then open. Being the queen of snooze, I like to get as much of the opening work done so I can sleep as long as possible. But because I like Peggy, and I get a feeling she’s going through something, I don’t.
I crank up the old-school radio, because Marcy doesn’t believe in satellite radio, which is only part of why I have a strong like for her. The local pop station that comes in is the only one worth a damn, so pop music it is when I’m at The Bean. I don’t hate it; it’s catchy, which is why it makes it popular, but it’s also all about broken hearts, drinking, over-sexualized innuendos, or falling in love. Give me a bitter bitch or a fight song about empowering the people … I mean, women. Men have enough of it already.
After a commercial for snow tires finishes, “Green Light” by Lorde plays. I like her grit. I bet Mom would, too.
Mopping the floor, I’m singing along to her lyrics when I turn, something in the drive-thru window catching my eye. I jump, my hands to chest, causing me to drop the mop.
“Jesus Christ.” I tap my headphones, wondering how the hell I didn’t hear the chime, and then I pull it off. Dead battery.
The guy in the big-ass black vehicle arches an intimidating brow and gives me a look like I’m crazy.
I walk over, pulling off the headphones, and open the window to take his order. “Sorry, dead battery.”
He lifts his dark brown, scruff-covered chin, his hazel eyes morphing from something similar to curiosity, to unamused.
Same, bud, same.
“What can I get for you?”
“Whatever’s easiest, Savannah.” That voice. “I know it’s closing time.”
“How many times do I have to tell you my name is not Savannah?” I snap.
His eyes light up in amusement, and he smiles bigger than I’ve yet to see.
“We’re here for coffee,” the driver says, drawing my scowl back to him, “not ’ttude.”
“JT, if she didn’t throw attitude, she wouldn’t be her.”
JT—the giant jackass has a tiny name—looks back at me with a shit-ass grin.
I look past him at Patrick. “Oh my God, you don’t know me. So, seriously, just—”
“Whatever the hell your name is,” JT cuts me off, “I’d like black.”
I glare at him. “It’s Savvy.”
Patrick lifts his hands, throwing up peace signs, and asks, “Two Vs?”
I cross my arms and glower at him.
“Your name implies you have good judgment. You’re throwing attitude where it’s not needed. I’d stick with Savannah; better suits you.”
“Bro, she’s chill,” Patrick says, sticking up for me, with a grin.
Unnecessary.
“Yeah, everything’s chill when you’ve had a few too many drinks.” He rolls his eyes at Patrick then looks back at me. “Two black, large.”
“Thought you wanted that pumpkin spice brew again?” Patrick asks.
“Whatever gets us out of here the fastest,” JT grumbles.
“Black it is, then,” Patrick says.
When I turn to grab the cups, which is out of eyeshot from the drive-thru, I hear JT whisper, “You like the girl or the brew?”
Patrick answers, “Like them both.”
I wish you wouldn’t, I think as I head to the one bean-to-cup machine I still have going.
“She’s a man-hater,” JT whispers. “Stay the fuck away from that, Tricks. She will Noah Beckett you.”
“I don’t think she’d pull some shit like that, bro. And she also likes girls, so—”
“So what?” Justice cuts him off.
Patrick laughs. “So, we have that in common, I guess.”
I can’t help feel relieved that he gets that, and I’m not sure why, except for maybe he’ll stop popping up everywhere and putting me on edge.
“So, you’re saying it’s the coffee.” JT doesn’t sound convinced.
“Coffee’s great, but so is the fact that she—”
“Tricks, don’t you say challenge. There’s a difference between going for a girl who’s out of your league, or has a boyfriend who doesn’t deserve her, than one who likes to lick pussy.”
“The challenge isn’t in getting my dick wet; it’s in chilling with a hot girl who’s deeper than my dick would be inside her. One who’s not gonna lay on the bullshit to get me, and then, day after day, the layers she slathered on to cover the ugly come to light. There are girls you fuck, and girls you can learn from.”
“What do you have to learn from someone who treats you like shit?” JT huffs.
“More about why she does.”
“That makes no sense, man.”
“Makes perfect sense. Sometimes, I need music, and sometimes, I need lyrics.”