Page 2 of A Touch of Brimstone

The heat from it warmed my hands that were chilled from the Midwest balmy fall. I took an appreciative sip. “Ten hours today,” I told her.

She frowned.

“Lilith called in sick. I never mind coming in or working long hours.”

Working kept my mind from being idle and recalling the images of Jackson and Ava entangled in the bed. It didn’t chase away the hurt but made managing it easier. The months had ticked by, but there was still an Ava and Jackson-size hole in my heart and life. Each day it got a little smaller. Getting over a three-year relationship and the loss of a friend I’d known since elementary school wasn’t going to happen overnight.

“More opportunities to discover more of your weird books,” Emoni said, her nose wrinkling as she gave my book a quick glance.

“I didn’t get it from the store, it’s a loan.”

“Let me guess, Reginald?”

The tarot reader from the apothecary store next door had become my paranormal books reading buddy. During our book discussions in Books and Brew, Emoni always gave me her affectionate quizzical look that screamed, “How are we friends?”

“Well, we can’t all have side gigs and hobbies as glamorous as yours,” I teased, keeping my gaze down on my coffee, fully aware that she was glaring at the top of my head. She always did when I made similar comments.

I lifted my eyes to find her nose scrunched. Being the lead singer of a band, she didn’t consider it a hobby. To her, it was a job, her calling, what she called “her breath.” And when she sang, it imbued her with something that transcended life. She enjoyed it and it showed in all her performances. What kept the look on her face was her modeling side jobs that she got from local artists.

A few months ago, she reluctantly admitted she enjoyed seeing paintings and photos featured on social media and in the artists’ studios, but that was the extent of what she liked about it. “It’s hardly a job. There’s no skill in being born with anatomical features in the right size, shape, and ‘definition’ and ‘sculpt’ that appeal to the humanoids,” was her typical response to any mention of it. “Humanoids” was the derisive term she ascribed to people who were obsessed with beauty and things that weren’t in a person’s control. I knew it was her response to being called “exotic” too many times.

African American, with enviable flawless deep-mahogany skin, full defined lips, thick-coiled midnight ear-length hair, umber-brown eyes, and an oval face came together to create what many people often called exotic. We cringed at the description, believing it was an umbrella word often used to describe people whose appearance was different from most of the people in the city. Our consensus was that “unique” seemed like a word you’d use to describe a person who had all the right features but somehow things went terribly wrong. Instead of being a Rembrandt, your features were a mishmash of shapes and angles, likening you to a Picasso. Talent and artistic contribution aside, there was an insult in being called a Picasso.

Modeling jobs were inconsistent, whereas our employment at Books and Brew was steady money. We counted ourselves fortunate to be original employees of the combination coffee shop and bookstore. Located in the art district, the store was one of the less eclectically decorated businesses in the area. Dark wood furniture filled the space. An oversized tan sofa took up the entire wall to the left of the room, and teal-blue painted chairs brought a splash of color to the mundane beige walls. The curved-back metal-and-wood swivel bar stools at the counter added some chic comfort to the decor. The color scheme was continued in the connected bookstore.

The New Age apothecary to the right of the coffeehouse was more of a catchall, selling herbs, vitamins, candles, oils, healing crystals, massagers, yoga cushions, and handwoven baskets. Reginald rented a space to do his readings. The shop leaned into the modern Bohemian look: soothing beige walls, rattan tables used for displays, hanging plants in the corner of the rooms, and large-leafed plants near the register. He’d accented it with shades of orange and terracotta.

A hookah lounge neighbored us to the left. Our little corner of the block catered to the artists, eccentrics, and people who viewed the world through a different lens.

I sipped on my coffee while Emoni went to the register to take an order. We had our regulars but this wasn’t one. I sat back and watched in amusement as Emoni plastered on her friendly but rigid smile. It was a look I’d grown familiar with as she assessed new customers, wondering if they were going to order the coffees we were known for or one of Starbucks’ famously trademarked drinks. It always led to Emoni’s barely affable tight-lipped smile as she pointed to the menu of available coffee drinks and with great effort politely informed the person that Starbucks was two blocks over.

It was after someone ordered a Caramel Ribbon Crunch Frappuccino and then recommended we make something similar that Emoni suggested to Cameron, the owner, a way to deal with the fancy coffee crowd. First violation, they would be politely asked to leave. A second offense would be met by coffee beans being hurled at them until they ran out of the building, feeling rightfully shunned. Cameron didn’t object firmly enough to the suggestion. In fact, her eyes held a gleam of mischief.

“If you don’t love coffee and books, why come here?” Cameron had defended herself when I pointed out that she didn’t seem to hate the idea of assailing unsuspecting customers with coffee beans.

“They didn’t come in here to be pelted by dark roast beans by affronted coffee lovers either. First rule of business, don’t chase away your customers,” I teased.

Her response was crinkling her nose and making a face. We’d been with the company since it opened five years ago, which explained the less than purely professional relationship she had with us.

With twenty minutes to spare before work, I divided my attention chatting with Emoni between customers and reading my book.

I was reaching for my coffee when Emoni took notice of the ring that spiraled midway over my finger, missing the joint to allow free movement. The ridges, waves, and intricate patterns made me think of the scales of a dragon. Where a head should have been on the body was a flattened triangle with a more elaborate design of markings.

“This is interesting,” she said, turning my hand over to get a better look at it. After she released my hand, I admired the ring with the same appreciation I had when I found it near the dumpster in the alley two weeks ago. It was a striking ring; the owner had to be looking for it. I figured that if I wore it daily, its owner would certainly recognize it, but no one had claimed it yet.

“I can’t believe I found it. It’s unfortunate I won’t be able to keep it if someone claims it,” I admitted.

She gave it another quick look. “I’m sure you can have someone replicate it or make something similar,” she said.

I hoped that wouldn’t be the case. I planned to give it one more week before considering the ring mine.

I glanced at the clock, hopped off the stool, and gave Emoni a motionless wave before hugging the book to me and heading to the adjoining bookstore where I worked.

“Ristretto, please,” requested a deep, distinctively accented voice as a man sidled close, startling me. I dropped my cup and book. Before I could save the book from being damaged by the spreading coffee, it was scooped up. Grabbing some napkins, I cleaned up the mess. Someone behind the counter came out with a mop and wet floor sign. When I stood, my eyes trailed up the man holding the book. He towered over my five-two frame by a little over a foot.

Too many beats of time passed as I tried to pull my gaze from his smoldering amber eyes with flecks of gold and the striking intensity of banked fire. Veiled by long midnight lashes, they revealed more than his indecipherable expression.

His eyes traced over the lines of my face, which Emoni affectionately described as a “Valentine” face opposed to the traditionally accepted heart shape. I shoved my hand through my loose auburn waves and became self-conscious of the light-blue ribbon I’d woven into the lone braid because I was bored.

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