Page 32 of Café Diablo

And, I don’t play these kinds of games.

Though, it stands to argue that I can’t seem to stop thinking with my cock when Olivia’s around, and I’m also seeing red at the idea of her teasing someone else. And I like to win, but I don’t even know the rules, much less am able to keep up in a game of badminton with this woman. If she’s going to be flashing me her hoo-ha and daring me to lick the envelope, I’m entering this game at a huge fucking disadvantage.

Simply said, I’m a mess. I reallyshouldask Connor for advice, if it wouldn’t give him such a damn hard on to see me asking.

“So, tell me about the chic,” Mason says, pulling me out of the angry game of mental ping-pong.

“Sorry, what?” I frown, lifting up my glass to distract myself, only to find it’s full of melting ice.

“The Chica from the birthday party.” Mason holds up his wrists and faux-jangles them as if he’s holding maracas. “Handcuffs,” he clarifies, explaining his weird wrist gesture. I forgot Mason was at the party. I mean, of course he was, but I was really drunk and— “Dark hair, nice tits, makes you flush like a mother-fucker. Oh, and I’m pretty sure she’s the reason you just threw back two entire glasses of whiskey in less than three minutes.”

“Two glasses of whiskey!” Connor’s voice rings out from behind me. “In three minutes?” He whistles as he pats me on the back like he’s burping a man-child. “Damn! WhatdidOlivia do to you this afternoon?”

“Olivia, is it?” Mason picks that little nugget up and spears me with an inquisitive eye as Connor flops down on the stool next to me. I rattle the ice in my glass, not wanting to answer either of them, nursing the final drops of whiskey hidden between the melted water. “Oh, man up,” Mason scolds, grabbing the empty glass from me and pushing the blue Mai-tai that’s still on the counter in my direction. “If you’re gonna be a pussy, then nurse this blue flamingo like it’s my limp cock.”

There are a hundred reasons why I want to punch Mason right now, but mostly it’s because no one’s supposed to say something like that with a straight face. And truth be told, ever since I punched Connor last year—it was the first time I’d punched anyone in my life—I’m starting to think that knuckle and teeth combinations are a viable way to handle situations in which some people don’t appreciate reason.

“Don’t touch that thing,” Connor says, pointing to the Mai-Tai. “It’ll make you vomit.” Connor wasn’t present for the liquid-Smurf-massacre, but he’s heard enough about it to write my personal memoir. “And the last thing I want is you associating Olivia with dry heaving for several hours.” He swipes the drink from me and dumps it in the sink behind the bar, grabbing the soda stream and pouring me a tall glass of seltzer. “Sober up and tell me everything that happened.”

“I’m not drunk,” I frown, not touching the new drink nor backing down as Connor gives me his best ‘but I’m your brother’ pout or grin or whatever the hell that expression is. “There’s nothing to tell. Next subject.”

Both of them stare at me like I just lied on the stand, waiting me out with their ‘that’s not going to cut it’ frowns. And worse, Connor keeps eyeing me like I just walked into a trap.

“Did Olivia come to your office this afternoon or not?” Connor asks, starting his cross examination. I grimace, not playing along. “Did Olivia come to your office?” he repeats. “It’s a simple yes or no question—you taught me this, Ned. Remember? Start ‘em easy.”

“Which means I know where you’re headed,” I toss back.

“Did she come to your office?”

“Yes,” I bite out, but only because he already knows that. I know he and Arie sent her there, given the fact that the delivery was from Flambé.

“Aaaand did she deliver the tarts that Arie had specially made?”

“Maybe you should ask your girlfriend to check her own delivery records so you have something concrete rather than anecdotal evidence,” I say sweetly, eyeing Mason, who is leaning forward and hanging on every word we say like a lecherous monkey.

“That’s a yes,” Connor sasses.

“Objection,” I say calmly. “Speculation, no quantifiable evidence has been provided to make such a conclusion.”

Connor just laughs, then holds up his hand and starts ticking off fingers.

“One, Judy confirmed Olivia arrived. Two, Olivia texted me around 2pm to say she’ll quit if I ever send her to your office again. And three, your face is so fucking red, I’m pretty sure you’re about to tear my head off. So, let’s skip the part where you pretend you don’t have a bonified boner for the girl and jump to the part where you tell me your strategy for what you’re going to do about it? Hmmm?” He nods at me, reaching over to take a sip from the seltzer he poured me like it’s his own damn drink.

“Maybe I was wrong,” Mason interjects, “and Connor would make a good lawyer.” Mason nods to Connor, referencing our earlier conversation.

“I’d make an awful lawyer,” Connor replies. “Too much paperwork. Honestly, I just love using everything Ned’s taught me against him. So…?” He raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to speak. “Olivia. Sexy girl who’s turned you into a raging asshole. You going to tap that, or am I going to have to let Mason loose on her?”

My eyes darken and in my periphery, I see Mason frown in response to the daggers I’m shooting at Connor. “Woah, woah, woah!” Mason whines. “When did I become the bottom of the barrel?”

“The second you invested your life savings on the world’s raunchiest Hawaiian shirt collection known to mankind,” Connor says without at beat.

“He has a point,” I agree, making Mason glower at me.

“I am what I am,” Mason repeats, and I nod.

“Exactly.”

“Let’s focus,” Connor says. “Pretty girl on the moped? Plan? Let’s hear it.”

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