Page 126 of Vicious Saint
Not looking to argue, or worse, prove him evenmoreright, I pluck it from his hand with a simple thanks before continuing on my way. Which, thankfully, is just a few more blocks.
After finishing the apple and a quick cigarette, I enter the Starbucks, finding it mostly empty. Call it another small mercy from the universe. There’re only a couple baristas, and like two sets of customers scattered on each side of the shop.
My kind of social setting.
“How can I help you?” John, the cute hipster barista, asks as I approach the counter.
“Venti. Dark. Three sugars. And a blueberry muffin.”
He takes my name, my money, then gets to work on my order as I trail over to the table with a comfy chair.
I go through some things in my bag, hating the fact I’ll be left to my own devices for fuck knows how long.
Can’t stay here for two days, that I know.
But if I drown myself in enough coffee—maybe till morning.
“Hendrix!” the guy shouts, ridiculously loud for no reason, and I grumble just that as I trudge to the counter.
“Threw in a little something extra for you.” He winks, handing me the coffee and bag.
I help myself to a peek inside.
Cheese danish. Fuck yeah, I’ll take it.
Along with his compliment on how pretty my eyes are.
“Thanks.”
“For the danish or the compliment?”
“Both.”
Wiggling his eyebrows, the cute hipster barista replies, “A lot more where that came from, baby.”
And just like that…the meet cute turns cringe.
I turn without another word, heading back to the table I called silent dibs on, and park my ass to drink, eat, and I guess people watch for the next eighteen thousand hours.
I’m hours deep into watching when the boredom turns deadly. My only reprieve being cigarettes and the couple dozy offsy moments I had courtesy of spending most of last night snooping through Saint’s room.
Which was all for nothing, by the way, because I found just that in the endless amount of perfectly organized drawers, shelves, even refrigerator.
I mean…who labels their protein drinks by expiration dates?
Have you not met Bex?I think to myself, chuckling.
No wonder her and Saint get on so damn well…they share obsessive compulsiveness.
Moral of the story, I found more interesting belongings left in the bathroom of this damn Starbucks than in thebiggest…baddest…Royal Heathen’sdorm room.
And the thought of all this wasted time is making me really cranky.
“Mind if I sit?” some blonde chick asks, holding a laptop.
I look around at the crowded coffee shop.
Guess this place gets poppin’ after eight.
