The Soldier - S.R. Jones Page 0,21
a way I don’t like. If he doesn’t marry her, we will be targeted by the Italian’s in a way I most certainly will not like.
I’m not sure what the fuck the answer is, and it’s giving me a headache. I don’t want to be connected to them. It’s not because they walk on the illegal side, which doesn’t bother me. It’s because they’re the damn Italian mob. They’re too … emotional. In that way Michael will fit right in.
Michael has been one fuck up after another, but who can blame the kid? His dad left him, his mother got murdered, and he got stuck with a cold bastard like me. I do love him, though; even if I find it hard to show. He’s about the only person in this world I care about these days.
Well, him and the pretty little barista at my favorite coffee shop. I’d be pissed at the world if anything happened to her. She’s like bottled sunshine in the shape of a person.
I first frequented the coffee shop a month or two ago, and I loved the homely, warm feel of it. My life doesn’t have a lot of that, and I don’t normally crave it, but for thirty minutes a day, the coffee shop provides some comfort. It’s smells like heaven, and the cakes and shit are as good as the drinks. I’ve had to up my gym sessions since I found the place.
The best thing about it, though, is my favorite blonde barista. Although blonde is a tame description for what her hair really is with its layers of brown, honey blonde, lighter blonde, and red tones. I think it’s natural too. I’ve watched her mess with it, running her fingers through it and tossing it about, for me to believe it isn’t colored. No telltale lines of re-growth at all. She’s simply got the most fucking stunning hair I’ve ever seen. Damn, I could watch her all day. In fact, I’m going to go and watch her now.
I push away from my desk, grab my tailor-made suit jacket, and sling it over my shoulder. Coffee beckons me.
“I’m heading out,” I tell my assistant as I pass her desk out in the corridor.
“Okay, Sir,” she says with a smile. She’s a gorgeous young woman, but I give her a brief, professional smile in return and carry on my way.
I learned my lesson long ago, and I never, ever fuck my staff anymore. Not that you can so easily get away with such things here in the UK these days. The place is laxer than some other countries, but a company director screwing the secretary? That’s not the look or reputation I want.
When I reach the coffee shop, I smile when I see the blonde barista is working.
I know her name now, Cassie.
We’ve enjoyed quite a few chats, Cassie and I, nothing major, but enough that we’re friendly and greet one another, and on certain days end up talking for a while. In some ways, I know more about Cassie than I do my current girlfriend, Liza Soames, Instagram model, influencer extraordinaire, and pain in the ass.
Liza is about be an ex-girlfriend because to be quite honest, I can’t stand her. Normally, I don’t care whether I like the women I fuck. I don’t fuck them for their personalities, but for their looks, bodies, and ability and willingness to be creative in the sack. Ever since getting to know Cassie, though, Liza has grated on me. I think I’d fuck Cassie even though I know she wouldn’t be up for me gagging with her own panties while I fucked her. Cassie would probably find that abhorrent, and somehow, instead of it seeming boring, it only turns me onto her more.
She’s not … pure. I don’t want pure anyway, or virginal or any of those things. Cassie isn’t that, but she’s sunny. She’s gorgeous in the truest sense of the word. I want to eat her up, the same way I eat up those cakes she serves.
Things I know about Cassie:
Cassie loves dogs, and one day she wants a Golden Retriever, but she can’t have one now because she lives in a small apartment.
She loves reading, and not any old stuff; I’ve seen her reading heavy shit. She’s currently reading Stalingrad, translated into English for the first time, and that’s a hefty tome.
She’s super smart, and has a degree in computer science and Information Technology, and is only working the coffee shop until she