Читать книгу Sex, Murder And A Double Latte - Kyra Davis - Страница 8

“No one could say Alicia was all work and no play. She loved a good party almost as much as she loved a good fight.”

—Sex, Drugs and Murder

It’s funny how horrific events can spur a person to accomplish truly incredible feats, and that is exactly what Tolsky’s death did for me. I, Sophie Katz, the woman who is known for perfecting the art of procrastination, had finished a book one week before deadline.

I pressed my foot up against the computer desk and propelled my wheeled chair across the room, my arms held high in a V for victory. My pet raised his head in mild curiosity. “I am sooo cool,” I told him. “Hell, I’m better than cool, I’m responsible.” Mr. Katz didn’t seem that impressed, but then again…well, he was a cat.

Tolsky’s apparent suicide hadn’t sat well with me. Maybe I had written too many murder mysteries, but somehow the whole thing seemed too pat. I kept coming back to the fact that the screen death that had been recreated was actually a murder scene. It just seemed like that detail bore more significance than the police were crediting it with. But whether I was correct or simply imagining something out of nothing, it had inspired me to finish what could be my best book to date.

Although the letter I received the night I learned of Tolsky’s death had undoubtedly been nothing more than a misguided hoax, it had disturbed me enough to result in quite a few restless nights. But as it turns out, that worked to my advantage too, because I had used all those hours I normally would have wasted on sleep to finish my book. So thank you, anonymous freak.

This required a celebration. This required a reward that was decadent and fitting the mood of the occasion.

This required Starbucks.

And this wasn’t just a latte morning either. Oh no, this was a “Grande Caramel Brownie Frappuccino with extra whipped cream” kind of morning.

I threw on a pair of torn hipster jeans, a Gap T-shirt and a corduroy blazer, and was pulling on a boot when the phone rang. Oh goody, I got to tell someone else how awesome I was! Maybe I’d even get to share the joy with a telemarketer.

“Hola, Sophie the great, at your service.”

Silence.

“Hello?”

Just a click, followed by a dial tone.

I put the phone down and started working on the other boot. “I hate it when people do that. How hard is it to say ‘sorry, wrong number’?” Mr. Katz swished his tail in agitation. I guess for him that really would be a challenge.

The phone rang again.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” I snapped it up and cradled it against my shoulder. “It’s still me. You have the wrong number.”

Nothing. Not even a click.

“Hello? Is somebody there?” I sat up a little straighter and waited for a response.

They disconnected.

I pressed the hang-up button without putting the phone down.

It rang again. Three times, and then it stopped.

Who would want to prank-call me? The characters in my books got prank calls all the time, but my real world had always been blissfully prank-call free. I tapped my fingernail against the mouthpiece and waited to see if they would try again. After a few minutes, I gave up. Probably some bored teenager who had seen the movie Scream one too many times. I pulled my purse over my shoulder and stepped out of my apartment. As I was double-locking the door I could hear the ring. I didn’t bother to go back in to pick it up. The SOB could call all day long if he wanted. I had a Frappuccino to order.

I headed on foot to one of the fifteen or twenty Starbucks located in my vicinity and when I arrived I decided that the experience wouldn’t be complete without a New York Times. There was one last paper for sale on the rack by the counter and I could practically hear it calling to me, enticing me to spend the hours necessary to read it cover to cover, knowing the whole time that I had absolutely nothing else I needed to do. My fingers had literally grazed the first page when it was snatched out of my grasp.

I whirled around to see a six-foot-something brunette already scanning the paper with dark brown eyes. “Hey, I was going to buy that.”

“Guess you’ll have to buy another one.” He spoke with the slightest foreign accent.

“In case you haven’t noticed, there isn’t another one. I had my hand on that paper, and you took it.”

“So buy a Chronicle. I just came from New York this morning and I’m going to buy a New York Times.”

“Well, if the Times is so damn important to you, you should have bought one in New York.” He shrugged and started reading the paper again. “Hello. We’re having a confrontation here. Look, I don’t really care if you’re from New York. I don’t care if you’re Rudolph Giuliani himself. That’s my paper.”

“Next in line, please,” a voice called from behind the cash register.

“Are you going to order, or shall I go in front of you?” he asked, not even looking up from his reading.

“Oh. My. God!” This was not happening. No one was this big of an ass. I stormed up to the perky little blonde in the green apron.

“Hi. Can I take your order?”

“That guy just took my paper.”

“Oh, um…” The blonde glanced around, trying to find someone else she could pass me off to. “Okay, sorry. So he took your paper?”

“Yes. I was going to buy it, and he took it.”

“Oh, well, okay, the thing is…well, this is kind of my first day and this sort of thing wasn’t covered in the training. Do you want to talk to a supervisor?”

I just stared at her for a moment. It was a fairly reasonable answer, but somehow I had been hoping that the blond Starbucks trainee was really a ninja in disguise and would knock Mr. New York senseless. But that didn’t seem to be the case, and it was probably a pretty safe bet that her supervisor would also be lacking in the superhero department. I quickly reviewed my options. That didn’t take much time because I had none. “Fine. Fine, fine, fine, fine. Just get me a Grande Caramel Brownie Frappuccino—and there had better be a lot of whipped cream to make up for this.”

A customer with unnaturally red hair and a tie-dyed shirt who was being assisted at the adjacent register smiled and leaned over in my direction. “You know, my sister’s dating a Native American,” she said winking at me conspiratorially. “I think you all have a really interesting culture.”

Oh, I was so not in the mood for this. “Actually I’m Irish. I’m just wearing a lot of bronzer.” I turned back to my cashier. “Could you make my drink now?”

The cashier wrote some illegible words on a paper cup and quickly entered my order into the register.

I looked back at the newspaper thief. He was watching…and laughing. The fucker was laughing at me. That’s it, he was on the list. In my next book I would be sure that the first murder victim would be a dark-haired New York tourist and the police would find him bludgeoned to death in an alley behind a Starbucks with a New York Times shoved up his ass.

I picked up my drink and sat down at a table by the window that happened to have a discarded Chronicle resting on top. Although it was probably not the intention of its previous owner, it felt like the paper was left there for the sole purpose of further pissing me off. I pushed it aside and busied myself by mentally formulating the details of how I was going to whack the jerk who had just screwed up my morning. The task plus the extra dose of sugar and caffeine were just beginning to perk me up again when my desired victim strolled over to the table, winnings in hand.

“I read the articles I wanted to read. Would you like this now?”

Oh, this was too much. “No, thanks, I’m pretty happy with the Chronicle.”

He gave me a little half smile and sat down opposite me. “Now, you obviously want it. You’re not going to let your pride keep you from taking what you want, are you?” He pushed the paper toward me, and I unwillingly noted his hands…big, strong… God, I loved guys with hands like that, with the exception of this guy. This guy was a schmuck.

“Shouldn’t you be out taking pictures of cable cars or something like that?”

“Oh, I’m not a tourist. I was just in New York wrapping up some old business. I made San Francisco my home a few months ago.”

“Oh goody, another East Coast transplant moving to our wonderful city. How original.”

He laughed. “Actually, I was originally a Russian transplant moving to Israel and then an Israeli transplant moving to New York. So, you see, I’ve been condescended to by the natives of three continents. You’re going to have to work a little harder if you plan on offending me now.” He gently pushed the paper a little closer to me. “Take the paper.”

I gave him my best glare but I couldn’t quite keep my fingers from inching toward the publication.

“There are some really interesting articles,” he said. “Corruption in the political world, greed in the business world—violence in the art world, all the usual sensationalism.”

I begrudgingly took the paper. “Violence in the art world?”

“Mmm…it seems there’s been a conviction in the KK Money murder trial.”

I noted the headline on the front page. “It’s JJ Money.” JJ Money was a gangsta rapper who, seven months ago, had been killed in the exact same manner as one of his songs, shot in both kneecaps, once in the stomach and once in the head. Rival rap star DC Smooth, who already had a rather long criminal history that included a few assault-and-battery charges, had been tried for the murder and had now been found guilty, despite his continual protests of innocence, a detail I found a little odd. After his previous arrests he had been known to brag about his crimes. But then again, this was a different situation. This time his victim didn’t just end up in a hospital but in a morgue.

“Well, I knew it was some letter of the English alphabet. The basic premise is the same, reaping what you sow and all that.”

I nearly choked on my Frappuccino. “What did you say?”

“What, that the premise was the same?” he asked.

“No, the other part…you know what, never mind. Look, thanks for the paper. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to read it and enjoy my coffee by myself.”

The man nodded and stood up. I couldn’t help but notice his physique. He certainly spent enough time at the gym. He turned to leave, then paused and leaned over me, causing me to shift uncomfortably in my seat.

“By the way,” he said, his Russian accent a bit more pronounced, “That’s not coffee, that’s a milk shake.” And with that he walked out.

I stared at the door. Had he just insulted my coffee drink? Unbelievable! Everyone who had evolved passed the Cro-Magnon level knew that one should never make snide remarks about a person’s weight, religion or choice in caffeinated beverages, which meant he was most likely a Neanderthal. A Neanderthal with really good hands.

I grabbed my drink and paper, and stormed home. At least my cat knew how to shut up and let me enjoy a few minor indulgences. When I reached my building, I struggled to retrieve my keys from my purse without putting down either of my two purchases. You never knew when a greedy tourist was going to sneak up and snag your periodical.

“Hello, Miss Katz.”

The voice from behind startled me enough that I dropped my Frappuccino, spilling the beverage all over my suede boots. “Fuck!” I looked up from the disaster to see the pitifully distressed eyes of Andy Manning looking down at me.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Katz. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to say hi. I guess I should go.” He rubbed his massive head in a way that caused his fine blond hair to stick out in a rather awkward spiked configuration.

Everything about Andy was massive and awkward. He worked as the stock clerk at the corner market, and at six-seven and with a body weight that had to be well over the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound mark, he was pretty hard to miss. Andy also suffered from brain damage. I wasn’t sure how that came to be. Alice, the market’s proprietor, had said something about his being seriously abused as an infant. Whatever had happened, it certainly hadn’t affected his disposition, which was one of the sweetest I’d ever come across.

I carefully extricated the sports section and used it to absorb some of the liquid penetrating my shoes. “No—I’m sorry, Andy. If I hadn’t have been so preoccupied, you wouldn’t have been able to surprise me. I didn’t mean to swear.” Well, I sorta had, but not at him.

He bent down and examined the mess. “I’m really sorry about your boots and your drink. Was it a Frappuccino?”

“Yeah, they’re one of my favorite vices.”

“I like them too. They’re kind of like a milk shake.”

The paper crinkled as my fist tightened around it. “Andy, I really have to go upstairs and see if I can salvage these. I’ll see you later okay?”

“Okay, Miss Katz. I really am sorry.”

“I know, Andy.” I stuffed the soiled pages inside the now-empty cup and went upstairs.

Mr. Katz was spread out on the love seat, leisurely grooming himself. “Well, at least one of us is having a relaxing day.”

The phone rang and I dumped my stuff onto the dining table in order to free my hands to answer. “Hello?”

No response. That was the last straw. “Listen, asshole, I don’t know if you think you’re funny or scary or what, but if you don’t cut this crap out right now, my husband, who just happens to be a cop, is going to get his hands on the phone records and drag your juvenile butt to jail for harassment, got it?”

They hung up.

Ten seconds later the phone rang again. I picked up the receiver. “Oh, you are sooo asking for it.”

There was no immediate response but I thought I could detect some background noise this time. It sounded like…Donna Summer.

A voice on the other end cleared his throat. “Honey, the only thing I’m asking for is world peace, the end of deforestation and a Miami beachfront property with a six-foot live-in housekeeper named Ricardo.”

“Marcus.” I leaned against the dividing kitchen counter. “Did you call before this?”

“No, but I’m guessing that the person who did, left you a tad out of sorts.”

“Understatement, but it’s not important. What’s up with you?”

“I got a last-minute invite to an art opening for an artist named Donato Balardi. It’s at the Sussman Gallery tonight. Want to come with?”

“That actually sounds fun. I’ve just finished a manuscript and I’ve been trying to celebrate, but so far I’ve been failing miserably.” Mr. Katz blinked his eyes in what I took for agreement.

“You finished your book? Honey, that’s great! Tell you what, I’ll throw in dinner at Puccini and Pinetti to mark the occasion. My last appointment is at four but it’s just a trim and style, so if we plan for me to pick you up at six-thirty I’ll still have some wiggle room.”

“Wiggle away. I’ll see you at six-thirty.”

I spent the rest of the day reading what was left of the paper and napping. It had been over a week since I had gotten a good night’s sleep, and I had no intention of going out with saddlebag eyes. Knowing Marcus, he’d be fifteen minutes late, which was fine with me because I needed the extra minutes to do something with my hair. Tonight I would make Marcus proud, even if it killed me.

Several hours later, it was killing me. It was six-forty and I had been torturing myself with a blow-dryer and a curling iron for the last hour and a half, and my reward was hair that was big enough to intimidate Diana Ross. Marcus was so lucky; he had those short little well-groomed dreadlocks, and all he had to do was shave, get dressed and voilà—he was the next Blair Underwood. I was desperately searching my bathroom drawers for some styling product to fix the problem when the phone rang.

I rushed out into the living room to get it. “Hello?”

It was a hang-up. I stared at the phone. Either I hadn’t been as convincing as I thought, or the person prank-calling somehow knew I didn’t have a police officer husband. How would they know that? The buzzer jarred me out of my thoughts. My hand flew to my hair. “Damn it!”

I crossed over to the intercom. “Marcus, I just need another minute to finish putting myself together.”

“In another minute, I’m going to have a meter maid in my face.”

“Maybe you could flirt your way out of it?”

“Are you suggesting he’s gay?” Marcus asked. “Honey, there isn’t a gay man alive that would be caught dead in that polyester thing they call a uniform, and I’m not even going to get into that white scooter-deally they drive…. Oh shit, Sophie, he sees me! Oh my God, he’s getting into the white scooter-deally… Run, Sophie! Get your little ass down here now!”

I kicked a nearby pillow with enough force to propel it across the room and send my cat running for cover. I looked over in the direction of the kitchen where the diamond studs I’d planned on wearing rested on the counter, and quickly decided against them. Considering the state of my hair, nobody would see them anyway. I did want to bring my cell phone, though. Funny, I thought I had left it by the earrings. The buzzer blasted again. Obviously I’d have to find it later. I grabbed my purse, and booked down the three flights of stairs to the entryway of my building. As I hurried out the door I saw the meter maid puttering toward us, less than fifteen yards away.

“Get in, get in, get in!” Marcus screamed from behind the wheel of his Miata, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror.

I jumped into the passenger side, and Marcus, without so much as giving me a sideways glance, put the car into gear and we were off, leaving the meter maid snarling in our wake.

“You know, you could have just driven around the block.” I yanked my seat belt across my chest.

Marcus snapped his head in my direction for the first time that evening, a move that I assumed was a precursor to a snappy comeback, but the retort froze on his lips. “Oh my God, what happened to your hair?”

“Oh, well, I thought I’d do something different. Close your mouth and watch the road.”

Marcus turned part of his focus back to the narrow street leading us toward downtown, but his eyes continued to dart in my direction. “You tried to use a curling iron again, didn’t you?”

“Um…”

“How many times do I have to tell you…stay away from the curling iron. In the wrong hands those things are like deadly weapons. It’s like that little Australian crocodile man always says—danger, danger, danger.”

“Okay, fine, I look like shit. Point taken.”

“You don’t look like shit. The makeup’s all good and the little camel suede halter dress, paired with the three-quarter leather is a look ripped right out of April’s In Style. It’s just the hair that’s giving me ‘Tina Turner in the eighties’ flashbacks.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad!”

“Well, it won’t be in a few minutes. I’ll fix it in the parking garage.”

“You have hair supplies with you?”

“Never leave home without them.”

I relaxed back into the seat. He brought hair supplies. Earth-shattering crisis averted. Unfortunately, that allowed my mind to wander back to the phone calls. It was pretty ballsy to crank-call after my last threat, even if the perpetrator didn’t believe me. It showed that the caller was not just looking for an easy target to intimidate. In my book, Sex, Drugs and Murder, the bad guys had prank-called my protagonist and her roommate in hopes of determining when they were home. That way they didn’t run the risk of running into them while breaking in. Could someone be thinking of breaking into my apartment? Had I remembered to close the kitchen window? The thing was almost impossible to close and I usually left it open a crack… No, I was being paranoid. The first part of my day had been hideous, and there was no way I was going to let a few phone calls ruin my night. I forced myself to think of a more removed topic that would hold my interest.

“Have you been following the JJ Money murder case at all?”

“And we’re back in the stream-of-consciousness world of Sophie Katz.”

“You know me, I’m all about keeping you on your toes. It’s what gives me my edge.” I made an attempt at a playful smile. “DC Smooth’s appealing the verdict. I honestly think the guy is innocent. All the evidence against him is just way too convenient for my taste.”

“As a mystery writer this is probably a hard concept for you, but in the non-MTV real world, people who are convicted of crimes are usually guilty.”

“Come on, Marcus, what kind of black man are you? Shouldn’t you be chanting ‘Down with the system’ and campaigning for the release of our unfairly accused brother?”

Marcus turned the car into the O’Farrell Street Garage and paused to collect his ticket. “You’re not exactly little Miss Black Panther yourself. The only reason you’re interested is that you think that if you tweak it a smidge you’ll be able to use the case as a basis for a novel.”

“I have no intention of tweaking anything. All I want to do is take what has been a very high-profile case, write about it and feed it to a voyeuristic society.”

“God bless America.” He slid his car into a spot on the third floor and killed the motor without bothering to remove the keys from the ignition. He shifted in his seat so that he could fully appreciate the enormous mass of hair weighing down my head. “We’re going to have to pull it up in a braid thingy.”

“A braid thingy? I don’t get—”

“You don’t have to ‘get.’ Just sit back and let me prove my genius.” He pushed himself out of the car and came back seconds later armed with a wide-tooth comb, some ozone-depleting hairspray and a Tupperware container full of rubber hair bands and bobby pins.

Fifteen minutes later my hair was swept up into a sophisticated little braid and the few curls I had actually succeeded in creating were gently framing my face, keeping the look from going to severe. I examined myself in the side-view mirror. “I don’t care if you are gay, I still want to marry you. I’ll support you, do your laundry, turn my head when you bring home male companionship—all you have to do is my hair every day of the week and I’ll be satisfied.”

“Honey, the only thing I want to do every day of the week is Ricky Martin. Are you ready to eat?”

I took one last look at my reflection and allowed him to escort me to the restaurant across the street. We seated ourselves at the bar between a bearded man wearing a rather unfortunate Hawaiian shirt with pink palm trees on it and a woman who bore a disturbing resemblance to Prince, during his “formerly known as” period. Without bothering to look at the familiar menu, we ordered our prerequisite Cosmopolitans and a gourmet pizza to share. Marcus tugged gently on his locks as he watched the bartender mix our desired poison. “You’re still coming to Steve’s surprise party on Saturday, right?”

I nodded vigorously. “Like I’d miss an opportunity to eat chocolate cake. How’s he doing anyway? Any change?”

“His T-cell count has gotten ridiculously low, but he’s staying optimistic. He’s going to be so excited to meet you. He’s practically memorized every one of your books. I swear, girl, you are just the female John Grisham these days. Every client I have…”

Marcus’s voice faded into the background as I studied a man on the other side of the restaurant talking on his cell phone. Maybe the prank calls had come from a cell. That would mean that the person could have been watching the apartment while making the call. But I hadn’t heard any background noise, so they probably had come from someone’s home or—

“Sophie? Have you heard anything I’ve been saying?”

“Hmm? Oh yeah, of course. You were talking about Steve.”

“Yesss…about five minutes ago. What’s up with you?” He paused to order a second round.

“I’m sorry. There has just been some weird stuff happening.”

“Such as?”

“I’ve been getting prank calls. Five today. At least, five that I was home to answer.”

“Oh, I hate those. You know how you deal with them?”

“How?”

“Heavy breathing. As soon as you realize that the person is prank-calling, start breathing heavily into the receiver. Trips them up every time.”

“I’ll try that.” I swirled the remnants of my Cosmo. It must have been evaporating because there was no way I could have drunk it that fast. I thought I caught the pink-palm-tree guy casting me a disapproving stare. I swiveled my bar stool in Marcus’s direction. “So what made you want to go to tonight’s little shindig?”

A dimple materialized on his left cheek. “You know me. I am all about supporting up-and-coming young artists.”

I gave him a sideways glance. “Uh-huh. There was a picture of the artist on the invite?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“He’s cute?”

“Absolutely to die for.”

“He’s gay?”

“One can always hope.”

“But you don’t know. So it’s possible that I stand a chance.”

Marcus raised his glass in salute. “May the best man win.”

“Or woman.”

“Don’t bother me with semantics.”

We were presented with our pizza and I forced myself to wait until the bartender physically let go of the plate before tearing into it. Marcus must have been equally famished, because our conversation came to a halt as we devoured the pie at locust speed. I indicated to Marcus that he should eat the last piece. I was trying to lose five pounds and I had developed a kind of warped diet reasoning in which I don’t have to count the calories of the food I eat if somebody else finishes it. It doesn’t make sense but it does make me feel less guilty, so I choose to delude myself.

I sipped at my third drink while Marcus polished off our dinner. Alcohol was great for diets. If you drank enough of it, you didn’t feel guilty at all.

Marcus checked his watch and grimaced. “It’s almost eight. We want to be fashionably late but not late-late.” He signed the charge slip and waited impatiently for me to collect my purse and jacket before hurrying me out of the restaurant and into the parking garage.

“You know, there’s no way we’re going to find a parking spot within five miles of the gallery,” I said, “and the bus will practically take us to its door, plus it will be faster than looking for a—”

“Honey, you do not impress a man by showing up on a bus.” His tone relayed the sympathy he felt for any woman who was so misguided.

“You never know, I mean he is an artist, a.k.a. a liberal eccentric. Maybe he prefers public transportation for the sake of the environment, or maybe he likes to rub elbows with all us common people who don’t have cars or won’t drive them for fear of losing our parking spots.”

“Uh-huh.” He tapped the face of his faux Cartier. “You need to close those little Mac-painted lips of yours and get in the car.”

I grumbled some unflattering remarks and took my seat. I slipped my finger under the strap of my super-hip new platforms and caressed the forming blister. We would have to walk four city blocks at least—if we were lucky to even find parking.

When we finally did reach the gallery I was ready for a painkiller. Six blistering blocks. I peered through the crowd and eyed the little makeshift bar set up in the corner. Vodka always made a good pain reliever. Much more fun than ibuprofen.

Marcus shoved his wrist in front of my face. “See! I timed this perfectly. We are now officially fashionably late.”

“Just like the artist.” We turned to acknowledge a short little balding man who was standing close enough to eavesdrop. “Can you believe that this guy actually had the nerve to show up ten minutes late to his own opening? I know he’s all the rage right now, but he still needs to show us collectors a little respect. Don’t you agree?”

Marcus just stared at him blankly. Neither he nor I was a collector. We just wanted to pick up the artist. In the interest of furthering that goal, I asked the all-important question. “So which one is Balardi, anyway?”

I looked in the general direction of where the man was pointing. I put my hand on my chest and tried to keep from hyperventilating. “Marcus, do you see that?”

“Uh-huh, nobody could miss that, girlfriend.”

The disgruntled stranger took his cue and slunk away to complain to someone else, as Marcus and I watched, slack jawed, as Donato Balardi worked the room. His black wavy hair grazed his shoulders, Antonio Banderas–Zorro style. He was slender, but the well-defined pecs visible beneath his silk shirt prevented him from looking slight in any way. His dark Latin eyes surveyed the room until they finally focused on us.

“Oh my God, he’s coming this way!” Marcus dug his fingers into my arm. “I know he’s gay, I can just feel it.”

“No way,” I protested. “God wouldn’t be so cruel as to deprive the women of the world of something that beautiful.”

He was upon us. If I reached my hand out I could actually touch those pecs. I summoned up my last bit of willpower and moved my gaze upward to his face. Sensual smiling lips, tanned skin and brown searching eyes looking at…

Marcus.

“Welcome, I am Donato Balardi.”

Their handshake lasted way too long to be innocent.

Well, shit. Here it was, an enchanted evening: I had seen a stranger across a crowded room, he had walked to my side, and I was all set to make him my own—and instead he was coming on to my male hairstylist.

Sometimes I hated San Francisco.

Marcus and Donato (God, even their names sounded good together) were now fully engaged in some pseudo-conversation while they actively undressed each other with their eyes. I excused myself and headed for the bar—not that either of my two gentleman companions noticed. A friendly, relatively cute bartender (probably gay) greeted me.

“What can I get you this evening?”

“What cocktail has the highest alcohol content—?”

“Is this what you drink when you’re not consuming coffee milk shakes?”

I spun around. There, smiling down at me, was the sexy Frappuccino-bashing Neanderthal from Starbucks.