Page 7 of Apparently, I’m A B!tch

Chapter4

Tristan

Thursday morning

I wokewith an intense throbbing between my legs; with my cock heavy against my lower abdomen. I skimmed my hand across my chest, my abs, and gripped myself. It was still pulsing, my blood pounding at the thought of Nikki coming in here, flustered and frustrated, demanding I talk to her, that I make things right.

In my dream, the shop was empty aside from us. She stood in front of me, radiating sex in a skin-tight black dress. I could almost feel her bare olive skin underneath my fingertips, silken and smooth against my touch.

I gripped her hips firmly, pushed her against the counter, lifted her snug skirt to her waist and kissed away any protest she might’ve had. She melted against me, opening her legs, letting me press against her, letting my fingers slide across her thighs until I reached her lacy underwear.

I groaned against her, desperate to feel her, desperate to see those hazel eyes flashing with an urgent need to have me inside her. When she pulled at my jeans and gripped onto me greedily, my alarm blared and I woke up.

My cock was still in my hand, my mind a heated frenzy of lust at the thought of Nikki’s pretty lips parting, ready to take my tip into her mouth so she could twirl that sharp tongue of hers against me. I ran my hand up and down my length, finishing with her on my mind.

After years of practice, I was used to fantasizing about Nikki and pushing aside the guilt I was supposed to feel with relative ease. Going about my day wasn’t the struggle it used to be. But if it weren’t for my four in the morning gym sessions and coffee addiction, I probably would’ve rolled over and gone back to sleep.

I learned to enjoy the process of getting energy out during the fuzzy, eyes-are-barely-open moments of the day, and shoveling it back in with a strong hit of caffeine. It did the trick.

This routine worked for me long before I bought the coffee shop and was one of the reasons it was such a good fit. That, and the studio apartment connected to the shop just past the backroom. It had enough space for a kitchen, a bathroom, a bed, a small fold-out table, and best of all, a place for me to set up my easel and paint.

I finished my session at the gym and groaned as I walked through Extra Shot. My muscles were aching so badly that I couldn’t find it in me to care about the chairs piled on top of the tables. I reminded myself to unstack them after my shower as my sneaker-shod feet shuffled along the floor Lilly had kindly mopped for me after yesterday’s closing time. I rounded the counter and slipped into the backroom, wishing I would let myself fire up the coffee machine for another hit.

Stepping out of my stained, tiny-tiled bathroom, dried and dressed in a cheap, black, long-sleeved Henley-style tee and worn stone-gray jeans, I slipped on my Vans and stole a look at my latest painting before I left it for the morning.

I was trying my hand with oil paint again, despite how finicky a medium it was to use. The challenge was fun, and when I thought of challenges, I thought of my mother. My Emi, the proudest, strongest woman I knew.

Her strength was in her kindnesses; in the way she supported my father during the move here and all the years afterward, determined to help us find a life in New York regardless of how much she missed her country and the family left behind.

She had a surprising humor, dry and witty. In precious moments, she made me laugh in a way that made me wonder at what else was hiding behind her quiet, private nature. Living by example, she taught me the power words have over all of us. Unlike Nikki, she carefully contemplated each thing she said, ensuring her opinion was sensitive and well-considered.

Her thoughtfulness was often taken for meekness, but I knew better. She was resilient enough to adapt, brave enough to throw dreams away for those she loved. It was easy to chase your dreams. It was more difficult to deny them for the greater good.

I couldn’t have thought of a better subject to paint than my mother. On the canvas, she was framed by the buildings and landscape of Lebanon, staring wistfully at them with tears in her eyes, a yearning I caught on her face as she stared at old black and white pictures of herself with her family.

I let out a breath and, satisfied that my work was still as I last left it, went back to Extra Shot.

Checking on my inventory and switching on the coffee machine, I counted the shaabiyat, setting aside the largest piece for Nikki. She’d come by later, all moody and pouty, call it a baklava, and I’d hand the pastry over as I watched it brighten her day. It was hard not to smile at the thought of it.

“Tristan, my boy!”

“Shit!” I swore, startled by the sudden raspy voice that echoed through my otherwise empty coffee shop.

I put my hand to my thudding chest as I craned on my toes, trying to see who was behind the maniacal laughter.

When Uncle Henry came into view, I groaned and shook my head, not wanting to see his gleeful smile.

“You should… see… your face,” he said between gasps, gripping onto his belly, twisting his old brown cardigan as he heaved with laughter.

I rolled my eyes but smiled anyway. No one could ever stay mad at Uncle Henry.

“Yeah, yeah. I was about to make coffee; it’s lucky I didn’t burn myself, Amo.”

He smiled wider at hearing me call him “Uncle” in Lebanese, still chuckling to himself as he came behind my side of the counter.

“What are you doing here?”

He shrugged and took one of the fold-out chairs that were set aside for my baristas during quieter times. He sighed as he sat and said, “I don’t know. I woke up and… you know, is not… easy for me, boy. To give this up and retire.”