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When I taste the metallic tang of blood, only then do I stop.
“Can I help you?” a spunky voice asks.
Lifting my head, I realize I’ve moved forward, and I’m next in line, without a single recollection of it happening. Closing the distance between me and the barista, I smile and give her my order.
Venti iced vanilla latte with almond milk and an extra shot.
It’s the exact same every time. I don’t want to try the brand-new anything. I don’t want to try the seasonal anything. I just want my drink. It’s comforting. It doesn’t change. It doesn’t disappoint. It is perfection every single time.
I’m sure this is part of my anxiety issues: needing the routine, needing the exact same drink every single time I order one, only eating at certain restaurants, and when I do, the exact same meal every time.
Trying something new for me is not only rare but exhausting. Anytime I have to go out to dinner with friends and they choose somewhere I’ve never been before, I usually study the menu for a whole day or two before I go and I try to find something that I can handle.
I’m just neurotic about it. I would love to be able to take chances… which is why I’m seeing the doctor to begin with.
I want to be normal… or at least alittlenormal.
Once I’ve ordered, I pay and step to the side to wait for my order. The baristas are busy moving around the machines, whipping up drinks as fast as they can. I watch in amazement as my mind wanders, which it tends to do often.
I’ve always been told by my friends and my aunt and uncle that I live in my head. I’m in the clouds, and I am too much of a dreamer. They don’t realize that being in my head is not necessarily a dream or a fun place to be. It’s not like I’m having a party up here with my thoughts.
“Parker,” the barista calls out.
I’m thankful to be broken out of my thoughts. Smiling, I take a step forward and move toward the counter. Thanking the barista, I wrap my fingers around the cup and turn around to make my way outside and next door to my home.
It doesn’t take me long to get into the building, ride up the elevator, and safely lock myself inside of my condo. I won’t have to leave again until Monday morning for work. Friday afternoon with no weekend plans means that I can lie in bed and read for hours.
With a heavy sigh, I strip out of my clothes, not bothering to close the curtains. There’s no need to when you’re as high up as I am in the building. The glass is mirrored, too, so nobody can see inside.
In just my bra and panties, I sip on my iced latte and sink down in the chair. The counselor’s sofa is nice, but it doesn’t beat my chair. It’s an oversized adult leather-clad beanbag chair. It’s soft and so comfortable that I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of it. It’s where I think and relax and drink coffee or water, depending on the time of day.
Sitting cross-legged, I bring my coffee to my lips and take a long drink, then I reach into the side of the chair and grab hold of my book. It’s a romance, naturally. Although, it’s definitely a lot spicier than the bodice rippers that I used to sneak and read as a teenager.
The one thing that my aunt did not do was watch me closely around her very vast collection of romance books. It’s a good thing, too, because she never actually taught me about the birds and the bees, but those books were educational.
Veryeducational.
Smiling to myself, I open the book, but I don’t start reading it. Sinking my teeth in my bottom lip, I scrape them across and think about the fact that I am silly as all hell. I’m a virgin. I’ve never even been kissed, and I’m telling myself that I know everything about sex. I’m such an idiot.
I find the chapter where I left off and begin to read all about the couple who seem to be bound and determined to stay away from one another, even though that is the absolute last thing either of them wants.
Within seconds, I am lost in the story. The words begin to shift, turning into characters, and a movie plays before me. It happens this way every time I read. I don’t watch much television.
I don’t need to.
Not when I have this.
WELLS
The man sobs before me.He’s on his knees, snot and tears streaming down his face. It’s a pathetic sight, really. I’ve done this more than a few times in my life, and it always causes me to cringe. I can’t get over these men and how fucking pathetic they are.
Coleman clears his throat behind me, and I know he is trying not to laugh. We’re not supposed to show any real emotion at all, even if it is laughter. We are forever meant to be emotionless and stoic in every way possible.
“What have you done wrong?” I ask.
Coleman is just here as backup and only because we happened to be in a meeting with Dad, then I had to see Mom before this. So, he’s joining me on this little job. Plus, he’s driving me around this afternoon. I quite like it.
“I stole from Henry Hamilton,” he whimpers.
