Halftones Apart

CHAPTER ONE | WES

"Welcome to the Café on Seventh," I say, greeting the couple who's walked up to the podium near the entrance. The girl is holding the guy's arm for dear life, and he has the cheesiest grin on his face. Seeing people in love makes my stomach roll. "Two?" My eyebrows arch at the question, bringing the sides of my mouth up with them into a fake smile.

They nod together, in unison, like they are two bodies joined into one. Fucking gag me now.

Taking two menus from the adjacent shelf, I motion for them. "Follow me this way." When I've reached their table, which is located at the back in the corner with a good view of the beach, I pull their chairs out and wait for them to sit before placing the menus in front of them. See, I'm not a complete son of a bitch. "Your server will be right with you." I walk away, shrugging and wondering how I got sucked into hosting today. Sometimes I think my father does shit like this on purpose just to piss me off, to let me know he owns me, and that my pay grade doesn't mean that I'm above the staff. If it weren't for my mother, I would have given up a long time ago, but I've always been a momma's boy, and the bistro was started by her grandparents. It's been in the family a long time, and she expects me to continue it. Even still, I think about opening my own place every day. Sometimes every minute, and on really bad days, it's the only thing that that goes through my mind every second.

The only good thing that comes from hosting at our new location here in the Oceanside Mall is people watching. It's always been one of my favorite pastimes. I've never been one to talk a lot, but more of an observer. There's a lot that can be learned from just looking at how others behave. Even when I'm not hosting, it's hard to not see what's going on outside the walls of this place. The entire front is windows. Cleaning them is a bitch, and my father makes me do that shit way too often too. The bistro is located just inside the main entrance.

I make my way back to the front of the restaurant glancing at where the center of the mall floor is open, so the lower level is visible. Benches situated side by side in front of the railings makes it logical to just watch the happenings below. It's amazing what people will do when they think no one is watching. Typically, I gaze through the windows as I pass by, even on the busiest of days, catching a glimpse of a screaming child in the midst of what I've named "the overstimulation tantrum" or the sound of laughter erupting and echoing through the building. Not this time, though. One, I'm not busy, and two, there's no passing by today. This is the second time my eyes have been drawn to her, as if she's a beacon of light shining down through the miles of water suffocating me. She's the light that briefly gives me the strength to swim towards the surface. What's yet to be determined is whether I have enough fight, enough oxygen left to get to her.

My eyes never leave her body. The same thoughts I had the first time I saw her yesterday crash into my mind like a wave slamming into a boulder of rocks. She is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life. Just like then, my feet are unable to move and the noise of the espresso machine, plates clashing together, and the chatter of the customers becomes a low hum. The other people move around in a blurred, slow motion. Everything in me wants to approach her, to offer her lunch so I can watch her pouty, nude lips chew food, suck from a straw. Imagine them around my cock. Get it the fuck together, Wesley. To gaze into her piercing navy blue eyes trying to see all the way down to her soul. Yeah, that sappy shit. But I can't because my legs feel like they have been chained around the ankles with a concrete block. And besides, I'm not interested in the sappy shit. In love. I'm interested in music and food. And fucking. Her.

Dammit.

That's where the problem with running this business for the rest of my life is. Dad won't even consider allowing an open mic night in this place. Instead, he chooses to play synthesized bullshit over a speaker. Clenching my fists by my side, my teeth start to grind. The number of times I've tried to explain what live music would do to the profit margins makes my head explode. I may not have a fuckin' college degree, but I've got brains. I know how to crunch numbers. He doesn't give a fuck about the profits. He's stuck in his own ways, and change isn't something he embraces. He also has zero respect for indie musicians. Somehow a label validates your worth. Without one, you're just a kid who wasn't good enough to cut it with the big boys. A wannabe. Second rate.