I am never late.
No, being late would be falling short. I never fall short. People depend on me. I have a commitment to arrive at work at nine sharp, not ten minutes after. I get paid to be on time and in dress code, which I am sure doesn’t include broken shoes.
Monday mayhem welcomes me with open arms. After the weekend stock changes, I will need to smooth over the fears of some of my clients, as well as convince others that now is the time to transition a portion of their funds. My mind dances with numbers, stock names, and racing thoughts of multiple accounts muddle together as I enter the bank.
“Morgan,” I hear my coworker, Aimee, call out.
Looking over my shoulder to her while still walking, I miss the extremely tall, bald man wearing all black, including a black leather vest as he turns and bumps into me harshly. My latte sloshes, spilling out of my cup and over both of us. I gasp in surprise as I look up at the overly intimidating man.
“Oh my, I am so sorry,” I stammer as I stumble on my broken shoe to get distance between us.
“Pay attention. Quit tryin’ to be cute, and look where you’re goin’.”
What is it with the men I meet lately being assholes?
“Excuse me,” I reply, looking at the patches on his vest. ‘Coal’ lays over the left side of his vest, right at his heart. ‘Vice President’ lays on his right side. Across the rest, I see different patches with different cities and sayings.
Deciding I need to smooth this over for multiple reasons, I fidget nervously. I need to defuse this situation because this man scares the bejesus out of me. Yet I find him attractive, and this confuses me. The second reason I need to calm down is this is my job, and the third being I wasn’t paying attention; therefore, this is my fault.
“My apologies, mister… Sorry, I don’t know your name. I apologize for not looking where I was going, and I promise you I wasn’t trying to be cute,” I manage to get out weakly.
“Coal. Name is Coal.” His temperament softens as he lifts his hand and proceeds to lick the remnants of my morning addiction off him. Leaning down, he whispers in my ear, “You don’t have to try to be cute; it’s just you.”
My breath hitches as I feel him breathing down my exposed neck. God, it is hot in here. Asshole or not, this man screams sex. Suddenly, I wish I had worn my hair down today rather than in the extremely tight bun it is currently stuck in.
“Definitely cute and definitely just you. Innocence is a rare thing. Keep it safe.” The last words come out while he pulls away, meeting my gaze as his eyes darken with an emotion I can’t read.
He is gone before I can gather my composure and move on to my office. I don’t even get to clean myself up before Aimee is hot on my heels.
“Oh, my God! He actually spoke to you.”
“Huh?” I question absentmindedly, not having a clue what she is talking about.
“Trevor Blake. He comes in every third Monday of the month and doesn’t ever speak to anyone but Joshua. He won’t let anyone else help him. He’s part of the Regulators Motorcycle Club. That’s why I called your name.”
“Why would you call my name in reference to him?” I ask her, confused.
“To get his attention, hello.”
“How does calling my name get his attention exactly?” I don’t understand why women do stuff like this. Is it really that difficult to talk to a man? Granted, I have never tried, but seriously, I don’t get it.
“You were right there beside him. Therefore, calling your name, he would follow your gaze and see me.” She reaches up and squeezes her own perky and very fake breasts. “And my rack is rockin’ today. I’m wearing my new push up bra. It would be a perfect day for him to notice me.”
I have no response for her. None. I am baffled that anyone would do this for the simple attention of a man. I also don’t get why a woman who has fake breasts so large they barely move, would wear a push up bra to accentuate what is already perky and in your face. Thankfully my phone ringing saves me from more of her nonsense. She adds a quick goodbye and leaves as I take off to enter my office.
Leaning over my desk, my already tight suit skirt pulls snugly against my curves as I stretch for my phone. “Morgan Powell,” I greet after picking up the bulky receiver and sitting my half empty latte on my desk.
“Can you pick me up after school?” my sister Madyson asks from the other end.