Page 43 of Four Tattoos
“I texted you several times. We both did. What happened?”
“My phone must have died,” I lie. “I’m sorry to have worried you. There was so much traffic—people going to the beach, I guess—and I had no idea I got so delayed.”
She gives me a long, searching look, and I worry she’s about to ask questions, so I quickly look around for something I can use as a distraction, my eyes landing on the bakery case. “Oh, it looks like we’re almost out of cookies. Do we have more in the back?”
Before she can answer, I make a beeline for the storage cooler, and keep myself occupied until the shop gets so busy with customers that Nancy won’t have time to question me.
I also avoid my brother, though he appears to be on a call with someone about a repair, so I’m safe for the moment.
I can’t believe I messed up like that, totally losing track of time. I need to be much more careful, but things should be better once I’m in my apartment. The guys can spend the night with me, if they want to—though I probably won’t have enough room for all of them to be comfortable—and I’ll be able to spend the night at their house without Patrick knowing my whereabouts. The freedom will be wonderful.
As I’m making lattes, blending iced coffees, and dreading a confrontation with Patrick, I wonder if it’s time to be open with my brother about who I’ve been seeing. Even if it never turns into an official relationship, and even if things go nowhere, the men are important to me, and I shouldn’t have to sneak around.
I’m an adult, and sooner or later, Patrick will need to accept the choices I make in life, especially if my choices make me happy. When it comes to Hutch, Christian, Zipper, and Mace, I’m very happy, so much so that while I’m making drinks, I have a silly grin on my face, and I’m humming one of the ‘90s songs that most reminds me of them.
“Can you wait on Mr. Broderick?” Nancy asks, leaning in close so I can hear her whispered request. “I think he likes you better.”
I laugh out loud at that. The man doesn’t like anything.
I meet him at the counter with a wide grin. “How are you doing today, Mr. Broderick?”
“Save your silly questions, girl,” he grumbles. “I just want my decaf coffee, plain, none of your fancy nonsense.”
Instead of smiling and filling his order as I always do, I just stand there looking back at him. Maybe I’m in a weird mood today, after having so much fun with the men, followed by a huge wave of stress when I hurried back here, but something in me doesn’t want to just put on a happy face and go through the motions right now.
“What are you waiting for?” The man’s tone is bitter and disdainful.
I stand up straighter and square my shoulders, “I don’t know what kind of problems you deal with on a daily basis, Mr. Broderick. Maybe you’re lonely and depressed, or maybe you have chronic pain—whatever it is that makes you so miserable, I’m sorry about it, but it doesn’t give you the right to come in here and treat me so badly.”
The man, who’s probably never looked me in the eye before, is now staring at me, jaw hanging slightly open.
“I’m not going to serve you if you can’t be polite, Mr. Broderick. You don’t have to be pleasant or even smile, but you do need to treat me with basic common courtesy.”
The man continues to stare at me as if he’s expecting more, but I’m finished. I look back at him and wait for him to make his choice.
His mouth closes, and then opens again. “I’m … sorry,” he says.
I give him a short nod before I turn to get his coffee. “This is on me today. No charge. I hope you enjoy it.” I slide the cup across the counter toward him.
He’s taken by surprise once again, and after a short pause, says, “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr. Broderick.”
As I watch the older man make his way to the other counter for cream, I realize I’m almost as surprised by my actions as he was. I’d never even imagined having a confrontation with him like this, but somehow it just sprang out of me today, completely unplanned, but ultimately successful.
It occurs to me that my four tattoo artists would be proud of how I stood up for myself, and I have to wonder if it was their influence that led me to do it.
* * *
The shop gets so busy, with people stopping in for coffee and sweets to get them through an afternoon slump, that I nearly forget about being away too long earlier during my Brothers in Ink delivery.
I don’t forget about the men, of course—they’re never far from my mind—but I forget about my worries about Patrick and Nancy, until the shop empties out and Nancy takes me aside.
“Can I talk to you, Rose?”
My stomach instantly sinks to my feet.
“Sure. What’s up?” My attempt to sound casual fails miserably.