“What’s the question every woman wants to be asked, at least once in her life?”
I stop wiping the counter and look at Harper like she’s lost her mind. Because she probably has. Everything that comes out of her mouth never ceases to amaze me. And usually has me stunned into silence while blushing profusely.
I steel myself and guess, knowing I have a 1% chance of being right. “‘Will you marry me?’”
My co-worker rolls her eyes. “I love you too, but no. Why can’t a man simply ask, ‘Do you want me to come over and eat your pussy till you come on my face?’”
“I think I’m having a stroke,” I wheeze.
She grins at me, her green eyes bright and her expression feral. “All I’m saying is, if a guy ever asks me that, I’d totally marry him. After sitting on his face.”
Harper gets me every time. I don’t know why I even try to maintain my composure, but I suppose it’s the way I was raised. You can’t be a senator’s daughter and not be aware of how you’re being viewed by the public.
At all times.
I lift my hand to tuck a loose tendril behind my ear, only to recall I braided my hair to keep it out of my face. Still needing the mental satisfaction that comes from managing my appearance, I lower my arm and run my fingers over the pearl necklace hidden under my t-shirt. The smooth, round shapes, familiar and uniform, have me breathing out slowly, my flustered state dissipating.
Harper turns at the sound of the door opening and greets the customer as if she didn’t just say something outrageous to me. “Hey there, Mr. Bailey. How’s it going today?”
The elderly man nods once, shuffles up to the counter, and plants his wrinkled hands on the surface. He stares up at the menu, his forehead creasing in thought. As if he doesn’t order the same thing every day. “I think I’ll have the blueberry muffin and a coffee. Black.”
Harper grabs a cup and scribbles his name on it. “Sure thing.”
I walk over to the display and slide the glass door open. After grabbing the largest muffin with a set of tongs, I put it in a bag and set it in front of the register. A few keystrokes later, I give Mr. Bailey his total. He hands me the necessary bills, and I arrange them in the till, all facing up with the serial numbers in the same direction.
“If these muffins weren’t the finest in the city, I swear I’d never come back here,” the man grumbles.
He’s not wrong. I think the pastries at the Sugar Cube are the best, and they’re the reason I haven’t starved to death. How can I when my boss lets me eat whatever I want when I’m clocked in?
“Here’s your change,” I say. “Have a good day.”
Then I pump hand sanitizer onto my palm and spread it all over my hands.
Money is disgusting. And I mean that in every way possible. That doesn’t stop me from needing it.
Mr. Bailey huffs and takes his items, heading to the corner seat, where today’s paper sits on the table. As it does every day. He settles in the chair and takes the newspaper, but not before shooting me a glance. After a curt nod to thank me, the man’s gaze leaves mine to absorb the ink on the page.
“So, where were we?” Harper asks.
I hold up my hands in mock surrender, the lemon scent from the sanitizer tickling my nostrils. “I don’t want to continue that conversation.”
“You’re lucky someone else just walked in,” she whispers. “Welcome to the Sugar Cube,” Harper says at a normal volume to the newcomer. “What can I get for you this fine morning?”
The man’s gaze zeroes in on me and I flag him down with a small wave. “He’s here for me,” I say to Harper.
“In what capacity?” She eyes the man without an ounce of shame, taking in his casual attire and blank expression. “Business or pleasure?”
“Business.”
“Could be both.”
I blow out a breath of exasperation. “No, it isn’t. Hopefully, this won’t take long.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she says, waving a hand in dismissal. “It’s all good until the brunch rush.”
I remove my apron, signaling I’m on break, and wipe my clammy hands on my jeans. “Good morning, Mr. Calvin. Right this way please.”
The man follows me to the set of chairs that are furthest from Mr. Bailey. And Harper. She might be my best friend—my only friend—but the details of my father’s murder aren’t something I want to discuss with anyone. I can barely process the crime myself, and it’s been four weeks since I buried him. And hired this private investigator.
“Did you find anything new?” I ask, lowering my voice and leaning forward.
The man shakes his head. “This case is turning out to be more difficult than I expected. With your father being a high-profile politician, I knew there would be a lot to dig through to uncover the truth. However, everything’s been buried so deep I’m not sure I can find the person responsible for his death.”
My heart cracks, and the fractured pieces fall, hitting my ribcage before settling in my gut. “My father was the only family I had. I need to find out what happened to him. Please, help me bring his killer to justice.”
I blink back tears while the man scratches his chin. “Miss Green…” he begins.
“Call me Calista.” I force a smile. My father always said that in order to humanize yourself to people, you had to break down social barriers and make them see the flesh and blood person underneath. “We’ve been working together for several weeks now, and I really appreciate all the effort you’ve put into this so far.”
That “effort” has taken every single dime I own. My father’s name might’ve been cleared in court, but his debts haven’t. Between paying off his legal fees and hiring this man to look into his untimely demise, I’m one breath away from living on the streets.
Ironic, since I used to volunteer at a children’s shelter.
“There is one avenue of inquiry I could look into,” the man says, “but that would require you to retain my services for another month.”
I smooth my features, struggling to keep my panic from showing. “Last month’s payment wasn’t enough to cover this? Especially considering you haven’t discovered anything new?”
“Miss Green, I’m paid based on my time, not on results I have no control over.”
“I understand. Do you think I could pay you at the end of the month?” When his brows lift and his mouth thins, I hold out my hands in supplication. “I’ve already picked up more hours at this place, and I’ve applied for other jobs as well. I just need time to get the money. That’s all.”
The man fixes me with a look that has my spine straightening. “You’re aware of my policy,” he says. “Payment upfront. Non-negotiable.”
His sharp tone cuts me like flint, sparking my anger. I narrow my gaze. “How do I know for sure you’re actually searching for clues? Maybe you’re just taking my money and doing absolutely nothing.”
He gets to his feet. “Should you change your mind or obtain the necessary funds, you have my information. Goodbye, Miss Green.”
I stare up at him, torn between begging for his help and letting him walk away. In the end, I bite my lip and stay seated. I simply don’t have the money, and no amount of crying will change that. However, the idea of not making progress on my father’s murder has a sour feeling growing in my stomach.
Whoever killed my father took everything from me. Not just a loving parent, but my security, financial and physical. As well as my future.
Harper plops herself in the vacant chair across from me, her gaze clouded with worry. “That was definitely business, and not pleasure,” she says. “Are you okay?”
“Honestly? I don’t know.”
“Do you want a cake pop? Those always seem to cheer you up.”
I shake my head.
“Damn,” she says, sucking in a breath. “Whatever you talked about must’ve been serious if you don’t want a cake pop. Did that asshole threaten you or something?”
I shake my head again. “He didn’t have the information I wanted, and I don’t have enough money to continue hiring him.”
“A private investigator. Figures. He’s so cliché with the long trench coat and whatever.” Her nose wrinkles in disgust. “As if that’ll help him be a better detective.”
I give her a sad smile. “It’s the middle of winter and freezing outside. Most of the guys that come in here are wearing them.”
“You won’t change my mind. He’s a loser.” She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Forget him.”
“I’ll have to for now.”
If only I could ignore my guilt as well.
