Race was about to blow his shit on one Albert DaSilva.
It was bad enough that Albert had forced him to even enter Starbucks, an establishment which, after having been frequented well over two hundred times over the course of Race's four years at James Duane High School, he had sworn off due to a disagreement with a particular barista over the phrase light ice. Showing his face on this end of Broadway was risky in any case: he couldn't enumerate how many of the nearby Pulitzer Academy boys he had threatened to fight or whose hearts he had broken.
But he had sucked it up, because Albert had promised to buy him his Venti Cascara Cold Brew with six pumps of Classic Syrup, and if he was honest with himself, because he owed Albert his entire life and dignity.
But the point remained that Race was actually about to throw hands if Albert didn't get his caffeine-addicted ass to the counter right this second.
Currently, Race was attempting to stab his straw into his drink while the barista gave him the side eye as he steamed some milk. Race, under normal circumstances, would give the side eye back. But the barista was extremely attractive - strong jawbone, plump lips, an expression that read Don't fuck with me, all of which combined to form Race's exact type. So instead, he was doing his damnedest to be seductive while brutally murdering the cup lid.
And Albert was still sitting at the table, scrolling through Instagram while bopping along to whatever song was stuck in his head at that moment. Race turned, fury in his gaze, and hissed, "Albert!"
At that exact moment, he felt the cup he'd been pummeling slip under his straw and heard the telltale sound of ice hitting the floor.
"Oh shit," Race whispered, face heating up. "Oh fucking shit."
He looked up from where he'd been staring at the spilt coffee and into the barista's face. His expression could only be read one way: complete and utter exhaustion.
"I'm so sorry," Race started spouting over and over. He wasn't even concerned with keeping up his cool facade. He felt totally helpless, watching as the barista sighed quietly and motioned to his coworker to get the mop. "Jesus Christ, I'm an idiot."
It went on like this for a few moments, Race standing around looking like he was about to throw up while Albert laughed mercilessly at the table, before the barista turned back to Race.
"Dude, it's fine," he said, his voice lower than Race would have expected based on his short stature. "This happens, like, at least three times a day. And at least you have the decency to feel bad about it." He paused, wincing slightly and looking like he was having war flashbacks. "Most don't."
Race was reminded of how terrible a job in customer service could be. "I'm sorry," he repeated meekly.
The barista looked away, a tiny smirk gracing those lips. "Is that all you can say, or are you able to give me your name?"
Race felt his cheeks go redder, somehow. "Race."
The barista looked back at him, face contorting into an emotion he couldn't read. "Race Higgins? From Duane?"
Race cocked his head, confused. "Yeah. How'd you know?" He would've remembered if someone as pretty as the boy in front of him had ever been acquainted with him.
"You're, like, a legend around Pulitzer," the barista confessed. "I mean, you've hooked up with at least half my friend group."
Race heard Albert snort behind him.
"Yeah, well," Race began, not quite sure whether he should be offended or flattered. "Pulitzer boys just get me going, I guess."
"It's a good thing, because I was just about to write my number on your receipt."
Race was hyperaware of both the fact that he had not expected such flirtations to be made on the part of this gorgeous boy, and that the other barista was walking around him, mopping up his mess. "I guess that was before I spilt the coffee."
"Obviously."
Race allowed himself to give the barista a once over before meeting his eyes again, suggestive smile on his face. "So what's your name, Mr. Academy?"
"Spot," the boy replied, "Spot Conlon."
Race walked out of the shop with a stricken Albert, a nursed pride, and a receipt with the number of the prettiest boy he'd ever seen.
Maybe Starbucks wasn't so bad after all.
