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The man just stares up at me like he can’t believe I’m real, and then shakes his head.
“I don’t have time for this. Come on. Outside. Now. I have butterfly bandages in my glovebox.”
I hold a finger up. “Now, hold up. Not so fast, Doc. I need my drink first.”
He lowers his eyebrows and taps his foot in annoyance as I walk to the front of the shop, grab my large white mocha, and take a long sip. Fuck, these are so good. The brilliant person who came up with this drink must be a billionaire. They’re like sweet, frothy cups of magic. I’m pretty sure they’re laced with drugs too, because I am fully addicted.
“Have you bled out yet? Because you floated across that floor slower than a manatee,” the man says dryly. Well, fuck him. I don’t want to rush. Life always moves so fast. Why the hell can’t I just slow down and enjoy something once in a while?
“Nah, I don’t float. I stride, or maybe saunter, but I don’t float. What’s with the attitude? Maybe you should get a coffee too, grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy, and Iwasgetting a coffee before you interrupted me with this gory horror show on your face.”
“You sure look like a grump,Oscar the Grouch. Where’s your garbage can, huh? That where you popped out of this morning?” I tease.
He narrows his eyes at me and then moves out the door toward the parking lot at the back of the building. I’m helpless to do anything but follow him because, damn, I’m intrigued.
“I’m right over here. I trust you won’t murder me,” he says and gestures toward a white Tesla Model X that nearly shines with how polished it is.
“Nah. I’m not a serial killer.”
He eyeballs me like he doesn’t quite believe it, but moves toward his car anyway and grabs onto the handle, pulling it open.
“Cool car,” I say. “You must be rich, Mr. Moneybags.”
“You going to rob me now, Mr. ‘I’m not a serial killer’?”
“Nah. Money can’t buy happiness…” I eye him and smirk. “Apparently.”
A butterfly bandage appears in his hand, and then he pulls on a pair of blue latex gloves, snapping them loudly, before dousing a piece of gauze in some liquid and squishing it into my wound.
And fuck, that stings.
I hiss, and the man gives me a small, satisfied smirk.
I glare at him. “You’re getting off on this, huh? Watching someone writhe in the pain you’ve caused. You’re gonna jack off to thoughts of it later, aren’t you?”
“You’re assuming I have a dick I can jack off,” he mutters, swiping the wet gauze over my wound again. My eyes instinctively move to his crotch and then back to his face, but he’s not looking at me. He’s working open the bandage and then sticking it to my head. “You should really go see someone about getting stitches. This is going to scar.”
“Nah,” I reply, eyeing him again, my mind reeling. “There are more important matters pending at the moment. Like, what did you mean by that?”
I’m fucking curious now. I’m like a cat sniffing around; gonna catch that mouse.
“Mean by what?”
“You said you don’t have a dick.”
He arches an eyebrow at me, and I meet his unwavering stare.
“You must be hearing things.”
“Nah, man. I didn’t. I have great hearing, like Superman.”
He shrugs, peeling the gloves off, walking to the trashcan next to the brick wall, and tossing them away. I’m left standing near his car, watching him move back inside the coffee shop, and I can’t fucking help myself.I follow him back inside, and stand right behind him in line, hovering over him like a gargoyle.
“What are you doing?” he hisses, elbowing me in the stomach.
I grunt at the contact and shuffle a half step farther away, but I’m still close enough that I can loom over him.“I’m in line.”
