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Customers love sitting here between 2 p.m. and 4 p.m. when everything else is closed for the afternoon rest. They drink our terrible coffee and read our wonderful books.
My boyfriend lifts his eyes from the coffee machine and bangs the filter holder into the trash. He wipes the steam wand clean with a dishcloth then throws it over his shoulder. Leaning forward, his elbows resting on the counter, he takes my hands in his. People look at him weirdly here in Nice. He stands out even more, with his size and sinister tattoos. He doesn’t care. He never did.
“What can I get you?” My palms disappear inside his and he brings them to his lips, planting kisses all over my knuckles, halting a few more seconds on the one without a finger.
“Do I look too demure in this dress to say something crude like ‘your eleven inch dick’?” I giggle into the yellow strap of my dress.
“Yes, you do,” he confirms, looking around like he is searching for someone. It’s early in the morning, hence why the shop is busy as hell. There are a lot of people sitting around on the sofas and barstools, sipping coffee and eating pastries. “Meet me in the restroom in two minutes.”
I don’t ask questions. I don’t even want to know how he is planning to neglect his station as the barista. What I do know is that the quickie we had this morning is not going to cut it. I need more of him, now.
“Now less talking, more showing me that fine ass as it walks its way to the restroom. Move it, Cockburn.”
So many names crammed into so little time.
Beat.
Nate.
Christopher Delaware.
Prescott.
Pea.
Country Club.
Silver Spoon.
Tanaka Cockburn.
And it all boils down to one thing at the end—us.
It took Prescott a while to get over Preston’s death, but I suspect that she always knew deep down that he hadn’t made it. Her family was torn apart, after tearing apart the Archers. She had no choice but to build something new, and I hope that someday, she’ll do it with me.
My argument for the past couple of months was simple and valid—I can’t be with a girl whose last name’s Cockburn. It’s embarrassing. For me, for her, for everyone involved. Tanaka said that Cockburn is a perfectly legitimate last name, and even pulled out some bullshit facts from the Internet, including a Wikipedia page for actress Olivia Wilde. Apparently, her original last name is Cockburn (can’t argue with that. She’s legit fuckable).
Since my girlfriend refused to take the hint, I’ve decided to lay it out pretty fucking simple and straightforward, Stockton style. No hearts and pink pony crap. When she arrived at the coffee shop we own together in her yellow dress, the one that reminds me that we still live under the same sun that makes the freckles on her shoulders pop out, I directed her to the restroom. She looks like gold in this dress. Pure. Cherished. Precious.
Daniel, our eighteen-year-old neighbor, who has been eyeing her in a way that makes me want to cut his tongue out and shove it down his throat, jogged from the corner of the street and I watched from the wide window as he entered Le Journal Rouge, just as she disappeared behind the wooden door to the restroom.
Now that he’s here, it’s show time. We’re always ready for show time, Tanaka and I.
“It won’t take long,” I growl as I slide under the counter and charge for the restroom.
She’s waiting for me the same way she did the first time we had sex. Her hands against the wall, her legs wide open. I love watching her fingerless hand. The wound has healed and now her outside matches her inside. Imperfect, broken and hurt, but so very beautiful. I flick her long dress up and unzip.
“No foreplay,” Beat whispers into her ear.
“No problem,” she says, just like she did then. I know this woman well. She’s always wet for me. Him. Us. Always.
I ride her from behind, just like I did the first time. Only this time, I’m not angry. A little anxious, yeah, but after the shit I’ve been through for her, she better say yes. I hold her waist with one hand and slip the other into my back pocket, producing the engagement ring I got for her last week. We have money, thanks to the late Camden Archer, but it’s nothing fancy. Just a silver hoop with a small yellow diamond that shines like her blonde hair. Linking my fingers with hers while fucking her, I slide the ring onto her engagement finger.
No words necessary.
No love declarations.
No You’re mine.
Everything is said in the way we move together.
“Oh my God, Nate.” My old name slips between her pinks. I can’t see her face but I can feel her pussy clutching my cock tight, like she’s about to see stars. “Are you. . .?”
