Page 2 of Naked Coffee Guy

My heart isn’t breaking now, but my security is because I’m one month away from being homeless. Again.

I glance at the clock and groan. 3:23 a.m. Letting that fucktard come over when I had to work the early shift was a stupid idea. One I was going to regret later today, for sure. The coffee shop I work at is called Insomniacs, and at this late hour—or early—the name is more than ironic.

I have a decision to make. Go to bed now and get an hour and a half of sleep before my alarm goes off, or power through and sleep when my shift is over. I choose the latter, slipping on a pair of yoga pants and an oversized sweater. Then I grab my guitar and settle onto the funky orange couch I once scored when a neighbor moved out. The walls are thin, so I can’t go ham. But I strum lightly, smoothing out the kinks to a new song I’ve been working on.

This is the magic that soothes my soul, the thing that makes me forget every single event from my past and all the stress of my present. When I feel like all the dominoes are about to fall, all I need to do is pull out my guitar and lose myself in the music.

But this time is different. My fingers fumble over the strings, the notes sounding tinny within the four walls of my tiny living room. It’s not much, but it’s mine. Or was mine. Even with the funky smell I can’t seem to find, and the dark spots on the walls that I think might be growing. Even with the foul-smelling water I can’t drink and the wall heater that gives me a headache every time I use it.

I earned this place. I kept myself afloat without the help of anyone. I turned my whole entire life around and found myself a home, supporting myself while most kids were going to college on their parents’ dime.

Yet, this is where it got me—evicted without a safety net to land in.

I look at the poster-covered walls that surround me, absorbing the images of Shirley Manson, Hayley Williams, and Chrissie Hynde, trying to soak up the courage I desperately need through osmosis. It’s what I do when I’m on stage. I call on my idols like some New Age crystal-toting hippie calling on their angels. It’s their persona I put on, like putting on my favorite shirt. It’s what keeps me from getting too shy about performing in public and keeps me from hiding away. When I stand behind that microphone with my guitar strapped to my body, I am Shirley, daring the crowd to fuck with me as I glare at them through kohl-lined eyes. I am Hayley, singing the anthem of a generation, my fist in the air. And in the times when I’m alone with my lyrics, trying to find the words to feelings I wish I had, I am Chrissie, the songwriter who probably wrote the best love song of all eternity when she wrote “Don’t Get Me Wrong.”

I’m hardly into love songs now. All I can think about is that fucktard who came in here and stuck his dick in me only to tell me I needed to find a new place to live.

Fuck him.

What I need is a new song. I play a few chords, trying to loosen some lyrics from my angry brain in an attempt to move beyond the foul mood that asshole put me in, but each strum of the guitar sounds like fuck you—which is both juvenile and cathartic.

So I go with it.

Fuck you, you fucking loser.

You piece of shit, you two-bit poser.

Fuck you, you think you’re cute.

Don’t act surprised when I give you the boot.

You had your chance, you fucking poodle.

I’m tired of your dangling noodle

Grab your things, it’s time to go

You’re not my prince, I’m not your hoe.

I burst out laughing, even though I’m still mad at that asshole and this impossible situation he’s put me in. Okay, maybe not him. It’s really the guy who owns this building. But Brock is the messenger, and a shitty one at that. I mean, he had his dick in me when he broke the news. Who does that?

And the song is shit, I definitely can’t play it anywhere. At least not at the venues I usually perform at. I think of my friend Claire and her seven-year-old son Finn, who are almost always at my shows when I perform at Hillside, especially now that Claire’s fiancé Ethan owns the outdoor bar venue. Whenever I put the word fuck in my lyrics, she can tell me exactly how many times I sang it because Finn sang them with me.

I fucking love that kid.

And I fucking hate this situation.

And, glancing at the clock, it’s time to start getting ready for the longest shift ever at Insomniacs. At least it might help get my mind off the mess I’m in.

Chapter Two

Maren

Every person in Sunset Bay needs their coffee this morning, and apparently they’ve all come to Insomniacs to get it. I haven’t had a chance to breathe since the shop opened. To top it off, my coworker Nina chose today of all days to be late. Okay, fine…she chooses every day to be late. But it’s closing in on eight, and she still hasn’t walked through the front doors. In Nina time, this is actually late. And until she shows up, it’s just me and my useless manager, Susan. Seriously, the woman is blind to the fact that I’m drowning out here while she takes up space at one of the tables, coming up with next month’s schedule.

Susan, we don’t need a new schedule. We need you to get off your lazy ass and make some coffee.

But I can’t say anything because I need this job. Now more than ever, since a breach in employment will not look good to any new landlord, nor will it help me secure the deposit I can’t afford.