Page 14 of Christmas Coffee

Celyn

It’s past midnight and I’m back at my place high above Manhattan. After a shower, I pull on a pair of boxers and slick back my damp hair. I’ve been thinking about this nonstop, but if it doesn’t work on paper, I’m fucked. So, I start drawing up the business plans.

As I get it on paper, there’s one variable that’s still screwing me over no matter what I do—the rent. A headache looms, so I press my fingers to my temples, trying to chase it away. I have to net two thousand bucks a week in addition to expenses. At three bucks a cup, that’s six hundred sixty-six cups of coffee a week. I laugh, darkly. Holy fuck, that’s a lot of coffee—and a seriously bad omen. Since I don’t think the devil has it out for me—well, not unless Satan has been posing as my uncle for the past few decades—I think I’m safe.

So I need to sell roughly ninety-five cups of coffee a day. That sounds possible, but again, I need to make a reason for people to come out and pay three bucks instead of staying home. Quin’s idea had merit, but it’s so tacky. If I don’t come up with something better soon, I’m taking the idea and running with it.

The clock chimes one and the decision is made. I’m opening a fucking hottie hut and selling coffee. I still need a location with cheap rent at Christmas. It’s a laughable idea. I lean back against the couch and close my eyes for a moment. Visions of the blonde from the other night are there, behind my eyes. Her soft smile and those curvy hips. I can still picture her silky skin, and the way she laid seductively on the bed for me.

I should have gotten her name, asked for a number—anything. Life is stressful and having a fuck buddy like that to call up would be amazing. She didn’t seem like she wanted anything more. I know it’d be insane to go looking for her, I’m the one who left her. I could have stayed, lingered. I’m a fucking coward. I can’t go looking for her. There’s no way my suggestion will sound right. Then there’s the issue that arises when she finds out who I am, that’s always a problem. Having money has fucked me over before. It’s difficult to know if a woman is after me or my cash. I’m partly jaded and think it doesn’t matter why she’s there. The other part of me is a fucking moron and wants the money to be irrelevant. But cash is always relevant, in business and in life. But this girl didn’t know, she didn’t catch my name either. She was there because she wanted to be.

I fall asleep thinking about her, imagining the feel of her hips under my hands while feeling her naked body pressing against mine. I shouldn’t have left her. That still gnaws at me. I push the thoughts away when the strain against my jeans becomes unbearable. Thinking about her isn’t doing anything to address my problems. Well, maybe not. As I picture that hot body and long blonde hair, I imagine her in a sexy winter outfit—a dirndl and a super short skirt like a slutty Swiss Miss. Her tits would be perky from working the window and her cheeks would have that freshly fucked glow from the chill in the air. She’s a fucking wet dream. Guys would come just to talk to her. The thought spurs ideas. More thoughts pop up in my mind, ways to ensure that the staff stay safe and keep assholes in check. A guy would need to be there too, someone who could handle himself. I can picture a fur skin vest and tight jeans on the men to give something for the ladies to admire. Add in a fuzzy cap and it could work.

Desperation’s chokehold on my neck loosens as I pad over to the empty bed. I lie back and close my eyes, and drift off to sleep.