Page 3 of Filthy Savage
“Coffee, black,” I say. “Two pumps of vanilla and three extra shots of espresso.”
“And your name for the order?”
“Axe.”
“For here or to go, Mr. Axe?” the kid asks.
“To go.”
“Coming right up.”
“Thanks.”
My usual caffeinated drink of choice has more than enough kick to get my brain function in gear. It’ll help just in case Silas and Sabrina are still waiting to corner me at the clubhouse again. I run my thumb and index finger down my goatee and shift my weight from one foot to the other as I wait for the barista kid to quit it with the pleasantries and take my money. I have a blonde to make a move on before she gets her morning drink and walks out, for fuck’s sake. This fucking kid. Can he choose another time to be social? No wonder the line is a mile long behind me, and it’s the same at the pickup counter too.
Bubbly barista boy finally rings up the sale and prattles out the price. Nodding, I slap my cash down in front of the cash register and tune out the kid’s overly friendly rant about how hot the weather is. Of course, it’s hot. It’s summer in northwest Arizona, in the middle of the fucking desert. The kid picks up on my irritable mood, because he doesn’t add more irrelevant drivel when he hands over the change.
Returning the change to my wallet, I shove the dark leather in my back pocket and maneuver my big, broad frame through the crowd to find an open area and wait for my brew. Not too difficult to do, given that I tower over everyone in here, and am even more menacing looking in my faded jeans, white t-shirt, black leather cut and all this ink on my exposed skin. Like most crowds they’re quick to part for a tattooed badass like me.
“Order up for number two-sixty-four!” shouts an even younger female barista. She finishes steaming some milk on an industrial espresso machine, closes the lever and slowly pours the milk into the awaiting cup of brew.
Slow as fuck.
I’m growing more impatient by the second. When my phone buzzes in the inner pocket of my cut, I groan out my frustration. It’s probably a text from Silas. Figuring I might as well use some of this waiting time semi-productively, I dig into my pocket and snag my cell.
Si’s message reads,“Your little tantrum worked. Sabrina’s talking to Vex Vincent ATM.”
I reply with,“He’s Vex Vincent now? Really?”
Si: Have you seen his face? The fucker never smiles.
Me: Don’t smack-talk him. He’s my people. What are you, five? BTW it’s about fucking time you got your old lady in line.
Si: Go fuck yourself. Oh, I added one condition to taking on Vex V.
Christ,I can already guess what it is.
Me:“No way in hell. Fuck the security clearances.”
I’m not interested in arguing by text like a high school princess, so I turn off my phone screen, return the damn phone to my cut, and let the next few message alerts buzz in my pocket.
“Order up for number two-sixty-seven. Coffee, black, two shots of vanilla, and three extra shots of espresso!” The server hollers to the waiting patrons. “Come and get it!”
I shuffle through the crowd again, this time to pick up my order. I’m not sure how they prepared my brew so quickly when so many customers are still waiting, but to be honest, I’m not fucking complaining.
Except, what the fuck?
The sleek, well-manicured fingers of a woman’s hand wraps around my cup at the same time that I reach to pick up my brew.
