"Hazelnut and almond are pretty fucking different," I mutter belligerently as I pump the flavoring into the macchiato I'm preparing.
"What was that, Tessa?" Peter asks from the cash register on the opposite end of the counter. He sounds so cajoling and uppity, like he knows I said something smart. As if I would repeat it. At least he's getting my name right.
"Nothing," I answer. I have to suppress the urge to roll my eyes as I attach a lid on the cup, slide on a heat-protectant sleeve, and hand it to the customer who actually had a simple request. But Peter just had to make things difficult.
"Here you go, sir," I say pointedly. "Your hazelnut macchiato with three pumps of almond, extra whip. Enjoy."
The guy nods to me gratefully and I turn back to the machine to clean up. Peter glares at me from the cash register with his arms crossed over his chest. I try my best to ignore him, wiping off the dispenser and refilling coffee grinds, but his gaze is burning a hole in the side of my head.
Eventually I sigh and turn to face him. "What? What is it?"
He breaks his glare and starts untying his apron. "The sass is unnecessary, Tessa. First impressions are the last ones, you know. You've been here for what, a week?"
I look at him in disbelief. Sass? What are we, fifth graders? Is he going to make me put a dime in the jar every time I do something he doesn't like?
"I'm not sassing you," I protest, civil. "You were complicating things. What's the big deal with almond... and hazelnut." I say it plainly, not like a question, so he knows how stupid it sounds.
"It's not the flavoring, it's you attending to special requests. We have to draw the line somewhere - otherwise people will start asking for ridiculous things."
Like you? When you ask me to take the trash out all the time, over-organize the cups, or sweep the floor until the paint starts scraping off?
I look at Peter warily. I'm so not in the mood for his bullshit. It's midnight Saturday, I'm tense and antsy again, and the later it gets the more I feel myself ready to snap.
"I thought the customer was always right," I point out. "There wasn't an issue until you interfered. Next time if I actually have a problem with a customer, I'll take it up with you, Peter." My tone is cordial but my smile is sarcastic.
"I'm gonna take inventory on the stock in back," he tells me, scowling. "As overly generous as you are with the flavoring, we probably don't have any hazelnut or almond left." And with that he stalks past me and disappears into the freezer.
I flick my middle finger at him behind his back and contemplate locking him inside. Isn't this verbal harassment? Whatever. He can talk to me like that if he wants to - my Adderall will do the talking back, and I'm not going to be sorry about it.
I look around the coffee shop. Business isn't slow, but it isn't steady either. Most of the customers we had tonight ordered on the go instead of sitting in, so it's empty and quiet. With its dark furnishings, heady aroma, mood lighting, and soft music, Hard Rock Caffeine is the kind of place that could put you to sleep. Ironic I know, since caffeine keeps you alert and occupied.
I decide to clean up a little - only because I don't want to hear Peter bitch about "free labor". Honestly I only put up with him because I need this job. Otherwise I might've been hanging out with Jason and his crew. I wonder what they do on Saturday nights. Do they handle more business or do they just have fun like we did last night? I guess I'll find out soon enough.
As I'm sweeping up two guys come into the shop. My eyes widen but I keep my cool - I recognize one of them as the guy Jason beat up in the alleyway. He's Caucasian, lanky, pouty. His light-skinned friend is taller, buffer, and has a more fervent expression. They're both wearing red bandanas.
What did Jason call them...? Wreckers.
"Is this the place?" the light-skinned one asks, jerking his thumb toward the front. The other gives a quick, short nod and they both leave the door.
I shuffle behind the counter, ready to take their order. I need to act completely normal.
"Y'all open 24/7?" the taller one asks me without preamble. His gaze sweeps across the length of the counter, and he glances over his shoulder momentarily. Either he's paranoid or he's scoping out the place.
I swallow, remaining perfectly calm. Just act like he's another customer, Tessa. "No," I answer politely. "We close at one a.m. on weekends, midnight on weekdays."
"What's up with that building next to you? Is it abandoned or something?"
I nod and rock back on my heels. "Um, yeah. I don't know if it's closed for renovations or what."
The guy leans his palms on the countertop and gazes at me conspiratorially. "Cops hang around here a lot?" He raises his eyebrows.
I don't like the way he's looking at me. And what kind of question is that, anyway? It's sketchy and suspicious. I'm not scared, just a little on edge, and my words die in my throat. Plus my anxiety is mounting. This is the disadvantage of working third shift with an asshole. If more assholes like this come in and make me feel unsafe, how do I deal with all the testosterone?
Peter emerges from the freezer then, heaving a box of syrup canisters. He glances around at the scene and blinks.
"Peter," I say, for once grateful to see him. "These customers have some questions about the place. You're the manager: you're more equipped to answer them. I'm gonna take the trash out."
My manager stares at me in awe for actually volunteering for garbage duty. Really I just need an excuse to get out of earshot and call Jason. I collect the plastic bag out of the receptacle hastily and hurry out of the coffee shop. As soon as I'm out on the sidewalk I dig my phone out of my back pocket and call.
It rings for the longest time. Please, Jason, pick up! I'm about to freak out. But when I round the corner to the alleyway I look up to see Jason leaning casually against the brick wall of the coffee shop.
I freeze, my thoughts halting and quick-starting like the engine of an old car. Oh my fuck, he looks so good right now, as usual. He's wearing a red/blue plaid button-down, denim vest and skinnies, and blue Vans. His hair is coiffed up in his signature pompadour and his bandana just compliments the hairstyle. And then there's the little details: his shirt rolled up at his elbows to reveal his sleeve, his chains and Rolex, his languorous, carefree lean.
He gives me that smirk and puts his phone to his ear. "Hello?"
I pull mine away and hang up the call. "Hi. What are you doing here?"
He comes out of his lean and steps toward me with an outstretched hand. "It's busy out here on Saturday nights," he explains as he tosses the trash in the dumpster.
Apprehension grips my chest. Hard Rock Caffeine is a spot? "Wait, that's why you're here? You're waiting for a shipment?"
"Not exactly, baby girl. I'm just posted up. On the lookout. Since Tuesday night, this turf is up for grabs. The Wreckers are probably gonna try and claim it now. Or hang around here and do what they do best - wreck shit." He pauses and looks at me before smirking again. "And maybe I just wanted some coffee."
I blush madly, unable to respond right away. The possibility of him being here just to see me and make sure I'm safe makes me tingly inside. Apparently I was lying to myself when I said I needed to stay away, and it thrills me that Jason has stayed.
"Why are you taking out trash again, anyway?" Jason wonders, stepping closer to me. His scent dizzies me. "If you're working the late shift a guy should be doing that. Especially if the dumpster is down a dark alley, next to an abandoned building, in downtown L.A. You look nervous."
"I am," I admit shyly. "Usually my boss makes me do it, but this time I volunteered. I - I needed an excuse to come outside and call you."
"Why?" His eyes are hypnotic.
"Why does my boss make me do it, or why did I need to call you?"
Now he crosses his arms over his chest. A smirk plays on his lips. "Both, TK."
"Um, Peter is kind of a dick, and two guys from the Wreckers crew are inside Hard Rock Caffeine right now," I reply, fidgeting. "They were asking me sketchy questions - I think you're right. They're trying to scope the place out or something."
"Shit," Jason mutters through his teeth, his jaw clenching. That same malicious gleam I saw on Tuesday night sparks his honey eyes now. He grasps my wrist and strides into the shop with undiluted intent and purpose.
The two Wreckers are sitting at a table casually, but on guard. Peter is nowhere in sight - he must be in the back again. Or what if they murdered him for not answering their questions quick enough?! The rivals look up as Jason and I come in.
"So you are here," the interrogating one says, standing and pushing in his chair. The scraping sound is jarringly loud in the still quiet of the shop. He approaches us by the door. "We were wondering when you'd come out of hiding."
"Hiding and laying low are two different things," Jason informs him, not even blinking. "But you wouldn't know. Everything your crew does is messy, distinct, and predictable. Why do you think I'm here? Because I knew you'd be after what happened Tuesday night." He glances around him to look at his punching bag friend and smirks. "Yo, how's your face?"
"You talk a lot of shit, you know that?" the other Wrecker sneers. "I'd like to see you back it up with some real actions. Words ain't nothing."
"I'm the one who started this war, ain't I?" Jason says, arrogant as ever. "And I came to you at the skate park for a little scrimmage. Alone. I told your friend over there, and I'mma tell you. Fuck with me and my crew and I'll get even. No matter what the stakes, and no matter how long it takes. And you can think that my words ain't shit, but that's a threat and a promise."
I swallow hard at the very palpable, very hostile tension in the air. Jason and his rival are staring each other down relentlessly, jaws clenched, bodies tensed and ready for action. Jason is still holding my wrist; his shoulders are rigid, and his body is angled so that he's fronting me. For the first time since I've met him, he looks truly dangerous.
Peter clambers through the freezer door then, once again disrupting the tension and silence. I'm the only one that breaks my gaze to look at him, and his expression is both cautious and disapproving.
"Tessa, what's going on?" he inquires, setting down the box he's carrying on the floor and coming around the counter.
Really, what an idiot. Two muscular teenage boys with death glares and bandanas who look like they can snap at any moment are standing right in front of him, and he's asking the slim, five-foot-four girl with a ponytail what's going on. Why doesn't he try and break it up?
"Nothing," Jason speaks up after a moment. He tears his gaze from his rival and settles it on Peter, but the brusqueness in his eyes doesn't subside much. "So you're the manager?"
Peter nods, confused.
Jason glances back at the Wrecker. "This place is off limits," he proclaims firmly. It's not to be questioned. "You wanna settle something, we settle it on established territory. Not here. And next time you send a messenger, tell him to watch his mouth. I don't like when people talk shit." He looks at them pointedly, daring them to contradict.
The Wreckers continue their glowering for another moment, just to make sure they look threatening too, before making their way toward the door. They don't know enough about this place to start anything - not to mention that it's too open and public. Jason wins this one.
The punching bag Wrecker tries to brush past Jason on his way out, but Jason just rolls his eyes and moves his shoulder away.
"We'll see you Friday night," is the last thing I hear before the door closes.
Jason turns to Peter, who's watching everything unfold in disbelief. "And you," he says distastefully. "Stop telling Tessa to take the trash out. It's late and it's dark. And last time I checked that's a dangerous combination. Do you know what could happen to her?"
Peter's mouth opens and closes like a fish. "Of course I do, but it doesn't take more than a minute or so to dump the trash. The worst-case scenario is rare. And who are you, anyway?"
Jason finally releases my wrist, gently, and steps up to Peter. He stumbles back. "Don't worry about who I am. Just do what I said. If you don't I'll take a minute to show you how rare the worst-case scenario is." His gaze sweeps over Peter and he raises his eyebrows implicatively.
My manager swallows and nods. "Fine. Fine. No more trash runs."
Jason bucks at Peter just to scare him, and Peter almost trips over his feet. Jason chuckles and turns to face me.
"What time you get off, TK?" he asks, smirking. Playful, carefree Jason is back, and I'm stunned at his sudden mood change. He looked like he could kill a moment ago.
I shake my head, clearing my thoughts, and glance down at my wristwatch. It's almost closing time. "Actually, I get off now. Peter, can I go?"
He's already returned behind the counter and is busy unpacking the boxes. "Yeah, yeah, yeah see you Tuesday," he mumbles.
I'm thrilled that I get to be alone with Jason again, but I'm also still jumpy. And after that scene with the Wreckers my anxiety has kicked up a notch.
I take deep breaths as I let my hair down, remove my apron, and replace it with my leather jacket. Jason holds the door for me on our way out and leads me down the street to where his car is parked, sleek and blending into the night. He opens the passenger door for me, of course, and I'm not surprised at all. Just pleased by his manners.
We don't say anything for most of the ride. Jason drives with a laidback ease, like how he does everything else, and nods his head to the rap music humming from the radio. I listen idly, consumed in my thoughts and trying to calm down. Why do I have to be so jittery around him, specifically? I fidget in my seat and attempt to fight my nerves. Side effects, side effects. For the first time they seem unbearable and... humiliating.
About halfway through the ride, Jason glances over at me and appraises my reaction. I must look like a child who can't sit still.
"I'm pretty sure the Wreckers won't come around your job anymore, baby girl," he says, his tone sure. "But let me know if you see them again."
I turn to him. His eyes are mesmerizing again, and very soulful and sincere. He thinks I'm nervous and on edge because of the threat the Wreckers pose. It's certainly not that; I feel safe somehow with him, around him.
"It's not that," I tell him. I sigh and run a hand through my hair. "It's my, um - Adderall. You know it makes me tense. But it gives me anxiety sometimes, too."
Jason focuses on the road for a few moments. "Why do you take it if it makes you feel like that? Or why don't you just take sleep aids?"
I bite my lip, considering. "I don't think they'd help the way I want them to. It's not the Adderall that makes me an insomniac... it's my nightmares. I take it so I don't have any bad dreams at all."
We lapse into another silence. This one lasts until Jason pulls up to the curb in front of my house. He kills the engine, looking through the windshield thoughtfully, before turning his gaze to me.
"I guess you're having nightmares because you're afraid of something. But don't be afraid of the thug life, TK. You're with us now." The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk.
I feel a fluttering in my chest. He looks so wicked and alluring. When I'm alone with him, and this close, I notice something new every time. Right now his lips look really soft and supple. I wonder what else that mouth does, besides smirk and talk back.
"Thank you," I manage to say, my heart hammering against my chest.
His sly smile gets slyer. I don't have to explain what I'm thanking him for. "You're welcome, baby girl. And if you're feeling too tense - just say the word. Why do you think I ain't got no worries?"
"Because you take whatever you're offering me?" I guess.
"You're not the only one who gets anxious," he replies cryptically.
I stare at him, and then decide to change the subject. For now. "So um... what are we doing Friday?"
"Drifting. And meeting up with the Wreckers. It's like... magcon for gangs."
I can't help my laugh. Magcon? As in, meet-and-greet convention? "Okay. Sounds fun."
"It will be." He pauses, then gives me a dark look. "But it might get nasty."