come in everyday it was still a wonderful sight to see the man in the suit.

Tall, with tan skin. A nice, strong physique clad in a suit that fits his body perfectly. I've only watched him from afar. Carson always handles him when he comes in. He's intimidating, I can tell from here. He carries himself with confidence and authority as if nothing matters to him.

Him and the two men take their usual seat by the window.

"You're up, H," Carson calls out pushing me from behind the counter.

I feel my heart rate immediately pick up. I'm not an outgoing person. I'm probably as introverted as they come. Can you really blame me? The only true people I've been around were my Dad, Carson and his parents.

I get shy around new people. Kind of ironic considering I'm at the cash register, but that's different and they aren't usually as intimidating as the guy in the suit.

"You said that you would always handle him," I whisper yell while he continues to shove me.

"Not anymore. Last time he threatened to cut my throat open because his drink wasn't right. You're a sweet, innocent girl. He won't threaten you."

"He's scary," I plead.

He laughs and shoved me one last time, so that I'm too close to them to turn back. I watch Carson quickly retreat behind the counter.

I can feel my heart rate pick up, throbbing everywhere inside my body. As I take slow steps to the table, their eyes immediately fall on me. My steps falter.

The guy in the suit is even better looking up close. A sharp jawline, perfect lips, a slightly crooked Roman nose and cold grey eyes followed by arched eyebrows. You can tell he keeps himself well kept. His hair is pulled up into a sleeked bun and I can't help but wonder how long it actually is.

I smooth out my shirt and clear my throat. "W-would you l-like to try our, um, cinnamon latte?"

They stare at me and I tuck an imaginary piece of hair behind my ear self consciously. I usually put my curls up at work, but any other time I wear them down.

They're not as tight as my Mom's. At least in the pictures of her that I saw. My curls are closer to my Dad's. He had loose mixed curls. Tutu was Hawaiian and she had what Papa loved to call Islander curls.

They stare at me.