Page 3 of Reaper's Revenge
I pause by the cook’s window to yell out into the dining area, “Be right there!” Then quickly head for the hand-washing sink. I silently singHappy Birthdaywhile I scrub my hands and then dry them. I straighten my apron and grab a clean tray in case there are more than three people I need to carry drinks for.
I pop a mint in my mouth and push through the swinging door, key already in my right hand to lock the front door. “Hello!” I say loudly as I stride for the entrance, then nearly stumble on the next step when I finally catch sight of our late-night diners. My mouth pops open as I stare, but I can’t help it.
The men are…Something else, that’s for sure. Well, first of all, they’re huge. Tall, muscular,intimidating. “C-can I help you?” The words leave me sounding shriller than my usual voice.
One of the men, who has ‘leader’ written all over him, steps forward. “Jimmy not here? He’s usually waiting for us.”
It takes a beat for me to remember how to speak. “Oh, uh, no. You’re the late diners?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
He nods.
My stomach flips at his confirmation, as nerves overtake me. Somehow, I manage to continue without stuttering, “Jimmy said he couldn’t stay tonight. He asked if I’d take care of y’all and close up for him. I thought you were already aware of that.”
“Hmm,” the man responds, the sound low. It’s a cross between irritation and curiosity coating his tone. “He mention where he was going?”
I shake my head, my heart pounding a million miles an hour, it seems while being on display for the group. This is awkward and takes everything for me not to duck behind the hostess station and hide for the rest of the night. My boss definitely wouldn’t be impressed.
Red flags.
Red flags waving everywhere!
I ignore the warning signs blaring in my head and say, “I have your tables set up in the back, over there,” I needlessly point. This place is small enough that anyone with two eyes can see the tables pushed together. “Jimmy said it’s your usual spot. If you’d like to have a seat, I’ll take your drink order, and he didn’t mention why he couldn’t be here tonight.”
The men trek the rest of the way inside, shifting around to sit in specific spots. Several murmur something low enough I can’t catch it, but with all the glances they throw in my direction, I can easily guess it has to do with me. Maybe they’re gay and only want a man waiting on them? Although I doubt as much as Jimmy is married and an older man, one I’d consider not attractive.
I’d say I was pretty when I was younger. Time has taken a bit of a toll on me, though, and I’m not as slim as I used to be. I have a big butt, wide hips, thick thighs, and my boobs are a decent size. I don’t have a double chin, but my face is on the rounder side. I definitely don’t miss eating cake if it’s around, and it shows. After going so long of not having a decent relationship, I stopped caring as much. I should’ve kept up with everything, but when my life consists of work and more work, well, walking an extra mile and watching calories takes a backseat. I won’t lie, though, it does make me self-conscious right now, having to wait on a group of not just good-looking, but outright gorgeous men wearing leather biker vests.
I beat a few to the table, and I swear, as one of them shifts around me to his chosen chair, he inhales deeply. I probably smell like the café, but I know I don’t outright stink. I wear deodorant and shower before my shift, every single time, but it still has me wondering if I spilled ketchup or something on me and didn’t notice. That condiment is so strong and stinky if not wiped off right away.
“Excuse me,” I whisper and shift to the side. He was close enough that the sleeve of his hoodie had grazed my arm. He doesn’t respond, just sits in the chair beside me, his arm skimming my thigh as he scoots his chair to the table. I draw in a swift, silent breath at the contact, stopping myself from clenching my thighs together.
What is wrong with me right now? Why do my insides feel like they’ve been tossed into a washing machine and put on the spin cycle?
Their collective stares weigh on me, as I suddenly can’t lift my head, knowing if I do, I’ll find a table full of intimidating men looking at me like a snack cake. I take out my pad and pen, exhale, and ask, “What can I get y’all started with?”
“We’ll take several coffees, and leave a few pots behind.”
“Late night?” I can’t help but question the one at the head of the table, then silently curse myself for being nosey. These are not the type of guys you make small talk with, like you would with ordinary customers. There’s nothing regular about them.
“You have no idea,” is his response. The others don’t request anything else, so I quickly make my way to the counter. I seriously need to put some space between me and all of those male pheromones emitting from the group. They must be super-strong, and the reason why I’m suddenly acting like I’m a shy twenty-year-old, when I’m not. It’s the only explanation I can offer myself in the moment, but regardless, they all scream bad boy, and I know to tread carefully with those types.
I’m busy attempting to carefully arrange twelve coffee cups on a tray, to bring to the table when a presence is suddenly close enough to be my shadow. The heat emitting off of him is enough to have the hair on my arms standing on end as he warms my back. Unable to ignore it, I glance up and meet the stare of hoodie guy.
I want to jump back and move away, but for some reason, my body remains rooted to the spot. What is it with these guys that makes me so curious about them? And not running for the hills when I probably should be.
He has to be easily over six feet tall. Probably closer to six and a half feet, if I were to guess, because the man’s a giant. They all are. His dark eyes, inky hair, and intense presence, paired with his all-black attire, make him seem like the shadow of death, and new shivers race through me at his nearness.
There’s no doubt in my mind that he could do whatever he wants to someone and get away with it. I don’t know why my mind automatically conjures up him being violent, but something about him screams, ‘Don’t fuck with me.’ So, of course, I instantly find him attractive, making my red flag meter scream in protest.
This time, I do stutter. “H-hi. Can I help you with something?” Maybe removing a few layers so I can see more of that sculpted body, he seems adamant about hiding underneath layers of fabric.
He inhales deeply, his tormented irises meeting mine. The color has a touch of red running through it, and I swear, I’ve never seen a pair of eyes like his before. “What’s your name?” He asks, and of course, my brain is scrambled at the moment.
“A-Athena.” I manage to get past my lips a beat later, fighting myself to be brave and face him head-on. The silence after my response is deafening to the point, I have to speak again to break it up. “Yours? Uh, do you have a name?” My hand nearly flies to my head, but I manage to stop it before it smacks me after that ingenious question.
“Reaper,” is his growled response, and when I say growled, I mean his voice sounds like it was raked over hot coals, as if it pains him to use it. Red flag and hot all wrapped in one, so naturally I’m sucked in a bit more than before.
Fear mixed with excitement spirals through me as I take a step to the side, needing space to be able to breathe. “I’ve got the coffee ready for your table.” I’m shaking as I point out the obvious and he notices, his brow furrowing. Surely, he must be aware of what his presence does to others, especially to a woman practically alone in his vicinity. Yet, why do I get the feeling he’s confused over my body’s response, almost as if he doesn’t want me to fear him?
