Page 60 of Bidding War

I huff at myself, shaking my head. As if anything is easy with her.

But it’s not her fault. Not really. Every problem we have had can be traced back to my father. This is all on him, and I don’t know how to fix that. I dig my head back into my pillow for the staring contest with my ceiling. I am losing this contest, too.

Lying in bed doesn’t fix anything, so I roll to my feet and drop for push-ups. As much as I love my apartment building for having a place to work out, it’s not the same as going to my old gym, and I don’t want to admit to myself that I can’t afford that anymore.

Bodyweight exercises will have to suffice for now.

I crank out a few sets of squats after the push-ups and burpees after that until I’m gassed. I'm off to the shower for a quick one, and then I am heading to the coffee shop down the street. Another frigid day in paradise, I see. No freezing rain, which is nice, but it might as well be. The mist is so heavy that it’s almost rain when it hits my face, and the chilled breeze makes it feel just this side of not frozen. By the time I reach the coffee shop, I feel iced over.

Thankfully, it is warm inside—almost hot, actually. There’s a thick line of customers, which makes sense. It’s too cold not to drink something hot. The best part about the place? June won’t be here. Not that I am avoiding her. I want to talk to her about last night’s fucked up conversation. But not right now. It’s too soon, I think. Whatever happened last night, she wasn’t quite herself. I want to know why, and I want to know how I can fix it.

I need us to get back on the right track. The thought makes me chuckle to myself. Have we ever been on the right track?

By the time I reach the front of the line, I have forgotten what I wanted. Sometimes, I’m dedicated to a drink, but I’m too scattered right now. I need to switch things up. “Eh?—"

“If you don’t know, go to the back of the line!” some jackass says behind me.

The barista gives a pained smile and softly says, “Take your time.” She must really hate that guy.

I don’t want to make her day any worse by antagonizing that jerk, so I blurt the first menu item that jumps out at me. “Peppermint mocha, please.” Shit. Do I want that? Doesn’t matter. “Biggest one you’ve got. Two extra shots. Thank you.” After I pay and go to the waiting deck, I spy the jackass.

White, middle-aged male with not enough hair and too many teeth. I’d love to fix that last part about him by knocking a few out, but that’s just the primal part of me thinking. No. Not really thinking. That’s the primal part of me planning.

Strange that. Since I’ve been doing ride-alongs with Moss, my mind slips into some darker, uncivilized place far too easily for my liking. I have a shorter fuse these days, and I don’t like it. I need to work on it, but oddly, I don’t want to. It’s juvenile of me, but I like having an edge if I’m honest with myself.

I’ve always thought I was better than men like Moss. Men who use their fists instead of their words. After doing a few martial arts when I was growing up, I stopped because I wanted to be more erudite and more intellectual. Dad had begun to drill into me that I should be an academic more than a brawler, and if I wanted to inherit his title, I had to be better at books than fisticuffs.

Such a fucking liar.

I wonder if Mom put that in his head. She hated my martial arts classes because she worried I’d get hurt. I sighed at the thought. If she could see me now …

The grumpy jackass has no other choice but to stand next to me as we wait for our drinks. That primal, petty inner voice tells me to stand up straight to make him feel small. It’s an embarrassing sentiment. I have nothing to prove to this guy. So, I stand there, waiting.

As the drink-making barista lifts a cup to the deck, the jackass grabs it before I think to, and then marches off. I ask her, “Was that a?—'

“Large peppermint mocha, two added shots.”

“And the next is…?”

“Large sugar-free vanilla steamer, nonfat, hold the whip.”

I smirk, watching the guy outside as he takes his first sip. “This will be funny.”

The barista cocks an eye up, half-paying attention. The guy spits out my drink and marches back inside. “This is not my drink!”

“No,” I tell him, standing square at him. “It was mine. But you grabbed it without waiting for her to announce it.”

She sets his drink on the deck, announcing his drink, before going back to her work.

I’m between him and his drink now, so I politely step aside. “I believe that’s yours.”

He sets mine onto the deck, grabs his, and grumbles at the barista, “You should have been faster.”

When he turns around, I am in his way again, this time glaring down at him. “Apologize.”

He is so frustrated that it’s fucking hilarious. “Fine. Sorry for taking your drink.”

“Not to me, you absolute waffle. To the barista.”

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