Rescue the Barista

talk and gossip on the street, feeling for changes in the air, in the wind, movements on the ground.
Those things, those little signs, this is where your instinct comes from. Instinct is not a magical power. It’s science. It’s all the things your body notices that are too small for your mind to explain. But your body tells your brain, your brain reacts. If you’re smart, you let those reactions lead you. They’re never wrong.
Get dazzled by love, and a guy tunes out, stops being attuned to the street sounds, the talk. He’s high on a cloud but he has no idea.
He’s a dead man walking.

Chapter 5 Angelo
The Cherry Crush bar is about one-third full. Truckers, businessmen, guys of no fixed profession. The usual midweek crowd. For a slow Tuesday it’s not too bad of a night. They’re all polite, respectful to the dancers, and very good tippers.
They all know that otherwise they’d get pitched out the back door, in a not very ceremonial style.
Me and the guys, Vito, Nico, and H, are in the dark corner at the far end, around our usual couple of tables. Vito has ordered his third jumbo rum and coke. His routine is predictable. You could set your watch by him. In about ten minutes he’ll order out for a pizza. An eighteen inch monster, with all the toppings. When it arrives it will take up half the table.
And Vito will eat all of it. All apart from the little buttons of pepperoni and strings of melted cheese that wind up joining the pattern on his garish shirt. Leave aside how it signals to the customers to get food out and not order from the kitchen.
Vito really is the guy that gets wise guys a bad name. He has as much class as a used rubber.
Bobby, the new dancer, shimmies over and tries to sit on my lap. Long and lean, she’s wearing heels, glitter and a thong. Plus some blue feathers. She’ll do well for herself here.
Vito tells her, “You’ll get nowhere with Angelo.” Which is true. The girl’s just trying to be friendly and show herself as accommodating. Especially to the boss. Being as it’s her first night.
Still, I’m even more impatient than usual. I never get cozy with the girls. Not with any girls, and I’m especially not interested today.
I’m getting more and more of a sense that Vito has a plan to muscle me out of my territory. The head of the family and that slob from across the tracks thinks he can take it away from me. I have to stay sharp, though. Keep watching for how he might try.
At the bar later, I tell Nic, “You know what, I honestly think I wouldn’t mind handing the crew over. There are times I feel like I’ve had enough of the life. Maybe it’s time to get out. Do some straight business.” Nic’s a good listener. And I would trust him with my life.
I tell him, “But there is no fucking way I would leave Vito to take charge of any of the family’s business or anything that I’ve built. Anything that fell into his greasy paws, it would be a train-wreck in no time. Fucker has all the class of a used rubber.”
Nic nearly spits his beer. I think he’s relieved to hear me say it, all the same.
I buy a few drinks on the way out of the Cherry Crush. Turn in early.
Vito is the only fly in my otherwise perfect little bowl of cherries. Vito is Benji’s son, and Benji was my dad’s lifetime partner. People in the life say someone’s ‘a friend of ours,’ then Benji is exactly the kind of guy they’re thinking of. Anything anyone needed, Benji would see you right. Good people from way back.
How he got a son like Vito, who the fuck knows. Still, Benji is gone, my dad is gone. I run the family, and Vito comes part and parcel with the business I inherited. He could have stayed with his own family but his uncle Julius was smart. Shoved the asshole out of the nest when he had the chance and he dodged that particular bullet.
By the time I’m home, my mind has turned over to what my apartment is lacking. Which is the wet lips and beautiful curves of a certain bouncy coffee bar owner.
Damnit. How am I going to get to sleep now?


Chapter 6 Angelo
So, next day, I swing by Jamie’s Rise and Grind.
Just to see how she’s doing.
Ten, maybe a dozen people are sitting around, drinking coffee, eating cakes and pastries. A few MILF types, soccer moms, some of them have got little strollers with babies in. Some toddlers, too. A few tech warriors hunch over laptops.
I get to the counter, Jamie says, “Good morning,” and smiles. “What can I get you today?”
Like that. Businesslike. Like nothing happened. Okay, that’s how you want to play it.
“Double espresso?”
“Of course –“
“Only, can you make sure all of it gets in the cup?”
Her eyelids beat down, once. Watching her hold her mask of professionalism is a treat. When I walk up, see her behind the cakes, in front of the steaming coffee machine, I’m rock hard immediately. Remembering the taste of her lips. And the swollen, wet quivers in her other lips. The full, round flesh of her ass. In those soft pants.
She puts the espresso into a small china demitasse, puts it neatly onto a saucer, puts the saucer on the side. Tells me with her professional smile that I have loyalty points, so this one’s on the house.
I so want to wipe that professional smile off her pretty professional face. Bend her back over a bench, or fold her forward over the back of a chair. Damn. My fucking mind is racing with all