Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance

by Watson, Meg

  I smiled tightly and said, “Hi, can I help you?” just as brightly as I could.

  The lady with the expensive dye job pursed her lips at the menu.

  Come on, lady, I thought. Coffee menus are the same everywhere.

  “Ummmmmmmm,” she drawled as the steam wand roared into the steel carafe of milk to my right. Melita winced at the sound, backing away from it like that was going to help her hangover.

  “I think…” the woman said vaguely. “You know, I’ll just have the-- No. Yes. I’ll just have the Cup of the Day.”

  “Great!” I beamed enthusiastically. “Can I make that a large for you?”

  “Oh! Ahhhhhhhhmmmmmmmm,” the lady wrinkled her nose and stared at the menu again.

  Lady. It’s coffee. Get a grip, I scolded her silently.

  “Yeah, OK, a large is good,” she agreed, nodding. “With room for cream!” she added.

  “Can I get you a scone with that? Today is caramel apple,” I added innocently.

  Three people behind the overly made-up professional whatever-she-was groaned impatiently. Melita ducked her head behind the espresso bar and pantomimed horror and awe at me. I smiled sweetly. She had earned her hangover, and I wanted to help her enjoy every blessed minute.

  “No, no. No scone for me. Carbs.”

  “OK! One large Cup of the Day and no carbs. $2.02, please.”

  The woman swiped her debit card, moving politely aside as the next in line took her spot.

  “Hi! Can I help you?” I asked.

  “Hi! Welcome to AmpedUp,” came a voice as a body edged me over. “Can I get a drink started for you?”

  My mouth fell open a little bit and I looked up at Dave, Assistant Manager in Training. I kept a subservient grin plastered on my face and stepped half to the right so he could take over, ignoring Melita’s triumphantly pursed lips.

  “Great!” he finished, and the small, bookish older lady moved on to the order pickup counter. Then he turned to me, his big pregnant belly nearly pushing me out of my official station. “Like that. Like we talked about, OK?”

  I looked up at him and nodded politely. “Sure, Dave,” I said, smiling through my gritted teeth. “Thanks for the reminder.”

  Dave hiked up his trousers under his beer gut and ambled away, and I finished the rest of the line without a hitch, even remembering my script.

  When the line was gone, Melita folded her arms on the counter and sighed dramatically.

  “Another morning rush, done and done,” she groaned. “I feel like death. Let’s quit.”

  “OK,” I agreed as I filled up the metal tin with hot water.

  “No, I mean it this time,” she groaned into her folded arms.

  “I know you do, sweetie,” I said, dropping the stainless steel pieces into the scalding water.

  I edged behind her, walking back and forth and working mechanically through the list of things that had to be cleaned every morning.

  “Hey why do you let Dave get all up in your face like that?” she sighed, her voice barely audible.

  I shook my head and blew my bangs off my forehead. “You know,” I said wistfully, “I am not sure why I tolerate the Wisdom Of Dave. I have these daydreams where I tell him off in a spectacular, life-changing fashion. He slinks off, sniffling into his ugly-ass tie, and I’m promoted to coffee diva of the universe. And angels sing.”

  Melita rolled her head back and forth on the counter. “All right, fine…” she moaned. “I’m just saying he never does that shit to me, because he knows he would get an earful of Melita Wisdom.”

  “You don’t look like you’re giving anybody an earful of anything. And can you remove your face from the serving counter?”

  “No. It’s cold and nice and makes my head stay still.”

  “Ugh, fine,” I said, wiping a big circle around her.

  “He just doesn’t even know you,” she continued. “He just thinks you’re some wage slave, right.”

  “Well I am some wage slave,” I reminded her as I sprayed glass cleaner on the back doors of the pastry case.

  “But you don’t have to be, is the point,” she insisted. “Which I am not sure you always remember. You could be, like, anything.”

  “If I wasn’t such a great girlfriend?”

  She sighed, her breath puffing out her cheeks as she finally raised her head. Her eyes were all foggy with sleep.

  “Yeah, right,” she nodded, lips pursed. “If you were not such a great girlfriend, you would probably be using your fancy ass college degree to be running an art gallery or some shit instead of letting Dave mansplain to you because your boyfriend owns the joint.”

  “Right.”

  “Speaking of which,” she said, her eyes narrowed into slits, “what happened to Mr. Wonderful last night anyway?”

  I shrugged. “He fell asleep. Long day.”

  “Oh really? He fell asleep.”

  “Yup,” I said, ignoring her tone of voice and swiping the bleach mixture bucket. I dropped it behind the pastry case. “Why don’t you do something, hangover girl? You wanna let me do everything?”

  “I thought that was how you liked it,” she said snottily, then checked herself, scowling. “Yeah sorry that was a bitch thing to say.”

  “Yeah it was. I forgive you.”

  Melita choked out a half-laugh and let her head fall back on her arms. I started breaking down the espresso bar for cleaning during the mid-morning lull. Banging out the coffee grounds against the side of the plastic garbage can, I dropped the empty cups into a carafe filled with disinfectant to soak.

  I took some pleasure in the simple task of disassembling the machine, cleaning its parts with steam and bleach black to gleaming, and then putting it all back together.

  “Love the smell of bleach,” I muttered to myself.

  Dave skulked around the front of the coffee house looking for something to criticize, and I just kept my head down and worked diligently at being busy. After the espresso bar was pristine, I vacuumed the low-rise carpet in precise, parallel stripes. Melita disappeared behind the pastry case, but I wasn’t sure she hadn’t just fallen asleep back there.

  After the carpet, I washed all the table tops. After that, finally… somebody came in.

  The glass door opened and I smiled at the bell chiming, then jumped, my heart knocking up toward my throat. I looked up to see if Melita was behind the register, but she was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly breathless and sweating, I walked back behind the register, throwing my weight on one hip and trying to look casual.

  “Hey, Owen,” I said pleasantly, then looked around to see if Dave heard me going off the script.

  Owen grinned his magazine-model grin and gave me his customary squint. His blue eyes flickered over the open collar of my uniform shirt and I felt my chest expanding even as I willed my body to just cool it.

  “Hey, Brienne,” he said evenly, his voice a low growl. I flashed backward, remembering that growl up close, how it blazed through my sternum like a thunderclap. “What’s good today?”

  I looked around all sassy like I was new, like I was familiarizing myself with the menu. I felt my skin temperature cool when I turned away from him.

  That’s good, keep yourself below dangerous levels, Bree. At least until he leaves.

  “Gee, Owen,” I said, pretending to be uncertain about what I saw, “I think coffee is going to be a big hit. I would stick with that.”

  He chuckled. “A big hit, eh?”

  “Yes,” I nodded seriously. “And scones. Caramel apple. You should get some.”

  “OK, OK,” he said. “I’ll take four large Cup of the Day, and four scones. And your number.”

  “Coffee and scones it is,” I said, dutifully ignoring the rest of his probably insincere flirt. I kept my eyes down as I poured out the coffee from the big air-pots into tall paper cups.

  “No number, still? After last night and everything?”

  “We have this strict no fraternization rule here,” I said in a sta
ge whisper, jerking my chin toward Dave.

  That’s good. Show him you’re nobody’s fool. These rich guys think everybody should just fall at their feet.

  “Oh… OK,” he said, cocking his head to the side. He cut his eyes toward the door in a gesture that was surprisingly charming and sincere. Almost as though he meant it.

  I slipped the cups into a drink carrier and stuffed a handful of creamers, sugar, sugar substitutes, and stirrers in a bag, then grabbed a wax paper sheet to pick out scones.

  When I turned back to him, he was staring at me, head still cocked playfully to the side as though he had never looked away.

  “No number… really?” he repeated.

  “Come on, Owen, fun is fun,” I said, as much to myself as to him.

  “OK, then come work for us,” he shot back.

  I pursed my lips and raised my eyebrows, somehow managing a decent impression of Melita, I thought.

  “Owen, that will be $15.47, please.”

  He pulled a clip from his tight front pocket and peeled a hundred off without looking, then laid it on the counter. I didn’t even glance at it. “You’re too good for this place.”

  “The owner’s a friend,” I replied.

  “But you could be doing so much more,” he insisted, dropping his voice. I felt the timbre tugging at my chest, willing me closer. If he didn’t leave soon I was going right over the counter after him.

  “The owner is a really good friend,” I persisted. “I’m just helping out until this place is out of the toddler stage. Then it’s off to seek my glory.”

  He gave me a raised-eyebrow look and took hold of the coffee and pastry bag.

  “Glory, huh?”

  “Well, as close as I can get to it. I promise to call you first when I am job-hunting.”

  “Good, good,” he nodded, then looked down distractedly as his phone started buzzing in his other very tight front pocket. “I guess that will have to-- Oh hey. Looks like Lyle called a meeting for this morning. Say, do you have… Um… One of those really big coffees?” he asked. “Like for a meeting? Eight people?”

  “Oh,” I said helpfully, “like the MegaChug? This?” I held up a bag-lined cardboard box with a handle and spigot. He nodded. “OK, sure,” I continued. “Just, uh… Give me a few seconds to get a new pot brewing here for you.”

  “OK, sure,” he said in a faraway voice, thumbing the front of his phone. “No worries. Meeting’s in forty-five and I guess the espresso bar is out. Lyle can’t talk without coffee…”

  I set a new filter in the brewer basket and pressed the red light, listening to it spring happily to life.

  “Wait,” I interrupted, “you have an espresso bar… in your office?”

  He looked up at me, the sudden sight of his aquamarine eyes sending my heart into a swirl of tight circles in my chest.

  “Um, yes?” he answered carefully.

  “But you’re here almost every day…”

  He smiled and stared steadily back at me. I felt the gauges in my mind all entering the yellow-warning zone. If he didn’t leave soon…

  “Well, you haven’t said yes yet,” he murmured in a low purr, dropping his chin slightly. Something snapped hard against my belly like a rubber band, twang.

  Danger! Danger! Red alert! cried a helpful chorus in my head, and I swung around to grab the kit of cups and condiments that I had prepared for these sorts of sales. Melita was somehow beneath me, a puddle of soapy water around her knees from cleaning the pastry case. My heel hit the water and slid out from under me, dropping me on my ass, Charlie Chaplain style.

  “Oh, shit!” Melita exclaimed.

  “Oh no! Are you all right?” Owen asked, leaning over the counter, his voice tight with concern.

  “I am so sorry!” Melita mouthed silently into the air. I nodded and held up one hand like, yeah, it’s OK. Please shut up.

  Sitting still for a few seconds, I checked my body parts one by one for the second time in less than twelve hours. With the same witnesses and everything, I realized with a cringe. I seemed whole, even as I wished for a nice sudden loss of consciousness to drag me out of this humiliation like a pebble swept off a beach in a hurricane.

  A big old ass-bruise, I thought ruefully. Oh, and yet another ruined shirt, I noticed with a frustrated frown. The bucket-sized coffee had split open, drenching the right half of my white uniform top. It stuck to me like dampened Kleenex, gathering in ridges over my lace bra. I plucked at it with my fingertips, trying to turn away.

  “I was trying to, uh, stay out of your way!” Melita hissed. Her eyes were panicked and bloodshot.

  I waved her off, trying not to be mean about it even as my skin raced with goosebumps in the air conditioning. “It happens, it happens,” I muttered. “Can you please help this nice man with his coffee? I’m going home.”

  Melita edged toward the register, her hands holding her face, her mouth in a contorted pout of apology.

  Clambering to my feet as gracefully as possible, I breathed evenly through my nose. It’s just a shirt, I reminded myself. And a little dignity, maybe.

  “Just bring it by in a half hour,” Owen said, his voice low and even.

  I forced myself to meet his eyes. Soaked in coffee, thoroughly disgusted by my lack of grace and painfully aware that I was practically naked in front of him, I expected to see judgment or perhaps a bit of a smirk… But, no. His expression alternated between concern and intense interest at his eyes skipped over the drenched, now-transparent shirt that clung to my skin.

  I was reasonably sure he could see my nipple through the lace bra by the way his eyes lingered in a tight circle thereabouts. He didn’t seem amused at all. He seemed… hungry.

  “Owen, I need to go change. Melita knows where your office is. She can--”

  “No,” he said decisively, his teeth clenched. All the usual lighthearted jokiness was gone from his voice. Part of me was taken aback by his sudden change, and part of me was turning swiftly to jelly.

  “Bring it in thirty,” he growled, not meeting my eyes again. He turned on his heel and strode toward the door, leaving me at the counter with my mouth hanging open, my skin burning under the clammy fabric, my inner turmoil still at red-danger-zone levels.

  The glass door closed again with another chiming of the bell and Melita and I stood there staring at it for long seconds.

  “Brienne, I just wanna say--” she whispered. I flung up a hand between us. Stop.

  “I do not want to talk about it,” I growled through my clenched teeth.

  “I’m just really sorry!” she squeaked.

  “Dave?” I called out as I walked gingerly to the back room, holding my shirt out from my chest with my fingertips. “Uh, Dave!”

  I heard the sound of chair wheels on the linoleum floor and Dave stuck his head out of the office door horizontally. Making a face, he retreated, then reemerged, standing. He held his arms out in dismay.

  “Wh-- what happened to you?”

  “Um, coffee? Coffee happened to me?” I looked down. I was soaked to my knee. “The splashing, burning kind?”

  He waved me off like I was beneath contempt. “Fine, go,” he sighed. “Tell Carl we are out of two percent. Thanks.”

  CHAPTER 4

  I grabbed my sweater and purse from the hook and snuck out the back door. Luckily, mornings by Lake Michigan were pretty chilly even in July, so I always brought a sweater when I started my shift at 4:30am. Now, it helped keep me from looking like a wreck and drawing too much attention to myself as I hurried down Clark Street toward our apartment on Waveland.

  Chicago really sizzles in July, and a few pedestrians glanced at me as I strode down the blazing white sidewalk with my sweater hugged tightly around me. People quickly averted their eyes as I approached.

  Oh great, they probably think I’m a bag lady run amok. Nice. I probably look completely nuts.

  I fished for the keyfob in my purse as I walked, gracefully unlocking the security gate without breaking my stri
de. I ducked and waved at the postman who was rolling his cart up to the building just before mine, hoping he couldn’t see the seeping stains across the front of my body.

  Keying into both heavy doors, I breathed a sigh of relief when the cool air blasted into my hair and the ring of coffee-scented sweat around my neck. I jogged lightly up the stairs and down the nearly silent hall, pausing at our door to pick the next key out of the bunch, then stopped.

  A voice inside the apartment was laughing, getting louder. I looked up in surprise. The bolt snapped open and the doorknob turned.

  “--Oh, I know, right?? Ha ha ha!” came a voice as the door swung inward.

  “Whitney?” I said dumbly, squinting at her shadow in the sudden blare of light.

  My friend Whitney spun around at my voice. I cracked a smile at her automatically, though I was confused. Did I get the wrong door? Why was she here? Whitney’s mouth opened and then closed. She went pale around the rust-red stain of her lipstick.

  “What are you…” I stammered, confused. Then I realized I knew the look on her face. She was surprised to see me. In my own house. I was not supposed to be here.

  “Oh no,” I growled, the wave rising in my belly. “Not again! Oh, no no no!”

  Stepping forward, I pushed the door the rest of the way open. Whitney put her hands up and backed against the hallway wall.

  “Where is Carl?” I demanded, my voice a crazy bleat. “Carl?? Carl!”

  Carl stumbled out of the hallway in a pair of baggy pajama pants and no shirt, skidding on the shiny wood floor in his bare feet. His eyes flew wide and his mouth opened as though ready to offer some explanation. Then he looked me over with shock and concern.

  “What happened? Are you OK?”

  I saw myself briefly through his eyes: sweat-soaked, coffee-stained, and red-faced from the hot walk. I probably looked terrifying. I sure hoped so.

  But when I opened my mouth, nothing would come out. Whitney edged toward the hallway and I spun on her, pointing. She stopped in her tracks. Carl held out his hands.

  “Listen, this is not what you--”

  “Stop!” I said, finding my voice again and disappointed by how thin it sounded. “This?” I asked nonsensically, my hands flapping toward Whitney, toward the apartment, toward his shirtless, skinny torso.