I nod and think about ways we could get rid of him before he messes with Sofie again. But Eli’s usually right about these things.
Sofie
This is life now.
Meeting my ambitions at BioKin, with room to grow.
Having the hottest fucking threesome at a nightclub with two of the most comprehensively sexy men I could imagine—knowing a third will be looking at me lovingly the moment I go back to work.
And here I am, getting a fucking latte at the coffee shop by BioKin like it’s fucking nothing. I don’t think I could ask for anything more. Just an ordinary week for me these days, even if buying a cup of coffee is the only thing that feels remotely ordinary about it.
One of my least favorite things about getting coffee in a place like this is the waiting.
Not the waiting on line—that never bothers me much, but it’s the waiting to receive my drink that gets to me for no good reason.
Standing awkwardly by the counter, a few feet away from the cash register where I already paid with a group of other caffeine-starved patrons is something I get through, I understand that part of the coffee shop experience. But waiting for my drink when it is my turn I entirely different for me. I don’t like waiting for something I don’t make others wait for.
That waiting area is where I am right now, though. I gave them my name, my order, and my money, and now I'm playing the waiting game as usual.
And you know what? It’s not getting under my skin today, not at all. Maybe I’m just too happy to care. Which is good, I could use a lot of this mood in my mornings.
In fact, today I'm relying on my latte for a bit of a relaxed company rather than needing it for a “oh God please get me more awake and get me out of my zombie haze of tiredness today” kick that my latte is usually for. Although, I will admit that I haven't been sleeping that great every single night, that's a recent and rather welcome development.
"Sofie!”
Even the mean, impatient barista does not have the ability to ruin my mood today.
Get this: I actually fucking perk up and smile when the barista calls my name. I'm usually moody as fuck at this point, and ready to fucking let somebody have it by the time the barista shouts out my name.
I never do of course, because I realize this is all my internal shit. But today, I don't even feel like that. My smile is for real, and I'm really looking forward to grabbing my warm cup, finding an empty table, and enjoying a few minutes of caffeination before seeing what happens next on what has become my crazy and awesome fucking life.
“Yes! Thank you!”
I’m positively fucking chirping—so much that I’m scaring myself a little—but actually enjoying a local coffee place the way it’s supposed to be enjoyed: as a relaxing spot to slow down and take a few minutes to enjoy yourself. This is in stark contrast to my usual “goddamnit just get me my fucking caffeine before so I can keep existing” type of approach.
Okay, you know what?
Carrying my latte cup through the narrow opening past through all the tall chairs and tables, I realize that I was entirely wrong about waiting for my coffee to be my least favorite part of getting coffee. I don't love waiting, but this part really takes the cake.
Today, as usual, there are not many spots available. So far, every one of the tall, dark green, metal four top tables is occupied by a single person, often with a laptop or tablet along with bags, pens, papers and all sorts of other possessions sprawled everywhere to mark their territory.
Pretty infuriating, right?
Surprisingly, today, it doesn't even begin to bother me in the slightest.
I'm even thinking about how nice it would be to take a walk around the neighborhood with my latte, or maybe I could just wander and enjoy the sunshine instead.
Hey, there’s a table. At a nice spot, too. Maybe it's my attitude, but things are looking up—at least in this coffee shop.
“Hey!”
Oh fucking shit, not now. No, not fucking now, not fucking here goddamnit.
“Sofie!”
Of course it's going to happen, right? Right at this opportune fucking moment. Just when you’re having a good day, and you’re channelling out inner peace.
As I hear Greg approaching, getting closer behind me, I turn around calmly.
He's wearing a wrinkled button-down and slacks, along with bags under his eyes that tell me he may not be sleeping that great these days. He doesn't look good, but, surprisingly, he looks fairly calm. I’m hoping this is a good sign.
As he walks toward me, he seems to be slowing down and calming down more, now that he sees I’m facing him and ready to receive whatever bullshit he's planning to spew right now.
“What is it, Greg?”
I have to make sure he knows that I'm going to listen, because hopefully we can just get the fuck over with it already—like right now would be nice.
“Well, aren’t you just doing fucking perfect. Look at you: you’ve got it all figured out, of course you do.”
I don't know if I've ever felt sad for Greg, but he's dealing with something right now, and I don't know what it has to do with me. Has he not moved on yet?
He stops before getting much closer to me. His eyes are unfocused, and his face is barely hiding his confusion. I doubt he really knows why he’s here, and what he hopes to gain from talking to me.
“Are you okay, Greg?” I ask.
I’m trying to remind him that we’re both human beings, and maybe it’s time to drop this spurned lover shit already.
“Am I okay? Me? You got the nerve to ask me that? Who do you think you are?”
Greg is closing the distance between us—walking slowly, but steadily, in my direction as I stay put and keep my poker face on.
Not only is he dressed so differently from the way I'm used to seeing him, but I'm noticing he's not smelling that great, either.
He stops again, between two tables as everyone around him keeps their noses buried in their phones and laptops, trying with all their might to pretend he’s not there.
It's almost like I'm seeing a different person.
“I’m Sofie, remember? That’s all there is to it, Greg. I don’t think I’m anyone besides that.”
“No, you just think you’re better than me!”
I'm realizing that this is him, alright. A hurt child, surrounded by layers of bluster.
I do feel sad for him, now. But I also don't know what the fuck I'm going to do. How is he not getting the message that I want nothing to do with him anymore?
Then he fucking smiles. Now I’m ready to teleport out of here, to go anywhere else besides where I’m standing, because I really don’t want to know where this is going next.
“You’re no better than me,” Greg tells me with a fake little laugh. “You’re walking around thinking that you’ve fucking won, but I’m here to bring you the truth: you’re no winner.”
The hurt look on his face gives way to smug self-satisfaction. I guarantee that he practiced that speech in the mirror at least a few times.
“You done, Greg?”
Holy fuck, his face is actually turning red. That’s not the response he wants, but it’s the one he’s getting, because I am so over wasting any more time or effort with this shit.
He’s ready to cause a scene, sadly. He’s pointing a finger at me and shaking. I’d give anything just to disappear right now, or at least to fast forward through this shit.
“You fucking…”
“Hey.”
It’s not a loud ‘hey,’ or frazzled even. It’s the calm, subdued type of ‘hey,’ you’d use to get someone’s attention when you’re right behind them.
And that’s where Elijah is exactly, right behind Greg’s back.
Elijah’s even-tempered ‘hey’ is enough to get Greg to stop and turn his head around—which in turn is enough for Elijah to get in a nice right hook, his fist connecting loudly with the left side of Greg’s face.
No chaos ensues, just a quiet ‘
whoa’ from somewhere and a bit of murmuring before everyone goes back to pretending like none of us are there. When Greg spins and stumbles, catching himself on a table, the guy sitting there doesn’t even look up from his iPad.
“You’re really going to take things out on Sofie? Take a look at yourself, you piece of shit.”
Elijah delivers the speech clearly and sternly, his voice filling the room.
I never find out if anyone working at the coffee shop takes the situation more seriously than the customers, as Elijah and his chauffeur—who must’ve appeared at some point after the punch—are gently yet quickly escorting me out the door.
I wasn’t expecting this little chain of events.
In a blur, I’m in the back of Elijah’s limo, with Elijah settling in close to me as the chauffeur weaves through traffic expertly, getting us far away from there fast.
“Did that really just happen?”
I listen to myself say the words as I feel the steadying warmth and security of Elijah’s presence next to me. I realize I’m reeling from the madness of the last few minutes. I could even feel faint glimmers of nausea, and shakiness starts to invade random places: my left arm, my right foot.
Fucking Greg should not have this power over me, I can’t give it to him.
Elijah’s arm reaching around my shoulders is like a magical salve as healing comfort flows through me.
Sofie
Murderous thoughts sweep through me faster than a fucking tornado.
I consider myself a peaceful person, but I swear that prick Greg is bringing out my dark alter ego. All because he won’t leave me alone.
Every time my thoughts move back to his creepy encounter in my café, I start to shake. Unfortunately, I can’t stop thinking about it.
The man seems unable to understand the simple message I’m trying to get across to him: leave me the fuck alone. How dense could he be not to get that simple instruction?
What’s worse is it was his fault we split up, to begin with. He cheated on me but now he has the balls to be pissed off because I don’t want to see him again. As if it’s my entire fucking fault.
Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if that is how Greg views the situation. That dick never sees anything as his fault. In all the while we were together, it was me, me, me.
Like a caged animal, I pace our little living room. Up and down and up again. My hands are looking for something to fucking do, short of strangling the prick. If I were a smoker I’d light up one cigarette after another.
Alas, I don’t smoke.
I won’t give Greg the satisfaction of taking up the bad habit either. But somehow, I’ve just got to get out of this fucking victim mode.
Up and down and up again, I keep pacing. If only I lived in a bigger house. This room is rather small for pacing.
But how the fuck do I get on the front foot?
Think. Think. Think.
I stop in the middle of the room and sigh.
How do you beat a narcissist at their game? I’ve decided Greg falls under the category of narcissist.
One of the fucking symptoms of a narcissist is the inability to take responsibility for anything going wrong in their lives.
Greg hasn’t taken any fucking responsibility for the breakdown of our fucking relationship. I’ve read a bit about narcissists. They’re in love with this grandiose image of themselves, an image which is not an accurate reflection of them. It is this self-love that hides their insecurity.
Greg fits the fucking description to a t.
I believe narcissists also follows a pattern of self-centered and arrogant thinking and no empathy.
He’s not thinking about anyone other than himself, and that’s how it’s been the entire fucking relationship.
Even when he fucked me it was about him, all him. Sometimes he wouldn’t even care whether I had a fucking orgasm or not. As long as he got to fucking unload, it was all good.
Narcissist.
There are plenty of other words I can think of to describe to Greg ranging from manipulative, to cocky, arrogant, selfish and fucking demanding.
And fuck was he demanding.
Of course he hasn’t changed. He’s still fucking demanding. The man’s demanding attention from me now even though we’ve broken up.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My hands ruffle through my own hair. The man’s messing with me and we’re not even together any more.
Stop. It needs to fucking stop.
I go to the kitchen to make myself a double strength espresso. I need this. A strong hit of caffeine might help me work out a fucking solution to my problem. My big fat problem called Greg.
The silver machine hisses and spits as it comes to life. Briefly, I’m taken to a time and place where there are dragons and Greg is eaten by one.
I sigh. Why can’t real fucking life be a simple as daydreaming?
When the machine has warmed up, I press the button to make an espresso. I watch the thick black liquid come out through the spout and picture Greg being pushed through some tiny device so he comes out the other end like a thin string of himself.
This makes me chuckle.
Imagine inventing such a machine. Take your fucking useless ex-boyfriend and push him in through a giant hole, feet first. Then press a giant red button and watch him come out thin and stretched like a shoelace, unable to cause you, or anyone else for that matter, any further trouble.
The machine could be marketed as the ex-boyfriend problem solver.
Now I laugh out loud. That would be a huge hit.
Good.
I’ve started in a good mood, even though I had to wait for my coffee. Then my day was ruined by Greg. I needed to get it back. I hate being rattled, anxious and stressed. Unless of course, I’m stressed about exams and then stress is part of what’s normal.
I mean if you’re not stressed about your fucking exams, you should check for a pulse. Everyone I know stresses before exams, it’s part and parcel of being a student.
Now what?
The coffee is made. I take a sip. I still can’t sit still. I’m driven to keep moving by some invisible force, no doubt called Greg.
There’s that fucking prick in my life again. Will I never be rid of him?
With nothing better to do than contemplate and dwell on Greg, I decide to resort to the only source that I know will be able to be of real help to me.
I search google.
Intervention order. I’ve heard other students use the phrase and I have some vague idea it relates to violence and protection.
Maybe I need one of these intervention orders to protect me from Greg. I’m desperate to try anything just to remove this asshole in my life.
It doesn’t take me long to work out that an intervention order is there to help if you’re being harassed and or are in fear.
Is Greg harassing me, I wonder.
My inner voice near scream at me, are you fucking kidding? Showing up uninvited at different places and sending me into a tiny piece of jelly would probably be considered harassment.
What was the definition of harassment again? This has something to do I think about ‘aggressive pressure or intimidation.’
I gnaw by bottom lip. I was intimidated by him and I think he uses aggressive pressure. But how do I go about getting one of these fucking intervention orders?
The doorbell stops my thoughts.
I go to open the door when a thought suddenly strikes me. Could it be him? Would he be so fucking stupid and show up here again? He wouldn’t know Chloe is not here. As far as he’s concerned he might get another serving off Chloe.
Suddenly, my steps slow right down.
The bell rings again.
My heart starts to beat faster. I feel the palms of my hands get all sweaty again. No. No. No. Please don’t let me have to confront him again.
Whoever is at the door is getting impatient. They’re now knocking.
My mouth’s dry and feels as if I’ve walked through the d
essert for the last forty-two days without water.
Fuck. I swallow.
Come on, Chloe. You can fucking do this. If he’s standing out the front, just slam the door straight back in his face. All right. Good plan.
Slowly, I open it and hold my breath.
When I see his face, I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Oh, it’s you.”
“You ok?” Eli asks and comes in without waiting to be invited. He sounds worried.
I nod.
His arms wrap around me and I melt into him.
“What’s going on? What took you so long to open the door? I was getting worried.”
With all those questions firing out of him I laugh. Then I shrug.
“I thought you might be Greg,” I admit quietly.
Instantly Eli looks alarmed.
“He hasn’t been back again?”
I shake my head.
“But the thing at the café is still rattling me.”
He pulls me close to him again.
Eli definitely cares for me. I feel it in the warm way he holds me. I rub my cheek up and down on his shirt. Even through the material I can hear his heartbeat.
“I’ve been thinking about taking out an intervention order,” I start to tell him and move out of his embrace.
“Great idea,” he agrees.
I nod.
“I just don’t know how to start or where to go.” I admit and see him smile.
I think he could help me by at least pointing me to the right direction.
“That’s easy, baby cakes.” He’s pulling out his mobile already. “I’ll call our lawyer and he can sort it for you.”
When he’s finished the call, I smile. I’m not quite sure what to say. Life’s so surreal these days.
“You know Sofie,” Eli takes me by the shoulders. “We’ll go to all kind of lengths for you.”
I giggle at his words.
“I’ve seen all of you go to all kinds of lengths for me, especially when you’re rock-hard.” I say and feel my cheeks burn.
Eli gets my drift and laughs. He leans forward, and his lips find mine. The minute our mouths meet, my problems melt away, just like that.
The King's Virgin Bride: A Royal Wedding Novella (Royal Weddings Book 1) Page 45