Page 22 of Doozer

To my surprise, Trouble agreed to sit and have coffee with me while we waited for the group’s order to be filled.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this looked an awful lot like one of those date things,” I teased as we took our seats at the last vacant table.

“What can I say? You’ve caught me at a moment of un-caffeinated vulnerability.” Trouble smiled.

“Trouble,” the barista behind the counter of Flick’s Beanery called out.

“I’ve got it,” I said, standing up to retrieve her order.

Trouble shot me a mock dirty look. “I can pick up my own coffee.”

“I know, I know.” I said, politely waving her down. “I can’t help it. It’s how I was raised.”

Trouble’s head stayed cocked defiantly to one side. She wasn’t only sexy. She was devastatingly beautiful.

“If you don’t let me get your coffee, my mother is gonna jump out from behind one of those potted plants and hit me with her shoe.”

“That I’d like to see,” she said.

“I doubt it. She’d be after you next for not allowing me to be a gentleman.”

“Alright,” she said, once again trying to hide her beautiful smile. “Just this once.”

I went to the counter, picked up the coffee and slid a twenty to the barista while Trouble wasn’t looking. The barista winked at me, no doubt hearing me and Trouble’s conversation. Not that eavesdropping could be helped as Flick’s wasn’t much larger than a postage stamp.

“All clear?” Trouble asked as I returned to the table.

“No sign of Mama,” I replied, handing Trouble her coffee. “Thanks for keeping me out of her crosshairs.”

“Do you come from a big family?” Trouble asked, taking a sip.

“Not too big. We’d visit aunts, uncles, and cousins around the holidays, but growing up it was just Mama, Pop, me, and my two older sisters. And now my grandmother lives with my parents.”

“Your parents are still together?”

I nodded. “Married for forty years.”

“Wow, that’s pretty rare these days.”

“My folks are very traditional Italian,” I said.

“I noticed a Virgin Mary tattoo on your chest the other night. Were you raised Catholic?”

“Mass every Sunday and sometimes Wednesday nights, too. I even did the catechism.”

“What’s that?” Trouble asked.

“It’s something they make you do when you’re a kid. You take a bunch of classes for weeks and weeks and then the priest asks you a series of questions about your faith. You know. To see if you’re a good Catholic or not.”

“Any of it stick?” she asked.

“I joined a one percent motorcycle club. What do you think?”

“Sure, but still…”

“What?”

“Well, there’s the religious tattoos, and even though you’re a biker, you’re sort of…”

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