Jagged Love

by Nicole Simone

  Standalones

  The Accidental Kiss

  Jagged Love

  Twisted Fate Series

  When Two Paths Collide (Coming 2015)

  Love of a Rockstar Series

  Love of a Rockstar

  Throughout life, you are presented with moments that take you down a million different paths, but choosing one over the other will not deny you a rainy day. When it pours though, you want somebody to stand by your side and provide the umbrella.

  Like an open dam, rain fell over the city in rivets. I opened my polka dot umbrella and ran through the puddles pock-marking the streets. Water soaked through my Louboutins, which cost me half my monthly salary. I cursed but kept half running, half jogging, to my destination. My boss told me if I was late again, he would fire me and as much as I hated my stupid coffee shop job, I needed it. Being a barista was the only thing keeping a roof over my head. In the distance, the glowing red neon sign, The Roasted Bean, stood out against the darkened sky. I quickened my pace and hoped to God, Pete the owner, wasn’t there. He was so incredibly OCD the sugars had to be placed in an order that only made sense to him. It made my job a thousand times harder since he wouldn’t hire anybody else but Mallory and me. I had to somehow balance the breakfast rush, work the coffee machine, and tend to his OCD qualities. Talk about impossible. Thankfully, Mallory was a barista ninja so we’d found a rhythm that worked. I swung open the door, half past six a.m.

  “Hello,” I called out.

  Mallory’s head peeked out above the coffee bar. “Hey, yourself.”

  “Is Pete coming in today?”

  “Nope, but you better get your booty in gear. We’re opening shop in ten minutes.”

  I saluted her and hightailed it to the break room to drape my Burberry trench coat and designer jeans over a clothes hanger. If anybody saw me walking down the street, they would perceive me as a woman in her mid-twenties who had the world at her fingertips. Designer wardrobe, honey streaked hair, and flawless makeup. However, looks were misleading. I had nothing at my fingertips except for a pile full of bills and a survivor’s instinct. When my mom died of a drug overdose three months ago, she left me a closet full of high-end merchandise from her various sugar daddies. I’d sold nearly everything and got back just enough to last me until now. October 11, 2014 was the day I woke up broke.

  I threw on my uniform, fastened my hair in a ponytail and wiped off my eye make up. If I didn’t, the heat from the espresso machine made me into a sad clown. Mallory was in the process of turning the sign from closed to open when I walked back out. Her mousey brown hair matched our uniforms. She was one of those girls you wouldn’t spare a second glance at, but when you did her striking features memorized you.

  “That red lipstick is going to garner a few stares.” Mallory pointed out as she turned around.

  “Good, I like when people stare.”

  She grinned, amused at my comeback, no doubt. Mallory always said how she was in awe of my pluck. What she didn’t realize was it stemmed from a childhood of fight or flight. My pluck was what had saved me.

  As soon as the doors opened, a steady stream of caffeine starved customers kept Mallory and me on our feet. Shot after shot was pulled, latte art was designed and our famous muffins were dolled out. The muffins were Pete’s ex-wife’s grandma’s recipe. His ex-wife had attempted to sue The Roasted Bean for infringement, but she failed.

  “That will be three dollars and fifty cents.” I said to the customer in front of me.

  The man’s lips turned into a grimace. Mumbling a string of curse words under his breath, he slapped a hundred on the counter. Was he joking? There was a sign written in black ink that read, ‘No bills over twenty.’ Nonetheless, my smile didn’t slip.

  “I’m sorry sir but we don’t take bills over twenty.” I tapped the sign. “Do you have anything lower?”

  His pasty white complexion that hadn’t seen the sun in a good eight months became a frightening shade of red. You could practically see the steam escape out his ears while his jowls jiggled.

  “Come on! I have somewhere to be,” another customer yelled in line.

  The man’s head snapped around. “Fuck off!”

  The coffee shop fell silent as the man leveled his glare onto me. His self-hatred caressed my skin. This was one of those moments I wished Pete hired security for. According to him though, coffee shops weren’t dangerous enough. The Roasted Bean was a rare case then. I could count on both hands the number of times a customer had gone ballistic in the last month. Just last week, a large iced coffee was thrown in my face.

  “You’re asking me to pay three dollars for a coffee and yet you won’t take my hundred dollar bill? What kind of place are you running here?” The man roared.

  My smile faltered. “I only work here, Sir. I don’t set the prices or the rules.”

  “You only work here….” The man peered at my nametag above my boob and snarled. “What is up with these stripper names lately? Didn’t your mother have any common sense?”

  “Actually no, she was a crack addict who named me after her favorite porn star, Haven.”

  The man gaped unattractively, showing off a set of teeth worthy of an Englishman. I bit my tongue as a laugh threatened to escape.

  “I apologize again but there is a line of people behind you. All you need is three dollars. Hell, I’ll even knock off the fifty cents,” I reasoned.

  Something in my tone broke the camel’s back. The man’s beet red complexion changed to purple. His meaty hands reached over the counter. “You condescending bitch.”

  I stumbled backwards against a rack of mugs. Getting killed by a pompous asshole wasn’t on my agenda for the day. His wide girth prevented him from getting very far. I glanced at a wide-eyed Mallory, pitcher of milk frozen in her hand. As I was about to call for help, a strangled scream bounced off the walls. My head jerked to the left. A handsome stranger had the man’s arms pinned behind his back.

  “Apologize to the nice lady,” my night in shining armor drawled.

  “Or what?” The elbow digging into the man’s back dug deeper. The man winced. “Alright fine. Will you let me up?”

  My knight in shining armor dropped his hold. Rubbing the side of his face, the man dug into his pockets. He exchanged his hundred-dollar bill for a twenty.

  “Keep the change,” he mumbled as he walked out of the coffee shop without a shred of dignity left. Not like he had any in the first place.

  With the evil vanquished, the customers cheered loudly. My knight in shining armor shoved his round spectacles up the bridge of his nose and bowed.

  “Guess those years of playing hand by hand combat games came in use,” he quipped.

  The crowd laughed good-naturedly. Everybody resumed his or her previous positions in line. My knight in shining armor was rewarded first dibs.

  “What can I get you?” I asked.

  “My name is Andrew.”

  His voice was smoke and grit, a strange contrast to the skater boy image he was projecting. Andrew wore a vintage band t-shirt ripped at the collar along with a pair of faded jeans. He appeared to be in his early- to mid-twenties. I wasn’t the best at guessing age though.

  “Ok, Andrew. What can I get you?”

  “A doppio, please.”

  My interest was piqued. Hardly anybody in this city was informed about coffee and the lingo that goes with it. Before I worked at The Roasted Bean, tea was my beverage of choice until Mallory showed me how coffee was similar to wine. Depending on the type of bean you used, the flavor notes changed.

  While Mallory made his doppio, I played investigator. “Are you from Seattle?”

  “No. I was born and raised here.”

  “Oh yeah? Are you a barista then?”

 
Andrew barked out a laugh that caused my stomach to flip, which was bizarre because he wasn’t my type. Douchebags were. As my mother would say, admitting you have a problem was the first step to recovery. Maybe this was my first step.

  “Are you always this nosy?” he inquired.

  “No, normally I don’t give a shit but you seem to know your coffee lingo.”

  Andrew’s brown eyes shined with amusement. “I like you. You don’t bullshit; I admire that in a person.” He handed me a five-dollar bill but I waved it away. The money went into the tip jar instead. “To answer your question, the world is my classroom.”

  “That doesn’t answer anything.”

  “I like to inform myself about things that fascinate me. Last year, it was coffee.”

  Andrew’s apartment was probably lined with shelves of books while the ones he hadn’t read yet were stacked next to his bed. Empty coffee cops and dirty dishes piled high in the sink while he penned away at his latest novel. My type and his type didn’t mix. It was like potassium and glycerol, bound to explode.

  Mallory set the doppio on the counter.

  “Thanks,” he murmured.

  Mallory gave him a shy grin and went back to the safety of her espresso machine. Andrew picked up the cup as if he was about to leave. He was the first person in forever who didn’t bore me to tears. I didn’t want our conversation to end.

  “What’s it this year?” I blurted out.

  “Art. More specifically modern art.” He balanced the cup in the palm of his hand while he pulled out a mini postcard from his front pocket. “I have a showing in three days. I would love it if you came.”

  Our fingers brushed as I took the postcard. Splatters of black and turquoise paint marked his skin.

  “I’ll be there,” My lips quirked at the corners. “Besides, you saved my life. The least I can do is show up and pretend to be interested in your artwork.”

  With sickening clarity, I realized I was jabbing him to hear his laugh again. It reminded me of blue skies after a rainstorm when everything was sparkly and full of hope. Oh God. Did I really just think that? Pretty soon, I’ll be painting my nails bright pink and believing in shit like eternal love.

  Andrew took a delicate sip of his doppio, smiling over the rim. “You’re not the kind of girl who needs saving. I helped, that’s all. It was nice to meet you…”

  “Haven,” I supplied.

  “Haven.” The way he rolled my name over his tongue caused me cheeks to heat. “Did you know Haven in Swedish means, the seas, the oceans?”

  “I did not.”

  Somebody cleared their throat behind Andrew, singling our discussion had gone on too long.

  “I have to get back to work,” I said.

  “Of course. Bye, Haven.”

  Andrew downed the doppio, leaving the empty cup on the counter. He swaggered out of the coffee shop into the hazy morning. I watched him through the window and smiled to myself. This morning had started off awful, took a turn for the dangerous, and ended with a date. Andrew and I seemed to both be walking contradictions. Maybe that was why I was drawn to him. Or maybe, just maybe, he was a breath of fresh air from the garbage I normally hung around. Whatever it was, Andrew was a welcome distraction. I placed the postcard underneath the counter and continued working. Throughout the day though, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my life was about to change. For better or for worse, only time would tell.

  My shift flew by and before I knew it, the clock read three o’clock, which was closing time. Pete believed coffee shops shouldn’t operate past mid-day. Obviously, he hadn’t ever been to Seattle. My mom and I had lived there for a year when I was fifteen. She’d followed her latest fling to the rocky shores of the Puget Sound. Her boyfriend was an executive at Microsoft, and while brilliant, he was also incredibly naïve. He gave my mom a shopping allowance, which went toward a different kind of shopping. She would scour the neighborhoods of Seattle for various drugs. Pills, weed, downers, uppers, she tried them all. The beauty of a wealthy boyfriend was he was never around. My mom could nod off into peaceful bliss without judgment. Meanwhile, I had my own routine: High school from 8:00 a.m. till 3:00, followed by homework at the coffee shop across the street where I would stay well past nightfall. It was better than the haunted mansion my mom and I called home. Once my mom’s boyfriend found out about where his money was really going, we got kicked to the curb and had to return to Detroit. Five years later, I was still here.

  Sticking my key into the lock, it turned easily and my apartment door swung open. Light filtered in through the bay window, spilling across the wide plank hardwood floors. A cartoon blared on the other side of my paper-thin living room wall. While it wasn’t glamorous, it was mine. I threw my keys into a bowl on the console table and headed into the kitchen. Pulling open my fridge was a reminder of my dire situation. A half of loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese sat on the middle shelf. Guess grilled cheese was in the works for lunch—again. I had five hundred dollars hidden underneath my mattress but that was escape money. I had a life long dream to move somewhere, anywhere besides Detroit. There were too many memories here, which were best forgotten. I took a pan off the shelf and set it on the stove. Slathering both sides of the bread with butter, I slapped them onto the screaming surface. Two slices of cheese were added and my mom’s secret ingredient, hot sauce. My front door opened followed by footsteps.

  “You should really learn to knock,” I said.

  Monica, my best friend, came into view. She was dressed for work at the cocktail club two blocks away. A red mini dress barely covered her ass while her boobs were shoved to her chin. Whitish blonde hair fell around her shoulders in mermaid waves.

  Monica cocked her hip against the doorframe. “Are you harboring a hot naked man in your bedroom? Because it looks like you’re making grilled cheese.”

  “I could be. You have no idea what goes on behind my bedroom door.”

  “Honey, nothing goes on behind your bedroom door besides sleeping. We both know that.”

  Flipping the grilled cheese, my eyes rolled. Although, Monica was correct. This past week was the two-year anniversary of my dry spell. It’s not as if I intended to go on this long without sex, it’d kind of just happened. Besides, my trusty vibrator had a ninety-nine percent success rate. You couldn’t say that about most men.

  “Whatever,” I said. “I’m reclaiming my nun status after years of exploring my inner slut.”

  “You weren’t a slut.”

  I gave Monica a look like she wasn’t fooling anyone. I was a slut, a huge one in fact. There wasn’t any shame in admitting that. Sleeping with random guys gave me the validation I wasn’t getting anywhere else. It was pure psychology 101.

  Monica plopped her ass into a seat at the dining room table. She crossed her left leg over her thigh. “Remember when you woke up on your eighteenth birthday, hung over to high heaven—and not to mention naked—when your one night stand’s mother walked in with breakfast?”

  “Of course. She dropped the tray on the floor and started to scream about how I defiled her precious baby boy.”

  “That didn’t stop you from shoveling pancakes into your pocket as you ran out the door.”

  I shrugged. “My mom never had anything in the house besides cereal and milk. Pancakes were a rare luxury I couldn’t pass up.”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  Sliding the grilled cheese on to a plate, I joined Monica at the table. Neon yellow cheese oozed out of the sides of the toasted white bread. It was an edible masterpiece, which reminded me of something. I removed the postcard about the art show from my pocket. On the front, red, yellow and orange blended together to form a portrait of a woman. Her eyes were out of balance with the rest of her face, however, they were captivating. Haunting almost. Her irises shone black as a starless sky and hid away an aching pain. Underneath the portrait was the title, “Shattered Consequences.” A shiver sent goose bumps to rise on my arms.

  Monica peered at t
he postcard, curiously. “What is that?”

  “I was invited to an art show on Saturday by Andrew, the painter himself.”

  She snatched it out of my hands and examined the postcard from all angles as her expression grew to disbelief. “Holy shit. Do you know who this is?”

  Was she hard of hearing? “Yes, Andrew. He is the artist who came into my coffee shop today and saved me from getting strangled by an overworked corporate fat cat.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yup. He put the dude into an arm lock and made him apologize for being rude.”

  “Wow, that’s pretty awesome.” Monica slapped the postcard face up. “Everybody says Andrew is an elusive and incredibly private man.”

  My eyebrows bunched together. “What are you talking about? Who are they?”

  “Everybody. Andrew is known as a creative genius with the magical touch of success. Last year, he opened a pop up coffee shop in Corktown. Lines snaked around the block and the coffee was hailed as liquid gold.”

  Jesus. Andrew was that Andrew. I’d read about him in the Detroit News but like Monica said, he was elusive. Cameras weren’t allowed at any of his openings and since people respected him, they followed that rule.

  Another tidbit of news popped into my head. “Wasn’t he also the spear header of taking over abandoned lots and turning them into edible food gardens?”

  “Probably. He is a modern day renaissance man.”

  “I can’t believe I met him,” I murmured.

  Monica leaned over the table, thirsty for gossip but there was little to tell. Our conversation, while memorable, was brief. Nonetheless, she was like a dog with a bone.

  “Come on,” Monica whined. “You met the great Andrew. Was he breathtakingly gorgeous? I want every detail down to what size shoe he was wearing.”

  “Seriously? His shoe size?”

  “Yeah….” A mischievous glimmer twinkled in her eyes. “I want to know if his greatness extends to his crotch.”

  My shoulders shook with laughter. It would be widely unfair to the male population if Andrew were truly gifted in all areas. Although, based on his large strong hands, I had a feeling he wouldn’t disappoint as far as the main event was concerned. They were hands that wouldn’t let you go until you were satiated with pleasure.