Page 41 of Catfish

The coffee shop in Newbury is quaint and quiet, two cities over from Bridgeport and away from any prying eyes. The receptionist’s name is Mila, Em was a smartass and gave it to me on a Post-it Note so I don’t blow whatever plan I had cooking up in my head.

I need to feel the unjaded girl out more, her demographics look clean on paper, but it isn't good enough for me. I need to take Holden Montgomery by the throat and hurl him off his high horse without my name being linked to any of it.

Mila Robinson, twenty-three, moved here from a small town in Rhode Island and has two brothers. Her parents are still married, together thirty-one years, and they have a miniature poodle named Spunky.

Stupid.

I could already tell she was a girly-girl who wants to make it big in any way she can by getting around power—it’s perfect. I know these kinds of women as well as a hangman knows a rope.

Half of them end up hanging themselves by it.

Glancing at my Rolex, I pull another sip of coffee from my mug—she’s late and fucking lucky that I need her.

Thing is, if she doesn’t agree, I’ll have to issue out some threats of my own to a poor girl who’ll probably shit her pants at this very table.

Should have told her to bring some extra clothes with her.

Bells ring at the front door of the establishment and I peer up, remembering her blonde hair and large mocha eyes. She’s wearing a pale pink dress that flows out at her waist with a white cardigan and matching heels.

Fidgeting with her phone, she spots me under my beret cap and slowly makes her way to the corner table that I’ve saved for us.

I smile as kindly as I can manage and stand from my chair. “Thank you for meeting me, Mila.” I gesture for her to take a seat, watching her blush under my gaze.

“Hello,” she greets, taking her seat before I take back my own. She sheds her purse off her shoulder and deposits it over the chair, laying her cell phone on the table.

“Did you have trouble finding the place?” She shakes her head, tucking a piece of blonde hair behind her ear.

“No, it was easy. Never been here before though.”

She looks around, the place is rustic, wooden tables, chairs, and countertops. Hand-painted murals of maps are on cream-colored walls, and indie music plays softly in the background.

I like this place, it’s a hole-in-the-wall, but if I wasn’t here on business, I’d probably be able to enjoy it. I appreciate the fresh artwork of a starving artist, raw with a hidden story or inspiration behind it.

Mila picks up her phone, and I signal with my head to stop her.

“Do you mind turning that off?” Her eyes glint at me perplexed—shocker. “This is going to be an important conversation and I have to take safety measures.”

“Oh.” She holds a button on the side of her phone then shows me a black screen. Still not good enough for me.

I extend my hand. “Do you mind?”

“You...want my phone?” Her eyes enlarge like I just told her I was Jesus Christ himself.

I smile. "I do...please." Mila gradually hands it over, and I hit the side button of her phone to make sure it's off, then slide off the back to remove the battery.

“This must be really serious,” she chortles nervously, tapping her fingertips along the table before clasping her hands together.

“It is.” I place her phone back on the tabletop. “Can I get you something?”

"An expresso...would be great." I raise my hand for the barista, and the young woman nods, finishing the order of another table.

“So, I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you over here.”

She sends me a feeble quirk of her lips. “I am. I wasn’t expecting a call from you.”

“I’ll cut to the chase so I’m not wasting your time.” She looks up at me under long eyelashes and bats them.

“Not wasting my time. I was happy to receive a call from you in the first place.”

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