Page 52 of Naked Coffee Guy
“So,” I repeat, taking her hands in mine. Her hands are soft, her black as night fingernails shimmering as her fingers weave between mine. Her skin is a luscious ivory against mine, a rarity in this beach town. On her, it’s elegant‚—but it’s also rebellious, as if she shuns the habits of all these sun worshippers.
“So, what’s next?” she asks, “We’re not casual, so you say. But what then? Are you my…”
I hear the word she falters on. Boyfriend. It’s reminiscent of the other night, when she nearly slipped up and called herself my girlfriend. It worried me then, for all the right reasons. Tonight, I find myself not caring about anything but her.
But the word boyfriend also carries a lot of weight. I’ve never been that to anyone before. I’ve dated girls, some over the course of a few months. But the word boyfriend symbolizes something more. Exclusivity, sure. But also a kind of belonging—as in, she belongs to me, and I… I belong to her.
Boyfriend feels like too small of a word.
“Yours,” I finish for her, “I am yours, and you are mine. It’s that simple. If you want to call me your boyfriend, your lover, your man friend, whatever you want, I’m here for it. I don’t care what you call me, as long as I get to be the one with your heart. Because Maren, I’m falling for you, and it’s the most delicious feeling in the world.”
I take her hand closer, locking eyes with her as I brush my lips across her delicate skin. Her eyes fill with tears, and she starts to pull away in an effort to brush them aside. I hold firm, pulling her closer and kissing her damp face, tasting the sweet salt of her.
“Damnit,” she laughs, “I seriously never cry. At least, I never used to. But you keep saying all the right things.”
“I mean every one of them.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “You have my heart,” she finally murmurs, “You’re the first one to have it.” She pauses, closing her eyes against the collected moisture. When she opens them again, her coffee eyes sparkle with something new. “And I hope you’ll be the last.”
The reason The Coastal Plate is such a hit with tourists is because it turns into a night club after dinner hours. The first song that comes on is a mix of Nirvana’s “Teen Spirit,” and she insists we have to stay and dance.
“It’s your song!” she laughs, grabbing my hand and pulling me to my feet. I take off my jacket, and she lays her wrap over the chair before we join the throng of dancers. When I pull her against me, the curves of her body molds against my own like we’re parts of the same puzzle.
I’m hers, and she’s mine.
The energy in the room is high, and we’re here for it. I join her in belting out the lyrics, mesmerized by the throaty nature of her voice. We’re surrounded by people screaming the song, but I hear only her. I taste only the sweat of her body. I breathe only the honeysuckle of her hair.
I’m brought back to the night on the rooftop, the feel of holiness that had me remove my shoes so I could soak it all in. But I don’t need to do that now. It’s like the whole Universe has twisted into alignment, and we’re at the very center of it.
But then I feel Maren stiffen, and I’m catapulted back to reality. I turn to see what’s captured her attention, and that’s when I see him.
My brother.
Former manager of the Beale Street apartments, and Maren’s former fuck buddy.
Brock’s eyes are on Maren as some barely legal Barbie sucks on his lip ring. But then the tool pushes her away, his face breaking into a shit eating grin when he notices I’m the one with my arm around Maren’s shoulders.
“Let’s get out of here,” I growl, but Brock is already moving in our direction.
I haven’t seen this dipshit since I handed him his last paycheck. We hadn’t lived together in years, and I hardly considered him family. But because he was effectively out of work, I’d paid him a healthy severance on top of his salary. The fucker still had the audacity to throw Maren in my face.
“Too bad you never had a shot at #17,” he’d said, referring to her apartment number as he tucked the paycheck in his wallet. “Probably the best fuck out of the whole building. I should have stepped aside to give you a taste, but that bitch is like a goddamn drug. You should see the way she takes my…”
“We’re done here,” I’d cut him off. But what I’d really wanted to do was cave his face in.
This fucker has been busting my balls from day-one—from the day he moved into Benji’s house, to the day he was made office manager while I did Benji’s grunt work. I flash back to the first day I saw him walk out of Maren’s apartment at the exact time I started my shift. This fuckhead laughed in my face for not making a move, and then he swooped in. All for a good lay, he’d brag.
Now here he is striding toward us looking like the cat who caught the canary.
This fuckhead could ruin everything.
“Maren, babe, where’ve you been?” Brock asks. He looks from Maren to me, and his grin widens. “Man, you don’t waste any time, do you? I’m happy to see you haven’t lost your touch. Well, good for you, going for the big dog.”
“Can it, Brock.” His name is out of my mouth before I can pull it back in, and I feel Maren shift beside me. I don’t have to look to know that she’s staring at me, probably wondering how I know his name. Well, she’s about to get a shit load of information—things I should have told her a long time ago. Fucking coward. I should have said something sooner, and now it’s all going to come crashing down.
“Don’t get jealous, Brock,” Maren says, slipping out from under my arm to put her hands on her hips, “You knew we weren’t serious.”
“Jealous?” Brock laughs, “Maren, I knew my place. You fucked me because you thought I had rent control, but the only one who could control it was this guy.” He nods to me, his grin widening as I feel my stomach plummeting. “Guess you knew how to get housing. What’s this guy doing for you now that he’s not keeping your rent low? Did he put you up in the penthouse? Buy you your own house? Because Maren, that pussy is good, but goddamn if I’m amazed at the power you wield. Well done, babe.”