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I can’t stop.
“What the fuck?” his angry voice asks in a gruff tone that knocks me from my daydream.
Coffee is also dripping down my arm that’s held away from my body, the position mirroring his own, but once my eyes stop hyperfocusing on muscles and sweat andman, I see most of the coffee landed in a puddle at our feet, painting the boards of the boardwalk with creamy, brown goodness. It won’t take long to dry up and become a sticky mess.
“My coffee!” I shout, staring at the mess, the plastic cup crushed in my hand. It’s like watching the potential of a good day drip between cracks, forever lost to the sand below.
“Myshorts,” he says, and my eyes dip down without my permission to see low-slung basketball shorts which are soaking wet at the crotch.
Andclinging.
Clinging somewhere my eyes definitely should not be.
Not even a bit.
Oh God, I can’t look away, though. Fuck!
It’s notunimpressive.
Clearly, I’ve been caught staring, though, and when he speaks, it knocks me from my very inappropriate daydream.
“See something you like?” The words are amused and annoyed, which seems to be his specialty when he’s talking to me. I wonder if he talks to Hattie that way, or his clients, or hisgirlfriends.
I’m sure he has plenty.
“What?”
“Eyes are stuck to my dick, babe.”
“No, they’re not. I’m looking at my coffee that’s spilled . . . everywhere.” I pause, looking at the ice cubes melting on the boards and regretting every choice I’ve made this morning.
This can’t be a good sign for my day.
Everyone knows when you spend an entire day fantasizing about a special, sugar-filled, caffeine-packed drink that you’re going to get as a treat, even though you very well could make coffee at home, your day hinges on it being perfect.
The reality of you having a good or bad day depends on whether that drink is good.
And this one wasgood.
Perfect amount of sweetener to espresso to milk ratio.
And I barely gotone sip in.
“It’s just a coffee,” he says, breaking into my thoughts.
“I was looking forward to it. Haven’t you ever had something that you’ve been looking forward to?” He looks at me like I’m an idiot.
Men.
“Don’t you sell coffee?” I just stare at him, refusing to give in to his taunting. That’s what this is, after all. Incessant and unnecessary taunting. I bet he was a bully when he was younger. Or maybe he was bullied and that’s why he picks on everyone, teasing until they break.
Too bad for Ben, I’m done with letting other people break me.
“Guess it’s not that good, then?” Except I’m finding it increasingly hard not to give in to his bullshit and fight him oneverything.
“If you don’t give yourself a tattoo, does that mean you’re not a good tattoo artist?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at him. My arm with its empty cup drops to my side, and I feel the sticky liquid beginning to dry on my skin, pulling it taut and begging for me to wash it off. He stares at me.
“Fair point,” he says, and it feels like a victory. I fight a smile.
