Maybe it was just Coop.
Maybe it was a way for her to get her kicks, learning about the ins and outs of prison without actually having to experience it herself.
Maybe she felt a weird connection because she watched me get arrested.
Who knew.
Whatever it was, it probably wasn't healthy for her.
And it definitely wasn't good for me.
It was making me think things, giving me hopes for a life I knew I couldn't have anymore.
And on Christmas, after I sent off the letter, and got into my bunk, and thought about those fucking finger vibes, my cock got a mind of its own for the first time in a long goddamn time.
That, well, yeah, was that.
She wrote me back, but I had decided by then to cut ties.
It was better for the both of us.
Even if I had to steel myself and plant my feet every single fucking mail day.
But slowly, over time, like I had needed to do with the roots that planted much, much deeper - my family - I had been able to phase it out, to put it on a shelf, to refuse to think about it.
Until I saw that fucking sign, man.
It all came rushing back.
And I knew I had to.
I fucking had to.
I hadn't even consciously made the decision to go in before my legs were already carrying me in that direction.
Hot salted caramel coffee.
She had called it a 'food... you-know-what' because, obviously, the woman had done some research about the content allowed in letters, and was worried the word 'foodgasm' might raise a red flag. She was careful about that. If the word she was using was a curse, she put stars in it. She never used staples or paperclips. She never sent any images that were suggestive in any way.
She had sat down and brought up her computer, and went to Google and fucking looked up how she was allowed to correspond with someone in prison.
It made no sense.
But she did it.
And, even though I had been determined to do my time in my detached, cold way for the good of myself and everyone around me, I had looked forward to it; I had taken a small bit of comfort in the contact.
Which was why I cut it off.
I shut it down.
I pretended to forget.
Until I saw that sign.
I hadn't had a decent cup of coffee in six fucking years. And given my old addiction to it, there was no way I was passing up a foodgasm even if flavored coffee wasn't usually my thing.
I walked up to the door, not sure what I was expecting despite getting a detailed letter about it. Autumn had claimed that the inside changed as often as one of the women who owned it changed her hair.
Before I even moved inside, I could hear the music, loud and thrashing, some kind of post-hardcore slash NU metal band I wasn't familiar with. And, apparently, it was about dismembering corpses.
No one sitting at one of the dozen or so tables scattered inside seemed the least bit phased by the choice of song or the ear-splitting volume. And as I walked up near the counter, I saw a sign claiming that they would not change the music or turn it down because it was the only thing keeping them from slapping rude customers.
My lips curved up as I stepped in front of a woman with a mass of wavy and curly red hair around her pale face complete with a light smattering of freckles and almost see-through light blue eyes. Tall and thin, she still managed to make her simple jeans and She's Bean Around black tank look like the sexiest outfit a woman could wear. There was just something in the air about her.
There's this redhead named Gala (yes, like the apple) who kind of has this sweet, innocent face, but is a complete shameless flirt who every man goes completely gaga for.
That was Autumn's description. And it was accurate.
"Rough day, huh?" I asked, motioning toward the speakers in the ceiling.
"Some out of town suit came up to the counter on his cell phone then had the nerve to tell me - not the person on the phone - to wait a minute. The call went on for five minutes, then without apologizing, he called me 'toots,' and demanded I just give him a shot."
"Did you throw it at him?" I asked, smiling a little at her level of anger. But, having worked in the service industry when I bartended at Chaz's when I was younger, I knew that it was never just one rude customer. It was a slew of them in varying degrees of awful that led to a mood such as hers.
"Oh, I gave him his stupid shot, but didn't inform him like I normally would that there is more caffeine in a medium coffee than there is in a shot of espresso and that if he wanted the biggest bang for his buck, getting a medium with a shot or two is what was going to get you going and keep you going all day. You know two-hundred-eighty grams of caffeine versus just the eighty in an espresso. But whatever, dude, peter out at noon and need another shot. Not my problem you suck at life. So what do you want?"
I laughed at that, charmed by her somewhat prickly greeting, and how she managed to talk to me like I was a regular she bitched with every day and not a complete stranger.
"I need two medium hot salted caramels. With a shot each," I added, giving her a smirk.
Yeah, two.
Because I was out of my fucking mind, that's why.
It was the only possible explanation.
"Salted caramel, huh?" another woman asked, coming out from a door that led into the back.
She was every bit the complete opposite of her business partner, aside from them both being tall. Where Gala was thin, this woman had more curves than any one woman had a right to. Gala's skin was pale; this woman was maybe Puerto Rican or Dominican with her medium skin-tone. She had full lips, sleepily sexy dark eyes, and dyed gray hair with light purple ends.
Jazzy, she was called.
"I didn't have you pegged for a flavor guy. Usually, those are the suits."
"Or the indie kids," Gala chimed in.
"Usually it's just black. But a... friend suggested the salted caramel, so I am giving it a try."
"Oh, a friend, huh?" Gala asked as Jazzy went to pour the coffees. "I'm going to take a wild guess that this friend is a girl. I mean, look at you."
It had been so fucking long since I had seen a woman at all - save for the one or two working as corrections officers at the prison - that I almost didn't even grasp at first what she was doing. She was flirting with me.
You'd think after six years inside, that fucking would have been the first thing on my mind, but somehow, it fell back in importance behind a slew of other pressing matters.
"At least tell me she's not just a pretty face," Gala implored.
She was that, a pretty face.
Gorgeous.
Fucking beautiful.
But she was much, much more than that.
"She's not just a pretty face."
"Then I will contain my heartbreak," Gala offered as she handed me my coffee.
"That's six," Jazzy said as I reached for my wallet.
I handed her a ten, nodding toward the two separate tip jars. "Put me in for Freeman," I said, choosing him over Christopher Walken to narrate my life.
"What, no cow bells?" Gala asked as she threw the extra money in the jar. "Enjoy your coffee," she offered, going over to the music, lowering it a few decibels, and changing it to something more classic rock.
I guess I helped wash away the memory of the under-caffeinated suit.
And the reality of what I was doing didn't actually hit me until I turned away from the counter.
What the fuck was I thinking, ordering an extra coffee?
I had no right to seek her out on the outside.
Hell, I had been the one to stop communication in the first place, to think it was best to create a disconnect.
Why then, was I turning out of the coffeeshop and moving down the street that would lead to a side street that would lead to Navesink Bank's only sex store?
I mean, chances were, she had just taken the picture of Coop there by happenstance. It was pointless to go there.<
br />
But I refused to be the kind of freak who would show up at her house. That was a whole other level of creepy.
As I made my turn down the street toward the storefront, I figured there was no harm, right?
If I went there and it was just a sex store, fine.
That was a sign.
It was done.
But if I went there and saw her there by chance...
That was its own sign as well, wasn't it?
A sign of what, I wasn't sure.
But I guess I was going to find out.
FOUR
Autumn
If I had to deal with one more comment from a male customer about how he doesn't need one of those penis enlargement devices - nudge nudge, wink wink - I was going to scream.
It was just one of those days.
The ones from hell.
When the POS system was down for a few hours, then my shipment ran late, and then I had to sit with a maid-of-honor for two and a half hours to help her decide on what toys and supplies she wanted at the bachelorette party. When I offered to make it a Phallus-opy event - meaning I could be hired to come in and give sex tips, hand out the best erotica, explain the different types of sex toys and how they were used, you know, since she didn't know diddly squat about any of it - she refused, insisting it had to be her giving all the information out. Which meant that I had to, essentially, give her a free class that I would normally charge for if I wanted her to buy supplies from me and not, as she so charmingly put it, buy online where it was cheaper.
So I guess that "shop small" bag you carry around is for show, huh?
It took everything I had to keep my mouth shut about that.
Add on top of that the aforementioned creepy dudes giving me the eye-fucking of a lifetime, yeah, I was having a crummy day.
Normally, I would look forward to grabbing some Chinese, and heading home to pick out a movie, waiting for Peyton to get off her shift at the library so we could veg out and I could put a decent spin on a blah day.
But Peyton had a date with some dude she met at a Tractor Supply & Co, or, as she called it, Men R Us.
Why she was even at a Tractor Supply & Co was completely beyond me, but she better not have given in and bought one of the damn ducks she always eyed up when she was there.
Coop would probably try to play with it. But Coop's play would mean an untimely - and likely bloody - end to the poor dude's life.
I had to rescue a baby bunny once.
Thankfully, before the little fluff ball got hurt.
I was still planning on Chinese and maybe some gelato because it was one of those days when you just had to say 'fuck it' to balance, and indulge yourself.
It just wouldn't be quite as uplifting without Peyton there to say something smartass or off-the-wall, something that never failed to turn around a bad mood.
I heard the bell over the door ring and actually felt my eyes rolling before I reminded myself to get my head out of my ass and be a professional. Even if this person was another stubborn maid-of-honor, I needed to keep it together.
By the time the footsteps came closer, I was sure I was ready for anything.
Apparently, I was very, very wrong about that.
But, really, how could I have ever prepared for this?
For him?
Walking into my store like it was the most normal thing in the world?
It was weird seeing him there.
It didn't matter that, when I first saw him, he was a free man.
I swear it was like seeing a bear outside on a vacation, then for the next half a decade, only seeing them in zoos. Then walking into work to see one sitting at a desk.
It was weird.
Unexpected.
God, he looked good too.
He was a bit different, sure, than the pictures that had been on his Instagram before he went away. He seemed a bit thinner. His hair was much shorter. He had grown some stubble on his face. But age had - as it only ever seemed to do with men - only served to make him even more attractive.
And maybe the attraction factor was also amplified by the fact that this man, his dark hair, his light eyes, his impeccable body, had been invading my dreams and waking fantasies for years. As awful as this is to admit, I had been dating a man for six months, and the relationship was in the toilet, and the sex was just mandatory and uninspiring, then I had caught myself fantasizing about my prison pen pal while in the act.
I had never come so hard in my life.
I had felt so guilty about it that I had actually broken it off the next day. You didn't stay with a man when you caught yourself fantasizing about another.
There was nothing awe-inspiring about his wardrobe - perfectly fitting dark wash blue jeans and a white tee - but somehow, it was the sexiest thing a man could ever wear.
My eyes trailed down his arms, seeing some kind of tattoo peeking out from his sleeve, a tattoo I had seen in pictures that looked a bit like a family crest, but I wasn't sure. They grazed over his strong forearms, his neat nails, then finally, his wide palms that were wrapped around...
She's Bean Around coffee mugs.
Holy shit.
No.
That required more emphasis.
Holy shit!
He was here. In my sex store. With two cups of, what I could only imagine, was salted caramel coffee.
What universe was I living in?
Whose life was this?
Because it certainly wasn't my own.
He was closing in on me, only maybe three feet away from the counter, those hypnotic light eyes trained on me, not seeming to pay any mind to the very explicit display of a flesh-like pussy to the side of him - something that seemed to catch everyone's eye.
No.
He was looking at me, walking toward me, like a wild cat stalking prey.
Maybe I wanted to be eaten.
Oh, good God.
Okay.
Focus.
I needed to focus.
And force my lips to move and form words.
Only I couldn't.
And he was right in front of me.
His head tilted to the side a little, a smile toying with the ends of his lips as he watched me.
"Someone once told me that the salted caramel coffee from She's Bean Around will give me a food-you-know-what," he said, that smooth voice of his shivering through my insides, making my sex clench hard with an unexpectedly intense surge of desire. "And by 'you-know-what,' I'm pretty sure she meant foodgasm."
Could a person come just from hearing that word?
I mean, I taught tantra for a living; I knew people could come just from breathing properly. But, ah, yeah, this was a new experience for me. I felt right on the verge. I could tip over at any moment.
I was pretty sure it was my turn to talk, but words proved impossible still.
"You gonna make me drink it alone, sweetheart?"
Oh, my poor poor lady parts.
That was just cruel and unusual punishment using an endearment like that.
My hand reached out as he pushed the cup across the counter, making sure my fingers didn't brush his, or else I was sure that would be the last push I needed.
"So, you work here."
"I own here," I heard myself say automatically, my pride in my hustle a bit stronger than my almost overpowering sexual frustration right then.
My life wasn't big or glamourous. I didn't go out and party all the time. I wasn't a world traveler. But I had my business. I busted my ass to get it, to keep it. And I was extremely proud of what I had accomplished on that front.
His brow raised as he looked around. "Explains the finger vibes, huh?" he asked, raising the to-go cup to his lips, and taking a sip.
I didn't watch his Adam's apple, I swear!
"Fuck, yeah, okay. This is pretty good."
I forgot mine was even in my hand.
I shook my head, raising it to take a sip, hoping it would help my dry-mouth situation.
&n
bsp; "So, you're here," I said, hearing the wonder in my own voice.
"I'm here," he agreed, head still ducked to the side slightly, and I couldn't figure out why that was so endearing to me.
"How are you here?" I asked when he didn't explain further.
"I got out earlier today."
"And you came... here?"
"I took a walk and came across She's Bean Around. Didn't even think about it when I ordered two."
"But... how did you know to come here?"
"That's the thing..." he started, only to be cut off by the sound of the chime of the door.
"No, you heel! Heel, you hellbeast, you!" That was Peyton. And she almost never called Coop by his name, choosing instead her own spin on the concept of endearments. I once caught her telling him in a sweet-talking tone 'Who's a ugly little rabbit shit eater? Who is? You are! That's right. You know it was you, you oaf.'
I looked up at the clock, realizing the best part of the day had somehow gotten away from me. If she was taking the time to drop off Coop on her way to work, he must have gotten into something at home. Again.
"Autumn, I swear he wants..."
She lost the rest of her sentence because when she came into view, Coop got an eyeful of Eli and freaking lunged forward, pulling the leash right out of her hand as he ran for his old owner.
I didn't think he would remember him.
I mean, not that I actually ever thought this day would come, but yeah, even if it did... six years was such a long time. And he was only a couple months old when he had been with Eli last.
But he remembered.
And at the last possible second, the crazy animal leaped upward and into the arms of the man who had originally rescued him.
"Oh Doggy-Daddy," Peyton greeted, taken aback long enough to give me a what the fuck look before turning back to him. "So, what? You just show up after six years, no child support, no nothing, and expect visitation?" she asked, going for serious, but her lips were twitching. "You owe us some Milk Bones up in this bitch. And about ten pairs of shoes for Autumn and a very, very precious signed paperback of Die Muthafucka that he ate last year."
"Die Muthafucka?" Eli asked as he dodged his head to the side to avoid the searching tongue of Coop.
"Limited paperback edition of an indie genius named Neil Jenkens. He ate the cover. And about half of the pages."
Eli (Mallick Brothers Book 4) Page 6