Wait With Me

by Amy Daws

  I roll my eyes and hoist myself up on the counter. “You’re such a pig.”

  “You’re such a weirdo,” he retorts and twists the cap off his bottle. “I saw your Instagram story today. How do you think you can keep going back to Tire Depot if you post daily about it on social media?”

  “Because my social media posts are my saving grace. It helps me feel less guilty about going there without being an actual customer.”

  He leans against the nearby wall that leads into the spare bedroom and takes a sip of his beer before replying. “So you think if you get busted and they see all the Facebook posts, they’ll roll out the red carpet?”

  “God, I can only dream!” I bellow dramatically and take a swig.

  Lynsey giggles from her place on the barstool next to me. “You should have seen her, Dean. I thought she was going to start crying when she saw that bill.”

  I nod seriously. “No shit! That thing almost sent me into a state of depression. I was considering moving to a different city that has a Tire Depot because I know it’s a franchise.”

  “You are so basic.” He shakes his head and takes another swig. “I tried to get you to come check out my co-working space. We have great coffee there too without fear of being caught red-handed with stolen lattes.”

  “That place is for wannabe business moguls. Those aren’t my people.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest while still fisting his beer. “And the patrons in a tire shop waiting area are? How great can they really be?”

  “You need to see it to believe it, man,” I state and look over at Lynsey. “But it might not have the same effect on you guys as it does on me. It’s all about the vibe and if it comforts your inner chi. Tell Dean about the hospital cafeteria the other day, Lynsey.”

  Her face heats, and she shakes her head at me, her brown hair covering her face as she does. “That was a one-time thing.”

  “A one-time thing you should be repeating if you want to get your damn thesis finished,” I state with a serious lift of the brows. “I’m telling you guys. The three of us have the best life. We can work from anywhere we want. All we need is a laptop, Wi-Fi, and an outlet, and we’re golden. But our productivity is closely linked to our state of mind. If you find the vibe somewhere, you gotta fight for it. A cool vibe is like a modern-day muse. Tire Depot is to me what Fanny Brawne was to John Keats! That’s poetry in motion that you cannot walk away from! They’ll probably write about this in history after I croak.”

  “You sound like a lunatic!” Dean bellows, shoving a hand through his dark hair that’s always flopping into his eyes. “I bought this place out here to make the days I work from home peaceful and quiet. If you want to subject yourself to the noise of the general public, go ahead. Knock yourself out.”

  “It’s not noise, it’s a vibe,” I argue and kick my flip-flop off at his chest. He bends over to pick it up, and instead of handing it back to me, he tosses it out the kitchen back door. Dick. “What if you could work even better elsewhere? What if you found a place where you finished your workload in half the time? You’d have more time to hike, screw chicks, prank your friends, buy more plaid trousers.”

  This forces a lazy grin to spread across his face. “Have you been noticing my slacks, Kate?”

  “No,” I scoff defensively. “And don’t change the subject. There’s something to be said for waiting areas. Places where people are waiting aimlessly are mental gold mines. I feel like a fucking champion when I’m blasting out words and sitting next to a gal wasting her life away on Facebook. It’s a great morale boost for Mercedes Lee Loveletter!”

  Lynsey giggles. “I still can’t believe you hit a bestseller list with that pen name.”

  I chortle knowingly. “My readers get me.”

  “They’d have to,” Dean mumbles but shoots me a proud smile.

  “I just like to keep it real.” I sit back casually, relaxing into my spot on the counter. “But I will say, if there’s free coffee where you find your vibe, you do sort of feel like you’ve pulled one over on society. We live in a world that charges for damn near everything. Parking. Cups of ice. Office space. So when you get to enjoy the little things in life, like complimentary coffee, it restores your faith in humanity. And free frickin’ tastes better, that’s just a fact.”

  “So you’re going back there tomorrow,” Dean states, his demeanor clearly not as euphoric as mine.

  “Hells yeah! This smut won’t write itself.” I raise my beer to them and decide to make an impromptu toast. “Wait with me, my friends. It’s the revolution of the modern day millennials. You’ll see.”

  Here’s one thing I’ve learned after three weeks at Tire Depot: Confidence is everything. If you walk in like you own the place, no one will bat an eye. The Customer Comfort Center is mainly full of customers anyway, and those are new every day, hell, every hour. These guys are quick with a lube job.

  However, there are employees who frequent the CCC. They usually come in to steal a cookie or refill their cups from the fountain pop machine. Yeah, I know! A Coke Fountain Machine! The only way the CCC could be more perfect is if they had Gilmore Girls playing on a loop on the television instead of cheesy soap operas. But honestly, I couldn’t withstand that level of distraction, so shitty soaps are definitely for the best.

  But since I catch sight of familiar employees on a regular basis, I carry a costume to protect my identity—my trusty baseball cap. I know I have noticeable red hair, but most people won’t confront you on something so ridiculous as frequenting their waiting room without a car. At least, that’s my hope.

  Today, I’m deep in the word zone, baseball cap tucked down low, noise canceling earbuds in tight with some groovy synth beats that are great for anal scenes when the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand.

  My fingers pause on the keyboard, and I look up from my spot in the armchairs that surround the TV. Everybody is looking around curiously, accusingly even. Frowning, I glance around the room, and my blood runs cold when I see a pizza delivery guy standing in the enormous waiting room shouting something to the thirty-five-odd people here today.

  With trembling hands, I pop out my earbuds and hear clear as day, “Mercedes Lee Loveletter, I have two large pizzas, parmesan breadsticks, and a pound of boneless chicken wings. With…” He pauses to look at the receipt. “Three dipping sauces.”

  Why is he bellowing the delivery receipt out loud? Is that a thing? I don’t think that’s a thing.

  He adds, “Claim it now, or it’s going in the trash.”

  My inner frugal girl roars to life, and my face turns red fucking hot as I croak, “I’m Mercedes.”

  The eighteen-year-old with greasy hair and acne scars looks at me with dead eyes. “I’ve been calling your name for like five minutes.”

  Is he seriously scolding me in front of all these people? And OMG…five minutes?

  “Well, I didn’t order the pizza,” I defend, shifting uncomfortably and closing my laptop as everyone’s eyes are pinned to mine like I’m about to start a fucking flash mob or something. “Do you know who it’s from?”

  “No,” the boy states and moves toward me while pulling out enough food to feed ten people.

  “This is a prank.” I laugh nervously and slide my laptop alongside me. His dead eyes meet mine again. “I could never eat all this.”

  “I…don’t…care,” he confirms, plops the hot food on my lap, turns on his heel with his pizza bag in hand, and exits the room.

  I’m literally sitting with a mountain of hot food on my lap, and everyone is fucking staring at me. No one is smiling. No one is looking like they get the joke. They’re all gawking at me and thinking, what kind of fat loser has pizza delivered to herself while waiting for an oil change?

  Awkwardly, I get up with my boxes of food and move over to a high top table that’s out of center stage, but I can feel everyone still watching me. My stomach is roiling with so much humiliation, I’m not even hungry anymore.

 
I see the receipt stuck to the top of the chicken wings and tear it off for a closer look. At the bottom of the credit card transaction, I find a name I know all too well:

  Hannah Martin.

  Hannah is the queen of romantic comedy and was the very first author friend I made in the independent publishing community. We both had breakout books around the same time and were so new in the industry, we kind of clung to each other for survival. She lives in Florida with her husband and three kids, but I see her a few times a year at book signings. We talk almost every day about book crap and everything that amuses us. Hannah was the one to push me to keep going back to Tire Depot, so I never saw this coming.

  I shakily grab my phone out of my back pocket and type out a text to her.

  Me: You fucking whore.

  Hannah: What?

  Me: You know what. This pizza!

  Hannah: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Me: Your name is on the receipt.

  Hannah: CRAP! I thought it’d take you at least ten minutes to figure out it was me.

  Me: Yeah, crap! I am fucking mortified, you idiot. I’m trying to keep a low profile, but that delivery guy probably had to go talk to the guys at the counter to figure out where I was. I am humiliated, and you are the worst! Don’t you have your own book to write? How do you have time for this?

  Hannah: I’m shaking so hard with laughter, it’s difficult to type.

  Me: I had my earbuds in, so I didn’t hear him calling my name. He listed off the food you bought for a football team and then handed it all to me—the chubby ginger creeping in the corner. Goddamn you!

  Hannah: Is it good, though? I got you extra dipping sauces for those parm breadsticks. That cost extra, you know. I ain’t cheap.

  Me: I can’t eat it because my mortification has killed my appetite! But…this does give me an excuse to try out the fountain pop machine, so…silver lining.

  Hannah: My eyes are wet from laughing so hard.

  Me: Yuck it up, yucky yuckerson. God, I was in the middle of writing an anal scene, so I was super in the zone too…it’s no wonder I didn’t hear him.

  Hannah: STOP. MY STOMACH IS KILLING ME…ON ACCOUNT OF ALL THE LAUGHING.

  Me: Well played, whore. Well played. And it’s the burn that keeps on burning b/c my inner cheap girl will NOT let me throw these leftovers away. So I’m going to have to carry them out of here.

  Hannah: Oh, I was counting on that. Want to hear something horrible?

  Me: What?

  Hannah: I was going to do a sub delivery, but then I decided the pizza boxes were more embarrassing.

  Me: You’re dead to me.

  Fifteen minutes later.

  Hannah: So I’ve been picturing you sulking and refusing to eat for the past fifteen minutes and then finally giving up and eating it anyway. Am I close?

  Me: OMG, it’s like you’re here with me. That’s exactly what I did. This food is delicious btw. But I’m still not thankful.

  Hannah: But you’re always welcome. ;) Best $53 I ever spent.

  After finishing my lunch, I tuck the pizza under the chair in the corner where I like to sit in the afternoons because it’s close to the outlets and attempt to go back to writing. Honestly, I’ve had a full lunch, so that should gain me an extra three hours here today.

  My hero is just busting out the lube when I notice a large frame standing peculiarly close to me. I glance up and nearly squeal in shock as the same hunky mechanic stares down at me.

  How did he see me back here? This spot is super secluded, and no one ever sits here.

  “Can I help you?” I ask, pulling my earbuds out and taking in the broad width of his shoulders. Today, Mr. Book Boyfriend is wearing blue jeans and a black, fitted Tire Depot T-shirt. He’s much cleaner than he was yesterday in his dirty coveralls that made me reconsider the profession of my current book hero.

  “You’re back,” he states knowingly, his stunning blue eyes drinking in my yoga pants, T-shirt, and a baseball cap.

  “I, um…had an issue with one of my tires. The guys are fixing it.”

  “Which guys?” he asks, crossing his tan, sculpted arms over his chest. I have to crane my neck back completely to even reach his face he’s so tall.

  “I’m not really sure.”

  “Okay, well, which car?” he inquires, running a hand through his trim black hair. Damn, he’s really got that tall, dark, and handsome thing down to a T. He looks almost Mediterranean. Le swoon!

  I swallow slowly. “Um…I drive a Cadillac SRX.”

  “A Cadillac?” He barks out a small laugh. “Isn’t that kind of an old lady car?”

  My brows furrow. “It’s not an old lady car. It’s a luxury SUV. It’s wonderful. I have heating and cooling seats.”

  “Well, if you have that kind of money to spend on a vehicle, you should look at a Lexus or a BMW. Much more sexy feel to the body. You’d look pretty damn hot driving a Lexus LX.”

  “Maybe I’m not trying to look hot. Maybe I like looking like an old lady.” That was a really unhot thing to say, but Book Boyfriend booms with laughter and squats down next to me.

  “What’s your name?” he asks, and now that he’s eye level with me, I get a full-on assault of just how truly handsome he is.

  Yesterday, I was such a flustered mess that I didn’t really have the time to take him in. Now, I can’t help but ogle his entire face. His skin is tanned and damn near flawless. His jaw is square and defined, even beneath that sexy dark, five o’clock shadow. His blue eyes are like sapphires and framed by the thickest, blackest, most mesmerizing lashes I’ve ever seen. His lush, ruddy lips seem to rest naturally in a sort of puckered state.

  Like his default face is a smolder.

  I got stuck with resting bitch face.

  “My name is Mercedes,” I reply and then frown. Why did I give him my pen name instead of my real name? Well, I guess at least this way he won’t be able to look up my file and see how many cars I’ve brought in over the past few weeks. Plus, sometimes it’s more fun to be my alter ego rather than boring Kate Smith, who often forgets to put on deodorant.

  “That’s perfect. You’d look damn fine in a Mercedes,” he murmurs, his deep tone sending shivers over my skin.

  “And what do you drive?” I ask even though I already know the answer.

  “An Indian motorcycle.”

  I shake my head. “Why am I not surprised?”

  He smiles, his teeth a brilliant white, and I sort of like that one sticks out a tiny bit farther than the others. “Am I that predictable?”

  “More predictable than my old lady car,” I reply with a wink.

  He smiles again, and I get those butterflies in my stomach that I painstakingly try to describe in different ways with every book I write. Stomach flips. Stomach somersaults. Fireworks in my belly. Wait, that last one is terrible, it sounds like diarrhea.

  “Well, it’s nice to officially meet you, Mercedes. I’m Miles Hudson,” he says, taking my hand in his and shaking it gently. His palm is warm and dry and so frickin’ huge, I have to squeeze my thighs together because I feel like I may start emitting a fertility musk like an animal. “Now tell me why you’re really here.”

  My head drops back onto the chair. This can’t be the end of the road. I’m not done with my book yet! I glance down at the lukewarm pizza under my chair. “Would leftover pizza keep you quiet?”

  He purses those beautiful lips and looks down at my stash of barely touched food. “It might buy you some time.”

  I smile excitedly and nearly leap off my chair to grab the goods. “Great, time is all I need.” I thrust the boxes into his chest, and he clutches them with a laugh.

  “You’re serious,” he states with an incredulous look, his blue eyes flicking over every single feature of my overeager face as I plop back down on my chair.

  “Super serious,” I reply, my eyes pleading.

  He takes me in for a second, and I halfway regret only putting on mascara this morning.
“Very well, Mercedes. I’ll leave you be, for now.”

  He stands up to his full height, and I can’t help but notice the bulge in his jeans because it’s literally eye level with me. Not like a boner bulge, the kind of bulge that a man who’s well-endowed walks around with on an everyday basis. With those big hands and giant feet, it’s no wonder.

  “See you around the water cooler, Miles,” I state brazenly as I tuck my earbuds back into my ears.

  He looks at me with curiosity, but thankfully takes his pizza bribe and walks away. I use the opportunity to admire his backside and am not disappointed. The things I do for research purposes.

  “You haven’t noticed a hot redhead in the comfort center, have you?” I ask my co-worker Sam, who’s seated next to me at our favorite downtown spot, The Pearl Street Pub.

  “Nope. Never seen her. She was there today?” he asks, stroking his ginger-tinged beard.

  “Yes,” I reply around a sip of my IPA. “And yesterday.”

  “What was she doing?”

  I shrug. “She was just on a computer.”

  “What’s the problem then?”

  “I don’t think she had a car getting work done at the shop.”

  “So she’s syphoning free Wi-Fi? Call the cops, we’ve got a mooch on our hands,” he says sarcastically and gestures to the bartender for another round.

  I shake my head in defense. “I don’t get a mooch vibe from her. It mostly feels like…desperation?”

  Sam leans back and shakes his head. “Now it all makes sense. You have a fetish for desperate girls, bro.”

  “I do not.”

  “Yes, you do. You like to save them. Be the gallant protector, sweep in and guard them.”

  “This girl drives a big ole Caddy. She does not need saving.”

  “So she’s nothing like Jocelyn?” he asks, his eyes narrowing seriously on me.

  “Dude, I’m done with Joce. Can we please stop talking about her?”

  “Miles, you got dumped by your longtime sweetheart for a rich, ugly prick. That shit sticks with you forever.”