Page 3 of Mocha Kisses

It doesn’t help that the frost of this never-ending winter is starting to cling to my clothes, my face, and my fucking soul. It’s already May but Mother Nature doesn’t seem to care. Either that or Jack Frost has her in a chokehold. I’m tired of it, really. I’m tired of all of it.

Tears gather at the corner of my eyes as I fight to keep myself together, knowing that one misstep and everything I’ve built will come crashing down.

The worst part is that I don’t even know who I’m running from anymore. The few suited goons that followed me around in Spring Haven made sense. But that wassix years ago.No fucking way that some debt agency is sending goons out into the city streets after me, across state lines at that. None of them have badges, although the long string of well-manicured suits and slicked-back hair always has me on edge.

I skid to a stop at the corner of Mason Street and survey my options. These men have been getting bolder, but they have never once followed me into an establishment so I’m hoping my luck pays off today. Dashing into the café on the next corner, I grab a seat and immediately toss my bag onto the table, scrambling for my laptop and phone to make it seem like I belong. An annoyed huff comes from the counter and I know that without buying something, I’ll be thrown back out onto the street.

Digging into my wallet, I discover that two pitiful dollars and a handful of change are waiting for me. In a café like this, I might be lucky to grab a water bottle. Still, I drag my ass up to the counter and read the menu, settling on a regular coffee with two creams and a sugar.

The barista is less than happy to take my change but this building is keeping me from my demise so I’ll take the attitude. For now.

Once back in my seat, I finally unlock my phone to see several messages from my boss. Just as I’m about to scroll through them, his number rolls across the screen.

I clear my throat and take several deep breaths so that I don’t give off the appearance that I’ve just been running for my life. “Yes?”

“Seriously? You were supposed to be at the office hours ago. I can’t keep vouching for you, Luna baby.”

My entire face contorts with the weight of my frown. That bastard knows I hate the nickname but he’s like the uncle I never had so I let it slide. He thinks it’s hilarious and I get to keep my job by not pushing the issue. He also owns the Shepard’s Press, so I’m not sure what he’s talking about.

“You own the fucking business, Max,” I grumble, taking a swig of my coffee. I open my laptop and as it whirs to life, I settle back in my chair running through my options. My grumble extends as mediocre coffee coats my tongue and then slides down my throat. What a waste of two dollars and change. I hope that Max has another job for me so that I can find somewhere to sleep. If not, my car will serve as a good bed for the next few nights. I miss my Toyota from six years ago but that barely lasted me a year before it shit the bed. My newest purchase is nearly an exact replica but in black. Sue me, I like the nostalgia. “I’m just finishing up this last edit and then I’m ready for my next one.”

Working as an editor pays shit, way less than I need to pay off my father’s lingering debts that are constantly haunting me. However, they pay more than any of the other jobs I’ve tried and allow for a lot more freedom—like random chases mid-morning. I alsoreallyenjoy books but have neither the money nor time to buy or rent them. This is the easiest option and Max pays my phone bill. He also pays weekly.

“Luna baby…” He drawls, not finishing his sentence. I make sure to take an agonizingly long sip of my coffee, letting him hear the bubbles as they pass through my lips. The annoyed chuckle that follows my grotesque etiquette covers up my anxiety from a few moments ago. My gaze travels to the front door, two men in pinstripe black and red suits wandering back and forth a few times before disappearing down the street. “Luna?”

“Shit, yeah, sorry. You were saying?”

“I wasn’t saying anything. You ever going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Not if I don’t have to. I get my edits done on time. The writers like me and other than not showing up to those god-awful meetings you set up at 9 am, I’m the best you’ve got.” I’m fudging a little but I am one of his better editors. Not to mention, that there hasn’t been one single complaint with my work since I started just over five years ago. The best part? I can live anywhere within the 50 states. It just so happens that my current city is the same one where the main office is located. “You have another edit for me?”

There’s a bout of silence as I chug the rest of my coffee and I wait for his answer. “Luna, we need to talk.”

He’s not using my nickname. “Nothing good ever started with those words. Max, I’m fine. I’m about to submit this. See? Submitted. You’ll be ready for her launch in three weeks. Now-”

“I need to see you. Just stay at the café, alright? I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

He ends the call, my hackles raised as I sit there, staring at the screen in front of me, the submitted file looking back as if mocking me for my poor attempt to stay put together. The pain and shame of this morning start to sink in and I close everything down, stuff it into my bag, and make my way to the bathroom in the back. Despite my chaotic life, I’m still a creature of habit.

Even without those uniformed men after me, I would still spend hours in this café, nursing an espresso or a mild coffee. For the week that I’ve been in this city, Max has occasionally met me here to discuss projects or gossip about issues in the office. As much as he is a comfort to me, I am the same to him.

I clutch the handles of my bag tightly to my back as I step inside the single bathroom, sighing when the heavy-laden door swings shut and I lock myself inside. The colder air in here seeps into my skin but the relief of being closed off to the world is a peace I can’t have anywhere else. I take several moments to focus on my breathing before moving toward the sink to clean up a little.

The reflection that meets me in the bathroom is a pitiful one, a heavy sigh falling from my lips. I look awful, my dulled brown eyes sunken in from sleepless nights. My usually tamed, thick brown curls are in a ragged nest atop my head and whatever makeup I had bought from the dollar store a few weeks ago has decided that it's better suited hanging out in mottled clumps on my cheeks.

My clothing isn’t much better off, a plain black shirt and a pair of washed-out jeans hugging a little tighter around my boobs and midriff from the numerous snacks I indulge in as I’m flitting from city to city. It’s not my fault that chips are cheaper than a salad and sometimes a bitch needs something to crunch on. Still, I’m a sad excuse for a human at this moment.

I’m a mess.

No wonder the barista was scowling at me. I look like a fucking homeless person.

Iama homeless person.

Blood is caked into a small cut on my chin so I turn on the faucet to begin washing off my face. When that’s done, I finger through my curls until they bring me back to a woman I can be semi-proud of. Tonight, I’ll wrangle Max into providing me another hotel to stay at so I can take a hot shower but after that, I’m not sure where this will put me. Especially with those goons now in the same city as me.

My phone buzzes and I unfortunately look at the text from an unknown number.

$840,536 still owed, girlie. You better hope those short legs of yours keep moving fast enough to stay out of our reach.

---