Page 26 of Naked Coffee Guy
“Hey,” he’d said, the smirk on his face telling me everything I didn’t want to know.
He got to her first. I’d waited too long.
It doesn’t bother me that she was with Brock. At least, not in a way that I feel any kind of ownership about what she does with her body, or who she does it with. What bothers me is that Brock had no idea what he had when he had it. He treated her like he treated any of the chicks he fucked, as if she were just a good time and not an incredible human being.
And I’ll be damned if I treat her the same way.
I told her this was casual. I acted like this was just a fuck. It was the only way to ease her mind when her distrust was written all over her gorgeous body. She wants me. She also isn’t ready to lower her walls.
So I’ll give her my version of casual, but then I’ll break down every single one of her goddamn walls, brick by brick, until there’s no mistaking that we belong to each other.
I leave the hotel and head straight for the office, checking in with today’s nurse, Bill, on the way. Benji has been fine, he assures me. He even seems more alert than the notes indicate from the day before.
“That’s great,” I say, though each change has me on edge. I can find a negative spin to every update, even this one. I’d heard once that just before dying, some people snap out of their confusion and appear completely lucid. Is Benji just having a good day? Or is he on the brink of death? Once I’ve hung up the phone, I consider turning my car around and heading to Benji’s house.
“No,” I say out loud. If Bill says Benji is having a good day, we’ll leave it at that. My natural impulse is always to jump when Benji says. But I have my own life to attend to, including the job that’s paying both our bills.
“Mr. Dermot, Stephen McPatrick called while you were out, said it was urgent,” Tara says as she trots alongside me to my office. Fun fact, Stephen McPatrick uses the word “urgent” as if he earns a paycheck each time. He’s a mortgage broker who works with high-end buyers, and tagging his call as urgent is his way of pushing his current transaction to the top of the list. Another fun fact, I do not play into these kind games, regardless of the money on the table. Everyone can wait their turn, and if they get pushy about it, they may move a few rungs down the ladder of importance.
“Who else?” I ask.
My receptionist names off a few others, including one young couple who are ready to purchase their own home. I’ve talked with James and Anita a few times, and know they are using every cent they have for their first big purchase together. I’ve already decided to eat the transaction fees, including those of the seller’s agent. It’s not a lot, but will save them a few thousand dollars that will help them furnish the place they’re in.
“If Mr. McPatrick calls again, tell him I’m in a meeting but will respond as soon as I’m out,” I say, knowing my “meeting” may take all day. We reach my office, and she lingers for a moment, then glances over my rumpled suit—yesterday’s clothes.
“Long night,” I say, and she raises her eyebrows.
“Glad it worked out,” she says, not even pretending to misunderstand my meaning or the fact that she’s, in fact, not glad it worked out, as she turns and heads back downstairs to the reception area.
Luckily, I have a few pressed suits in my office, along with my own private shower. Though, to be honest, washing Maren from my body is the last thing I want to do.
Work ends up taking me past the dinner hour. I pick at a steak salad I bought several hours earlier, the leaves already wilting under the dressing. The stacks of paperwork in front of me seem to have grown since I got here, despite closing a few transactions in the past few hours. I could stay all night and probably still have a ton left to do, which is a great argument to pack it in for the night.
I make a quick stop at the store, then find my way to Benji’s house. What I really want to do is drive this whole city and find Maren. I want to text her another command to meet me again, to recreate what happened last night. The guilt over this desire is intense. I haven’t seen Benji since yesterday morning, and our last phone conversation was worrisome. Anything could have happened while I was gone, yet I’m already thinking of how I’ll ditch him so I can get laid.
I force Maren out of my mind, even though I swear I can still smell her all around me. By the time I’m bounding the steps to Benji’s house, Maren occupies just a small corner of my mind. Enough that I can focus on the person in front of me.
Benji is sitting up when I enter the room. His eyes land on mine, but I might as well be the help with the lack of acknowledgment. I could blame it on his usual confusion, but a look at his face shows that he’s completely alert. Besides, this is his usual face upon greeting me. That, and some kind of order that—
“Did you pick up a pint of butter pecan?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, waving the bag of ice cream. “Hi Anna,” I say to the nurse on shift. While Hattie is my clear favorite, Anna is a close second just because she manages to make the concept of dying a fun event. It’s not actually fun, but with Anna, you couldn’t tell. The girl is a young mom just out of nursing school, and for some reason she thought end-of-life care was the way to go. “What time is your shift change?”
“Tonight’s an all-nighter,” she says, though she shows no signs of regret. Her phone is in her lap, paused on a show that she and Benji have been watching together. I haven’t paid much attention, but I see now that it’s The Bachelor. The Benji I know wouldn’t stand for that crap in his house. In all 4,500 square feet of this home, he has just one television in the theater room, which he only allowed for educational shows and occasionally the news. Now he’s sneaking peeks at the phone, as if he can’t wait for Anna to continue the show.
“I’ll spoon us up some ice cream,” I say, but Anna jumps up and takes the bag from my hands.
“I got it. Benji’s been asking for you.” She’s gone before I can argue, before I can tell her to pick out the pecans, though I know she’s already on top of it.
“Hi Benji,” I say, taking Anna’s seat and scooting it so we can see each other’s faces.
“Don’t ‘hi’ me,” Benji barks, “Who’s Jay Abbott?”
Fuck. I’m going to kill that damn reporter.
“Not sure,” I lie, “Why?”
“He had questions about that apartment complex. I told him he could kiss my ass, then I hung up the phone.”