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.”