Page 8 of Brewbies
Showgirl tits and hot-pink hair present and very accounted for. Hell, an only slightly exaggerated caricature of her glowed from the top of the camper this very second, blinking neon Las Vegas showgirl, leg kick and all.
Christ, did she have to strangle every single theme to literal death?
The sound of boots crunching on gravel yanked her out of self-speculation and cattle-prodded her into motion.
Her regulars were growing restless.
At the front of the line, the hulking, dark-haired dude who looked like he just stepped off the set of a movie withDestroyerin the title. Tucked protectively against his broad chest, the buxom, blonde bookstore proprietress who reminded Darby of Botticelli paintings she’d loved at the Met.
Him: D Cup Slow Grind, extra sweaty—pour-over coffee, black, 180 degrees.
Her: C Cup Vanilla Pump and Dump—regular Italian roast with house-made Madagascar vanilla syrup and extra half ’n’ half.
Darby rummaged through the various shelves and cupboards to pull out the necessary accoutrements and scooped a healthy shovel of spicy, cocoa-scented grounds into the compostable paper cone before dispensing the appropriate amount of scalding water. While it brewed, she shimmied through the small door to her dining room/lounge/wardrobe/craft room/library.
Yanking open her “closet,” she double-fisted the contents and flung them over her shoulders like a cartoon strumpet, furiously searching for anything to cover her hair.
How could she condense an entire Etsy vintage pin-up boutique into a repurposed broom cupboard but still not own a single hat?
Desperate, she snatched up the baggy Bettie Page t-shirt she’d slept in and hauled it over her bikini top before grabbing another and twisting it around the chignon and victory rolls she’d so painstakingly assembled earlier that morning.
She’d sooner scrape her entire face off with a cake spatula than re-contour, but wiped off her signature siren-red lipstick as tribute.
As she glanced down at the smeared crimson rings on the makeup wipe, her staggeringly unhelpful brain idly wondered if Deep Dicking had seen something similar when he took a washrag to his business the morning after their anonymous feral fuckfest.
Spontaneous under-boob sweat broke out beneath her bikini top at the thought. Darby grabbed a silk fan and beat it against the close air of the camper to cool her furiously flushed cheeks as she lunged the four steps back to the coffee cubby.
Go time.
Allowing herself one last breath, she shoved the curtains aside and slid the pocket window open.
The cool, pine-scented air of an early Pacific Northwest summer felt delicious on her heated skin as she leaned out the window to prop up the cotton-candy-pink mini-awning over the small, brushed steel service counter mounted on the camper’s flank.
“Morning,” she greeted the customers with considerably less volume than she normally employed. “Sorry about the wait. The grinder was being an absolute dickhole.”
Cady Bloomquist met her with a beaming smile. “No worries whatsoever.”
If Darby had a six-and-a-half-foot search-and-rescue team/personal space heater following her around town, she suspected she might not have any worries either.
Turning back to her barista nook, Darby quickly finished their drinks and fitted the cups with lids, insulation sleeves, and sip hole stopper topped with a tiny—but remarkably perky—pair of tits.
After punching the order into the iPad, she swiveled it on the lazy Susan base to face them.
Cady’s Viking escort stepped forward and held his iPhone up to the screen to complete the transaction with a tip far more generous than she deserved.
“Have the breast day,” she said, handing their drinks over.
“I will when you actually come to the Bare-Naked Book Club like you promised,” Cady teased with an arched eyebrow.
“Next Thursday, for sure,” Darby said, hating herself a little for what she already knew was a lie.
Cady’s smooth cheeks lifted in a serene grin. “I’ll save you a seat.”
They walked off together toward a black SUV big enough to be army issue if not for the uber-tinted windows, Darby’s heart squeezing as Conan hooked a finger through the belt loop of Cady’s wide-legged denim trousers.
The next three customers were drive-through interstate traffic that represented the bulk of her business. The fourth, a sight that made her face grow longer on her tired skull.
“That timer says twenty minutes,” he said in a congested voice dripping with sinus infection. “Your website promises that you never serve coffee that’s been sitting for more than fifteen.”
