PREFACE
SULLY
It’s all arranged. I’ve informed the staff that she should be arriving any second now, and then I want her up here to meet Royce in ten minutes, exactly. I think she’s already downstairs. Probably walking toward the elevator.
The key is convincing Royce. He doesn’t understand that we need this. We need to have a woman in our lives. At first it seemed like a convenient thing, or a financial thing, but now it seems like the only way our family will survive is if we are unified.
It’s going to take a miracle.
Royce is predictably annoyed that I set it up without asking him. But August sent me surveillance video of her. There’s something to her. Maybe it’s crazy to think this, but I felt like I really saw something surprising in this one.
So we are going to try again, come hell or high water.
Royce is mad. He stands with his hands on his hips, his shirt in a crumpled mass in his hand, his chest streaked with sweat. His nostrils flare and that muscle jumps at the back of his jawline.
If we had more time, I would take him downstairs and spar in the ring for a little while. Maybe work it out. Because that’s part of who we are: we are physical. We may be the richest men in the country, but we are also just men. We need a physical reality, not just a financial one. Because what is money anyway, some kind of fairytale?
I hear the elevator mechanism engaging and find a reason to leave the room, ducking into the service hallway to watch from a distance. I shouldn’t do it, but I need to see what happens in person. I need to know if there’s any chance at all.
She comes in tentatively, wearing a feminine but sporty little dress that accentuates her curvy strength. She’s smaller than I expected, but also wound tight like a gymnast. Her calves flex with every step that she takes toward him. Her fingers pluck nervously at the hem of her skirt.
Royce is facing the other way, looking for a clean shirt to wear before she gets here, not realizing she is standing right behind him. He takes his sweaty shirt and tosses it over his shoulder, right into her hands. She catches it.
He turns around.
Backing away, I stand out of sight again. I don’t want him to know I’m still here, spying on him. I can hear their voices but not the words, yet I can still kind of understand the tone and cadence of their voices. They go from icy to easy in a remarkably short period of time. It sounds like they’re both already flirting.
She has an interesting, sultry voice. A little gravelly, a little worldly. Not like she’s been worn down, but like she’s an astute observer. She’s seen things.
She’s no angel, and that’s what we need.
Angels are too delicate.
Finally, I can’t wait anymore. I peek around the corner again to see what’s happening.
“I think you would be really surprised at the content of my wildest dreams,” I hear her say in a sexy purr.
“Oh really?” Royce challenges. He is intrigued, certainly. His cock stands out in high relief in his track pants. She says something else and sashays forward, reaching right for him.
She doesn’t know who we are, and I told August to tell her as little as possible. She doesn’t know that she’s stroking one of the richest cocks in the world in her palm. When she falls to her knees in front of him, and he closes his eyes and tips his head back in relief, I feel that spark in the air.
There’s magic here. I know it. I’m not sure how many of us still believe in magic, but I’m damn sure going to keep trying.
Chapter 2
Bunny
Seems like I am the only person here who knows how to refill the coffee maker. It’s not brain surgery, right? So out of six waitresses, how come I’m the only one who ever seems to be taking the old filter out, banging the basket on the side of the garbage, and setting it all back up again?
Thirty-eight seconds. That’s all it takes, and I know because I timed myself. Thirty-eight seconds! I guess I’m the only person here who has thirty-eight seconds to spare for fresh coffee.
Which is extra weird, since people drink coffee all day long. That’s what diners are for, right? You get your regulars, who line up at the counter and just drink cup after cup all day long. It’s their daily habit, sitting on the vintage stools with their elbows propped up on the Formica, dirty plates pushed back so the busboy can scoop them up. They expect to be able to enjoy five or six hours of bottomless coffee and chitchat with the other old fogies.
They expect their cups to be refilled when they’re down to about 25 percent. They don’t want to ask, and they don’t want to think about it. I’m sure they drink about a pot each while they are comparing war stories and bitching about lawn care or whatever.
That’s all fine by me. The diner counter is an American institution, and a good one at that.
And I like it when I have the counter as my station. All I have to do is sweep along, refilling cups as I go, smiling and winking at the old farts. It’s totally worth that seventy-three-cent tip they’re going to leave me at the end of the day, when they have to shuffle on home to watch Judge Judy. Totally worth it.
In the rest of the dining room, we’re just about evenly split between ladies with their book clubs and people stopping in for lunch from local businesses. Once in a while, I’ll get a hipster or something, but somehow we are not that trendy. This is still very much the old-fashioned greasy spoon it’s always been, and while the doughnut shop two blocks down has a bunch of bearded weirdos hanging out all day, we still just have mostly old dudes. Mostly.
Which is why I figure everybody knows the coffee pot needs to be constantly remade, and why I’m mystified that I’m the only person who does it. Seriously mystified!
After a quick jog down the counter, refilling cups as I go and dazzling them with my smile, I go ahead and start the process all over again. After thumbing the orange button, the machine bangs and hums, heating the water up to flash boiling for yet another go-round.
My manager sidles up to me, turning around to lean his ample butt against the stainless steel counter and crossing his arms. He squints at the dining room, nodding to himself.
“Yeah,”
he sighs, finishing the conversation that started in his head, “you could just go on home, Bunny. Take the afternoon off.”
I take a quick breath and hold it, forcing myself to smile.
“But, Nick? Are you sure? The fence guys usually come in for lunch in just a couple minutes…”
I grab a towel out of the bucket of sanitizer and squeeze it, wiping the counter that I already cleaned.
“Yeah," he says again. I watch his profile as he checks out the room, mentally calculating which waitresses he can cut to save money, and which ones he has to keep.
“I think it’s actually Misty’s turn to go home early,” I offer helpfully. “Nick? She’s probably expecting it. Wouldn’t want to let her down.”
I have no idea if it’s actually her turn to go home early. What I do know is that I just bought a new pair of Frye boots, and if I don’t make fifty-three more dollars by Saturday, my cell phone will magically transform itself into a mediocre paperweight.