It's nearing midnight when he shows up. He nods in my direction and hastily makes his way over to his usual spot; the overstuffed armchair in the back corner. It's a rather tatty looking chair, I probably should have thrown it out years ago, but I simply can't bring myself to be rid of it. That chair has a history. At this point his ass print is probably permanently molded into the comfortable foam batting. I should set a reserved sign on it and save it just for him.
Rick's back on the night shift.
He wears sloppy, unkempt clothes and orders copious amounts of caffeine; excessive even for him. The scruff is back, highlighting the angles of his face, the strong jawline. It's a nice bonus for me, but probably a bad sign for him.
He and I will never be anything more than friends, once having awkwardly started and swiftly halted something almost fifteen years ago, but still, I'm not opposed to a little eye candy. And even on his worst days, with the faded jeans, ratty shirt and three day old beginnings of a beard, the man is a looker. He catches me appreciating his assets as he turns and settles into the chair and I throw him a wink before going about making his cappuccino.
The spark is gone from his eyes, he barely even acknowledges me, and I'm beginning to worry about him. Even after the Kyra affair, it had only been a month or so before he'd thrown himself head first back into life. Sure, he'd overindulged in alcohol and pretty blondes at first, but at least he'd tried.
It was the incident involving the police horse and an exuberant display of nudity that had finally jolted him firmly back into reality. I had hoped it wouldn't come to down to petty misdemeanors again but if this is the alternative...
Then again, while the horse incident and the endless ribbing had been entirely entertaining on my part, I truly did feel for him and the ensuing guilt he had felt. The fiasco still haunted him in the tabloids and I'd once caught the tail end of a conversation with Alexis, giving him hell and demanding apologies, after a school friend had brought it up and felt the need to goad her for her dad's transgressions.
I hope he has a plan, because I am all out of ideas and watching him like this is becoming painful.
He's stopped shadowing his detective and he hasn't been willing to give up any details on the split. It's been two months and he's spent almost every night hunched over his laptop like a man possessed. He's writes furiously, slamming the keys a little too hard while his left leg jiggles up and down in a disjointed rhythm.
I'd suggested a nice soothing cup of chamomile tea a few days ago, hoping to ease some of the nervous wiggling and to soothe my frayed nerves. Also, to maybe coax a little information out of him. It hadn't gone down particularly well. He'd seen right through my intentions and thrown me a warning glare and a stern "No".
Smartly, I'd backed off and instead made him yet another large cappuccino. I'd placed a still-warm, freshly baked muffin alongside it, hoping to at least provide some semblance of nutrition; banana with chocolate-chips, his favorite. Not exactly a wholesome meal but at least something to sop up the coffee and stave off an ulcer. He'd thrown me a tight-lipped smile of thanks and resumed to the frenzy of tapping at the keyboard. The muffin had disappeared and I'd smiled to myself, happy to be able to provide at least some minor semblance of help.
Tonight, I sit across from him, watching. I had silently brought him his coffee and didn't even bother to attempt with social niceties. He'll come out of his funk sooner or later, I've decided. Eventually, he'll be contrite, apologize for being an ass and thank me for my never-ending supply of java. I can wait.
It's been three hours and I've only had four other customers. Quick takeout orders, leaving me plenty of time to watch him. While his current state of mind is troubling, I envy his seemingly never ending supply of words. I struggle sometimes to even write a page and if I were to guess, I'd say he's written at least two chapters since he sat down earlier.
The shop has been quiet as of late but it's not surprising. Hot summer nights lend themselves more to cool lemonades, iced tea, or frozen concoctions doused in rum, rather than to steaming caffeinated beverages and baked goods. It's pretty much been just me and him burning the midnight hours for the last month or so, punctuated by the occasional patron stumbling in for a cup of drip to try and negate the effects of too much alcohol.
It's my favorite time of year, even if it is a little hard on the finances.
I've caught up on all the books I'd put off reading over the winter and have even written some of my own material. Quite a lot, actually. My novel is coming along nicely. After years of procrastination, I've finally settled on one of my ideas. I've focused and set out a time each day to write; I've gotten into the habit and it feels good. My book is a historical fiction involving a well-off but aloof family and the dynamics of five sisters and their struggles to become women; their love lives, heartbreak, and the atrocities of World War II.
One of these days, I might get the nerve to show it to him. Soon, I hope. Before I lose myself again to the daily grind of running my own business.
As soon as the first nip of fall air begins to settle into the city, my little shop will once again be overrun with patrons, desperate for the warmth and the comforting aroma of deep-roasted beans. The smooth and even-textured liquid will once again travel down their throats and into their veins. Their relapse from only the morning fix will again dive into all-out addiction, assuring that the Hut lives to serve another year. Soon, my coffers will overflow, and I might just start on the renovation endeavor I've been putting off for the last few years.
"Done!" he exclaims abruptly.
It sends a jolt to my nerves, breaking me out of my reverie. I find myself daydreaming and spacing out more often than I'd care to admit. It must be the old age; I'll be forty-three this year. Sometimes it's hard to believe that I'm not the sprite, young, twenty-two year old I had been when we first met.
"The book?" I inquire, trying to hide my surprise at his sudden outburst.
"Mhmm," he grins enigmatically, stretching his long arms and leaning back into the chair.
It's a full and genuine smile. One I have seen far too little of recently.
Maybe they are correct when they say that writing is a form of therapy. He looks lighter than I've seen him in months.
I feel it myself when life's small troubles pile up and the familiar sense of melancholy begins to set in. A day spent with a fresh journal, scratching down my random thoughts or, if lucky, even a new chapter of my novel, never fails to lift my mood. The simple act of putting it out there, reading it, re-reading it, and realizing that in the grand scheme of things, my troubles are not worth all the angst I've assigned to them.
I'm glad that the savage pace he has set for himself seems to have had the same effect for him. It's as though he's been hit by a magic wand, the wrinkles that had made a permanent place on his brow easing and smoothing out a touch. A slight hint of a smile plays across his lips; he has something on his mind.
"What?" I ask.
A devilish smirk slowly transforms into a full-on grin and his voice is light and happy when he speaks. "I have a standing offer from Cosmo for an interview once the book is finished. And now it is."
He cracks his knuckles and places the laptop confidently onto the table beside him. "They want a look behind-the-scenes. Heard about my stint with the N.Y.P.D. and want a look inside there as well."
Oh God, I know exactly where he is going with this. This is most likely a terrible plan. Is this the best he's got?
"A little prodding from the mayor and she will have to take me back."
"Are you sure forcing yourself back into her life is a good idea, Rick?"
"Never been more sure of anything, Jess. Trust me, she won't be able to resist my charms."
"Mhmm..." I'm doubtful to say the least.
"She'll take me back. You'll see."
He states it with such certainty, and while I'm happy that the Rick I know and love is back, I'm not too sure it's going to be all that easy.
I scoff as he begins to pack away his belongings. It seems she's been doing a pretty good job of resisting so far.
I'm actually a little in awe of this woman I have yet to meet.
I had thought that Rick had perfected the art of the conquest. Watching him squirm over this one has been a welcome change and a comforting revelation that there is still hope for my gender. The never-ending parade of women on his arm had sometimes become a little disheartening. He rarely acted past a first date and a promise to call that he seldom kept, but the women were all too eager and ever so vapid.
I find myself rooting for Rick and this detective, if for no other reason than the fact that she is not one of them.
"Yeah, well.. Just don't push too hard, Rick. I don't want to see you get hurt and it seems as though you've already hurt her, even if you won't tell me any of the details. Just… take it slow, yeah?"
Don't mess this one up, I try to convey with a pointed glare.
He cocks his head slightly to the side, considering. Finally, he nods. But the spark is still there behind the thoughtful gaze. He's definitely not going to back out of this Cosmo plan.
I hope to hell he knows what he's doing.
"You want a coffee before you go?" I ask, making no effort to actually rise. My feet ache, I'm dead tired and it's another two hours until my relief is due to arrive. I yawn, adding in a little bit of melodramatic flair; patting my mouth around the yawning and stretching my legs languidly.
"Don't get up," he says, catching on to my obvious ploy. "I got it."
I smirk at him and watch as he expertly handles the espresso machine, glad that I have passed on this knowledge during our years together.
"Don't forget the.."
"Honey, I know." He cuts me off, dramatically shudders and makes a gagging motion with two fingers in his mouth.
"How you drink this crap is beyond me," he says of my new, favorite concoction.
I generally agree with him; that sweetening the fine grounds is something slightly akin to sacrilege. But I'd begun drinking it a few months previously, the Store That Shall Not Be Named having run a summer special on it. Being on the other end of town and needing a fix, they were my closest stop and the sign advertising a 'honey latte' had lured me in. I'd ordered the drink not knowing what to expect but curious, certain that I'd find the brew revolting.
I find the syrups that a lot of my customers prefer to be sickeningly sweet and often find myself wondering why they bother with coffee at all. They could grab a Coke for half the price and receive just as much sugar and caffeine.
Not that I'll actually tell them that. The 'froufrou' drinks make up a good half of my business. A girl has got to eat after all.
That first sip, pure honey and perfectly steamed foam had been delicious. Not as cloying as a syrup, the natural sweetener had accented rather than obscured the brew. I had begrudgingly accepted that Starbucks might be onto something. My second sip however, had been a complete disappointment. The barista had explained to me that since the honey had a tendency not to dissolve evenly in the coffee, they used a syrup for the drink and pure honey only as a drizzle on the foam. Once the foam had ended, so too had my delicious experience.
So while Rick had spent the summer alternating between writing and generally being in a bad mood, I had spent those same nights perfecting the honey latte.
"Don't knock it until you try it," I reply. "And don't forget to…"
"Warm the honey in a beaker of hot water while the espresso brews. I know."
Good, it seems he's been paying some attention after all.
"You need it really runny or it will clump."
He rolls his eyes, a new habit, but complies with my request.
"Picky, picky, picky," he huffs as he finishes making the drink and walks over to set the cup down in front of me.
"Thanks," I smile, testing the brew. It's perfect, of course.
"No. Thank you, Jess."
"For what?" I reply absently, delighting in the drink. "You did all the work. This is good by the way." I gesture to the cup.
"For the summer." he says seriously, his voice deep, washing over me like an embrace.
His eyes are warm and sincere, melting my heart just a little. I really do wonder how this lady detective can resist him.
"Anytime, Ricky boy," I grin, pleased to have helped him, even if it only entailed actually doing my job. Making coffee and providing him with a comfortable silence wasn't really much of a sacrifice. "You can repay me the usual way. First edition. Signed and sitting in my lap, as soon as possible."
"I'll do you one better," he states, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, blue stick. "Heat Wave, finished and ready for the editor."
He waves it cheekily around my face, pulling it away as I make a grab for the thumb drive.
"You want?" he smirks.
"If you don't want me to collect on all those comps, you had better hand that over right this minute!" I cry petulantly.
"Not a soul..." he says, as he hands it over with a smile.
"Pfft, as if anyone would want to read this garbage anyway," I say, quickly rising, pocketing the drive and shuffling him towards the door.
The sooner I can get rid of him, the sooner I can start reading.
"You wound me!" he cries as he opens the front door of the shop. A blast of sticky air assaults me and I wish this damn summer would be over with already. It's barely dawn, the sky a mixture of deep blue, green and gold, and already it's stifling outside.
"You wound me," I retort, "When have Iever? I would never let anyone see…"
I huff and puff, only slightly insulted that he would imply that I would let anyone get a hold of the copy, yet milking it for all it's worth. I am not above sending him on a guilt trip every so often. Besides, he knows me better than that and he must pay.
"I know, I know," he chuckles, kissing me lightly on the cheek. "You're one of the few that I do trust. Don't ever forget that, Jess."
I get that warm and fuzzy feeling, one that only he and his genuine sincerity, his fierce sense of loyalty, can provide. All my plans of needling him for a while before he leaves fade swiftly away as he pulls me in for a hug. He proceeds to pat me on the head like I'm a small child and suddenly I get the distinct feeling he's gained the upper hand.
"Good luck with Detective Beckett." I state, pulling out of his arms and poking him in the chest.
"Thanks," he grins, all confidence and certainty in his powers of persuasion. "But I won't need it."
"Oh, you'll need it," I smirk.
He rolls his eyes but I see a distinct flash of anxiety flit across those baby blues.
Upper hand squarely back in my court, I push him out the door so I can get started on Heat Wave.
Oh looky here, another update. I really am spoiling you guys. This chapter got one hell of an update and almost doubled in size. Perhaps KBex needs to make an appearance soon?
You guys are simply the sauciest of awesomesauce. I'm so glad that people are reading this this time around. Thank you to my FB gals for prodding me to try again. You all rock!