(coffee's for closers)

chapter one

When I walked into that stupid fucking coffee shop, I didn't think anything out of the ordinary was going to happen.
I stood in line behind a sharply dressed brunette waiting for her latte and croissant. She jabbered on her cell phone, one hand clamped over her ear and the other busy twirling a silky curl. They bounced when she stepped forward in line.
Nice ass, too.
I probably should've tried to get her phone number, but honestly, I had other things on my mind. I listened distractedly to the barista flirt; she was a slim redhead who laughed too much and took too long with the change. I cradled my coffee and paid her with one hand, mumbling an excuse about being in a hurry so she would stop hitting on me. I hurriedly shoved a nickel and two quarters into the tip jar stashed on the counter and pocketed the two bucks change. Head down, I scoped out the crowded seating area for a secluded place to sit. With a relieved sigh, I spotted my destination and threaded my way through the full tables to a two-seater in the back. I slumped into the rickety wooden chair and set my coffee on the table. I ran a hand through my hair. I paused and shook my head slightly at myself. I really should stop worrying about how my hair looks. I'm a dude, for fuck's sakes.
But anyway.
I snapped the lid off my coffee, blowing softly on the steam riding out of the cup. It took me a long minute to actually notice the pale blonde kid sitting across from me. He looked a little confused. He was staring at me, so I carefully sat my cup down and matched his stare. When did he get there, anyway? After a second, he tilted his head like a tragically lost puppy and opened his mouth to talk.
"What.." He started, still a little dazed, "are you doing here?"
He blinked.
I shrugged. "Drinking coffee? Or do you mean in the universe? Because I think that's a pretty well researched question still unanswered, and I'm not sure why you'd ask me. I'm pretty unqualified to answer that." He was still staring at me like I had two heads. Fuck, was my hair sticking up? My hand shot up to search for flyaways as he searched for an answer. His eyes swept my face for an indication of how to answer, but I kept my expression carefully blank. What's the harm in messing with him a little?
He took a deep breath and eyed me wearily. "My name's Patrick."
"Pete," I said after a second, extending my hand. (If he was going to put up with my shit, he might not be as naive as he looked.) He gratefully shook it and seemed to relax. "Patrick" looked and sounded like the type of guy who followed etiquette and held doors open for old ladies.
I had a sudden and strange urge to impress him.
His eyes roamed the tattoos lacing my forearms and he raised an eyebrow. I started to panic as the thought of offending him somehow crossed my mind, and tugged a sleeve down. Idiot. I winced and cursed under my breath for good measure, and then regretfully hoped he didn't hear. I instantly shoved that idea down, because he smirked a little and sunk back into the chair, holding his cup of coffee to his lips. Wait.
"That's mine," I protested, as he took a sip.
His eyebrows scrunched and he glanced down at the cup. "No it isn't. It's mine. Hazelnut, no cream, sugar."
I shook my head and raised a finger to point at the cardboard. "Pete" was drawn in loopy letters on the side in sharpie, along with (embarrassingly enough) the redhead's cell phone number and an invitation to call her. As if.
He choked slightly and shoved the cup back over to my side of the table. "Oh, man, I'm sorry dude. I honestly thought.." He stammered, cheeks going red. (I couldn't tell how old he was. Probably no more than two or three years younger than me, but the cautious attitude made him look younger.)
I smirked and nudged his forearm lightly. "Hey, don't worry about it," I shrugged. "I don't want it anyway." He settled a little, then fixed me with another confused glance.
"Why not?" He asked cautiously, and gave a wary glance at the cooling liquid. "Is there something wrong with it?"
"No, no," I laughed. "I just don't want that barista's number."
"Well, why not?" He asked, getting even more confused and throwing a concerned glance to the bar. "Is there something wrong with HER?"
I chuckled and rubbed my jaw. How to explain this without scaring him off. "Not exactly.." I said slowly. He didn't say anything, so I continued. "Well. Usually I'm not into redheads. Mostly I go for brunettes and blondes." He nodded, and I paused. "And occasionally I go for guys.." He choked on my lukewarm coffee and furiously wiped at his face with a napkin as a blush crept up his neck. "Oh." he nodded, a little forcedly.
Why I was telling this to the cute stranger, I had no fucking clue.
He crumpled the napkin and squinted at some spot just over my shoulder.
"So," he said slowly, "Does that mean you're..bi? Or something? Or?" He refused to meet my eyes and scrambled for something in his pocket. Great. I freaked him out and he was calling his mom to come save him.
"Yeah," I exhaled in defeat. "It does." I ignored him as he fumbled with my now-empty cup and instead gazed out the window. Fucked another chance up. Fucking perfect. I saw Patrick stand nervously out of the corner of my eye. He swallowed. I looked over my shoulder at him.
"I.." He started apologetically, "I should probably go." I nodded sullenly and waited for him to leave, but he stayed rooted to the floor in front of me. I looked up at him again. He was twirling the empty coffee cup in his hands. Quickly, he looked from me, to the cup, and back to me. "Um," he tried. "Here's your uh. Coffee. I'm sorry about the redhead." He handed me the empty cup and scurried out of the shop. I watched as he crossed the street and cast a glance over his shoulder at the shop. I glanced down at the cup in my hands, and made a move to throw it out, when I noticed the redhead's loopy numbers crossed out in blue pen. Underneath were seven new numbers and a message: "If you ever want to discuss our place in the universe.."