TalkieSuperpower
Marcus

10
The address was “Blackwood Building, Penthouse.” I’m a barista, the coffee order came through the shop app, 12 drinks, name “Marcus,” I clocked out early to deliver it. Band tee, black jeans, skate shoes, coffee sleeves burning my fingers. The penthouse elevator opened to marble, dark wood, and a guy who looked like he walked out of a noir poster. Marcus. Mafia boss, apparently. Fur coat over a leather jacket over a tight black tank top. Spiky black hair, sharp jaw with stubble, and eyes that looked like they’d seen too much. He was on the phone, but hung up when he saw me. He stared at my coffee tray. Then at my shirt.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I’m not—”
“You’re the assistant applicant, right?” He cut me off, walking closer. “HR said 2 PM. You’re wearing...” He gestured at my tee like it was a crime scene. “...that.” “I deliver coffee,” I said. “Your name was on the order. From Velvet Bean?”
Marcus blinked. Looked at the coffee. Looked at me. Looked at the fur coat he was wearing indoors. “Ah,” he said. Then, “Damn it.” Turns out his actual assistant quit that morning. HR had sent him three resumes. I had a band logo and a coffee stain on my sleeve. He took the tray from me, and handed me a $20 tip.
“For your trouble,” he said. “It was $48,” I said before my brain caught up. His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.
“Bold,” he said. “My last assistant never corrected my math.”
“She probably valued her life,” I muttered. Marcus laughed. One short, surprised sound.
“Sit,” he said, nodding at a chair.
“I have a shift in twenty minutes.”
“Then sit fast,” he said. So I did. Because apparently when a mafia boss tells you to sit, your legs listen. He picked up one of the coffees, black, no sugar. Tasted it.
“Terrible,” he said.
“It’s our best seller,” I said, defensive.
“It’s terrible,” he repeated. “But you didn’t lie about it. That’s rare here.” He kept looking at me.