Puck: 1-9, S. G. Ricketts [classic books to read txt] 📗

It was late. The coffee shop held only a few stragglers as the clock ticked steadily closer to 9:00. I glanced at it, watched the second hand move infinitely slowly, then resumed my sweeping. Back and forth, back and forth. The door chimed and another one of my patrons left. Only three left. Dear god, let no one else come in. The trees outside were already bending in the wind from the coming snowstorm. The quicker they left, the sooner I could escape back home to my cat and my couch.

The espresso machines were silent, the blenders waiting in the sink. The door chimed again, and the last three left, their voices floating back to me as I cleaned. “Finally.” 8:58. I set the broom against the wall and sighed as I looked into the lobby. “Rebekkah’s Roasters” was a mess tonight. Coffee cups lay scattered across my tables, both porcelain and paper. Crumbles littered the spaces around them and napkins settled on the ground like the leaves outside. “Hasn’t anyone heard of a trash can?” Grumbling, I grabbed the trashcan closest and headed into the lobby. I glanced at the clock. 8:59. One more minute and I could turn off the sign.

The door chimed. Gritting my teeth, I turned. “We’re not--” He paused with his hand on the door, halfway in and halfway out. The wind caught the door and slammed it fully open. Quickly, he grabbed it and stepped inside. I stood up and smoothed my smock, completely caught off-guard. The man was tall, at least six feet, and slender, with a wool coat and a muted red and brown scarf wrapped around his neck. Those, though, were things I noticed after I pulled myself away from his face. His eyes entranced me, brightly blue in a face the color of cappuccino. A black ponytail flipped over his shoulder as he pulled the door shut. I struggled to find words. Rebekkah, you are closed. Even to beautiful strangers. I glanced at the clock. It was still 8:59. I was torn.

“I’m sorry, miss. Your sign was still on and I could desperately use a cup of coffee.” He smiled slightly and I immediately felt horrible for my thoughts. He stayed close to the door and I knew he expected me to kick him out.

Those eyes settled it. I’d always been a sucker for blue eyes, and with that skin? I grabbed the trashcan and hurried behind the counter. “No, don’t worry about it!” I smiled warmly at him, trying not to look the fool. “What can I get for you?” The register came to life under my fingers, all blue and gold and gray buttons under the touch screen monitor.

His face relaxed and he stepped fully into the room. I had the strangest feeling that he was something special, something not of this world. It was the same feeling I got at funerals and on stormy days, that feeling of something being...off. For a moment, he stared up at my menu, a small frown on his face. I shook off the feeling. He looked perfectly normal, minus the attractiveness. I rested my forearms on the register and waited. My eyes kept drifting to something behind him where the air seemed to shimmer, almost like a heatwave. I squinted, trying to figure out what it was. “I’ll have the white chocolate latte...” Hastily, I met his eyes. His frown deepened and he glanced over his shoulder.

I coughed and stared hard at my screen. “White chocolate latte, right. And what size would you like? We have a 12 oz, 16 oz, and 20 oz.” I tried to keep myself from looking at his back. That shimmer was doing weird things to my head. Then again, looking into those eyes was doing strange things to my heart.

He tapped his chin and I noticed a slender gold ring on his pinky finger. “Let’s go with the 20 oz. It’s cold outside; the warmth will do me good.”

I nodded and pressed the buttons. “$4.67, sir.”

White teeth flashed in a smile and I flushed up to my roots. “It’s James. ‘Sir’ is something you’d say to my father.” He pulled out a ten and slide it across the table. “Don’t worry about the change. It’s the least I can do for being such a late customer.”

I blinked and looked up at him. “Are you sure? I mean-”

“Just add a little extra whipped cream and we’ll be even.” James tapped the counter once and walked over to the nearest table. The lamp next to him outlined his body and I breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing was behind him. It was my imagination. He glanced up and met my eyes. “Do you mind if I stay until I’ve finished it. You closing doesn’t bother me, and I’d really prefer to stay warm a few minutes longer.”

I shrugged, slipping the ten into the register. “If it doesn’t bother you, it’s fine with me. I’ll still be closing up for a while anyway.” We settled into a comfortable silence and I focused on the latte. I flipped the switch on the espresso machine and reached underneath for my milk. Half and half over skim, I decided, and poured it into the steam cup. The hiss of the steamer was the only noise and I settled into the routine of the drink. Gently, I swirled the milk, thinking. Where could my mysterious James be from? India perhaps? No...he had definite European traits, and those eyes were anything but brown. Six squirts of white chocolate syrup, steamed milk, and finally the espresso. Maybe he was from somewhere else. The stir stick swirled brown up into the foamy milk, the aroma a heady mix of coffee, chocolate, and sweet. I finished it off with the biggest whipped cream swirl I could manage. “James, one white chocolate latte.” He grinned, set down his magazine, and stood. None of those questions were easily askable, so I settled on a much simpler one. “If I may ask, what are you doing that you’ll be outside in this weather?”

He popped a whipped cream covered finger into his mouth and we both glanced outside. Leaves spun crazily across the sidewalk, the first tiny flakes of the snowstorm falling. He shuddered. “Something I’d prefer not to do.” He took a sip of the drink and I waited, hand on my hip. If he could keep me open later, he could tell me a story I figured. His eyebrow rose in amusement. “Not enough for you?”

I flipped my cleaning rag over my shoulder and turned the espresso machine back off. “It just seems curious that someone would be purposely headed out into this mess. You know there’s a massive snowstorm coming, right?” I pulled the cord on my “open” sign and started pulling down the blinds.

He snorted. “I might ask you the same thing.”

I grinned. “I’m working. That’s different.”

He shrugged and took another sip, blue eyes following me as I headed back behind the counter. “I’m working, too.”

I almost thought he was teasing. I looked over my shoulder, a joke ready, only to see he was dead serious. He looked almost broody as he sat there, scarf cast jauntily over his shoulder and eyes unfocused as he sipped his latte. The mystery of this customer was irresistible. I leaned my broom against the counter and decided to indulge my curiosity. He jumped a little when I sat down across from him. For once, I wasn’t so fond of my choice in cheap leather comfy chairs. “Where do you work that you have to be outside in this?”

His eyes narrowed and he set his cup down. “Can you see them, Rebekkah?”

I blinked. “See what?” I turned, looking around the coffee shop. Was there something I was missing? And what a weird question! The coffee shop, though, was silent and entirely deserted. Bare red brick walls rose up around us, their sides lending to that rustic eclectic look I so loved. The comfy chairs were all askew, but no one sat in them. Shadows danced across the walls from my wall lamps and bar lights, but there was no one there. I turned back to him. “See what?” I repeated.

“Do you see the shimmer?”

I glanced behind him again and felt a shiver run down my back. “What...shimmer?” It was there, though. Faint in the soft glow of the lamp, but there all the same.

My guest sat forward and set his cup on the table. “Do you really want to know what I do, Rebekkah?” His stare was intense, dark eyebrows knitted together. I swallowed and nodded, not at all sure I did. What had walked into my shop? His eyes searched mine, and I suppose he found what he wanted. He sat back again, fingers drumming a little beat on his knee. “Have you heard of Puck?”

I rolled my eyes. “What’s with the crazy questions? All I asked was what you were doing.”

“All I’m doing is answering your question. Have you heard of Puck?”

I groaned and pulled out my ponytail, pulling fly-away hairs back into a tight bun. This guy was playing with me, and I had work to do. “Just like every other kid in America, I read A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream. I know who Puck was.”

It was his turn to look exasperated. “And I wondered why it’s getting so much harder... Bloody fool made my job down right impossible,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. He sighed. “Has anyone ever told you something you wouldn’t believe, and then it was proven to you?”

I snorted. “Yeah, when they told me this place was only $1000 a month.” His look darkened and I bit my lip. “What’s this about?”

“What’s today?”

“What’s with the twenty questions?” Huffily I stood and began collecting the garbage scattered around my coffee shop. “Lord, all I asked was a simple question.”

James loosened the scarf around his neck and laughed. The sound sent tingles down my body. I could almost believe this guy was some kind of magical being, aside from it being a completely insane idea. “To you it was a simple question. To me, who has no way to explain it, it is one of the most difficult questions.” I groaned and dumped my collection into the trash can. I felt like I was talking to a priest, and I wasn’t overly fond of them. Or their double answers, come to think of it. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. His tapping continued as he stared at the windows. Outside, bigger flakes had begun to fall. “Looks like the storm’s arrived. We might be here longer than I thought.”

“Lovely...” I heaved the bag out of the can and tied it deftly. “Well, since I still have an hour of closing and you still have your entire drink, I might as well listen to your Puck story. Maybe somewhere in there I’ll hear about what the hell you’re doing in this weather.” He watched me drag the trash past him. Stupid, beautiful, crazy man, making my brain get all fuzzy.

James tapped his cup. “Puck isn’t some mystical, magical fairy goat-man who plays with lover’s hearts and pokes people with flowers, you know.” The image was more than slightly amusing. “He’s a murderer of love and a twister of fates. Shakespeare got at least that much right. Without Puck, those four would have had completely different fates. Of course, he would have much more likely left them all tangled in their own mess. Then again, flowers are an incredibly feminine way to go about things.”

I rolled my eyes from behind the counter, glad he couldn’t see me. “And what would you use? Arrows like Cupid?” I grabbed the other two trash bags and stalked into the