Page 3 of The Wrong Sister
Today, she apparently decided to up her game. When she placed the cup of freshly brewed, probably poisoned with sugar coffee in front of me, I was ready to bolt before she came with the milk. Then my credit card fell from her hands onto the counter. She went to get it and knocked down the display cups in the process, which knocked down the wooden stand with candy, which knocked down my coffee. Right on my lap. And it didn’t have milk, I can tell that much judging by the temperature—scorching hot.
“Oh, Mr. King, I’m sorry!” Jerome comes out from the back. “I don’t know what happened.”
“It seems to be the motto around here,” I say, staring at the girl whose name tag readsMae. I’ve heard them calling her that.What type of name is that?She sends me a quick glare before dropping her eyes down like she’s the innocent party here.
“Mae will pay for the dry cleaning,” Jerome announces loudly, getting a nasty look from her.
“Why will I pay for it?” Her already big eyes bulge out even more.
“You spilled it, you can pay for it. And Mr. King’s coffee is on you today. Go make some more for him.”
Her little nostrils flare; her hands ball into fists. “Entitled pricks,” she mumbles under her breath.
“What did you say?” I ask quietly, well aware that Jerome didn’t hear her. But she doesn’t know that. Let her be scared.
Clamping her mouth shut so hard I can hear the sound of her clacking teeth, she marches behind the counter and starts making a new cup. I edge closer to her so I can see if she adds a pump of her spit to it. I wouldn’t be surprised. I can tell she wants to because she keeps sending me a side-eye with every move she makes.
“I apologize again, Mr. King. Mae is new, she’s still learning.”
I’ve been coming here for two months. How long does a person need to learn how to make a cup of coffee?
Something drops rather loudly—again—and we both look at her. With a toothy smile, she picks up part of the grinder that had fallen out and pushes it back. She looks positively like a shark, ready to attack. Shameful to admit, but I’m scared to drink my coffee now, and I probably won’t.
“It’s her last warning,” Jerome chimes in. “She’ll be fired after that.”
Another clack. Louder this time. The girl’s movements turn jerky. Firing her wasn’t my intention, just to rile her up in return. Like she riles me up.
A few moments later, she comes back and places a cup on the counter between us.
“Here you go.” Her cheerfulness is forced. So is her shark smile. “Sir.”
The coffee must have burned all the common sense out of my dick because it jerks in my wet pants. Silently grabbing the coffee, I walk out, ignoring Jerome’s continued apologies behind my back. I wish I could say I feel bad for her being possibly fired, but I don’t. There’re a lot of people in this city looking for jobs who are willing to actually work. She’ll be fired by the end of today—I’m sure she’ll fuck up somehow.
The coffee shop is on the ground level of my building,and it usually takes me half a minute to reach the doors and then the elevator. But today, I pause. For some reason, I stop outside when I notice a musician by the light pole. He’s here nearly every single day, right in front of my building. I don’t know what he’s expecting because no one in this building sure as fuck has the time to stop and enjoy the music.
I do today though. To my utter surprise, I stop and enjoy the music. Something I haven’t done in who knows how long.
He’s playing the sax. Very masterfully. And the crowd around us agrees. Is this crowd here every day? I look around, watching people’s faces. They’re fascinated. They’reinthe music. I used to love jazz, and the saxophone was my favorite instrument to listen to. It’s soulful, with room for perfectly flawed mistakes.
That was before though, before I was turned into this damn emotionless machine thanks to my father.
I shove my hands into my pockets, searching for cash, but find nothing. I don’t remember the last time I had cash on me; it’s all done with cards or by Martin. He usually takes care of everything.
I turn around and walk back to the coffee shop. When the girl sees me, her face turns positively scared. She sure did something to my coffee—she probably thinks I came back for revenge.
“Mr. King? Is everything okay?” Jerome asks, rushing around the counter to me.
“Give me a hundred cash.”
“W-what?” He blinks.
“I need a hundred. Cash.” I open my palm, expecting him to obey. People usually do.
“Sure.” He spurs into action. “Mae, get me the cash.”
The girl reaches into the drawer and produces a hundred-dollar bill. Jerome grabs it from her hand and pushes it into mine.
“Here you go, Mr. King.”
