"Yup."
"With prize money?"
"Yup."
"Your friends dared you to do it, didn't they?"
"Yup."
How did he even know about that? Cassidy wondered as she continued to avoid his gaze by wiping down the counter.
"You don't say much, do you?" Tristan declared with a laugh.
"And you ask too many questions," Cassidy replied just as quickly.
"You have a beautiful face. One of the most captivating I've ever seen. And I think you're editing much of what you're telling me," Tristan fired back.
Was he some sort of mind-reader?
"Tristan, all you need is to leave me a dollar tip. Coffee is free. Flattery is optional. Besides, I have a mirror at home and know my looks are average at best. I have no expectations of landing a magazine cover, you know," Cassidy answered deprecatingly.
Tristan flashed her a look as if he didn't believe what he was hearing. He shrugged his shoulders as if some inner voice was telling him something was unique or different about this girl.
"One more question. I promise it will be the last one, and then I'll leave," he swore.
Cassidy felt a slight pang of disappointment at the thought. It wasn't everyday that a handsome stranger came by the shop after closing time and peppered her with questions. Told her she was beguiling with a captivating face. Flattery always felt good, even if she knew it wasn't necessarily true. Besides, this whole situation was so transient. She'll never see him after tonight.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" Tristan bluntly asked.
Cassidy was taken by surprise. She was fully expecting him to ask a thought-provoking question, like what her goals were in life or her opinion on the economic climate. She laughed at his unexpected query.
"Honestly? That's your last question? I was expecting something more profound, like where I see myself five years down the road."
"I'd like to hear that too, but I promised it was my last question. So … maybe next time?" Tristan smiled, his face alight with his gorgeous eyes locked on to hers. "Now, about that boyfriend?"
Cassidy's brow rose slightly. Did he just say "maybe next time?" She stood speechless and trying to regain her composure.
"So? Boyfriend? Yes? No?" Tristan prodded her with a grin.
"No boyfriend, and, yeah, maybe next time," was all Cassidy could manage to reply.
Tristan stood up and Cassidy took it to mean the interview was over. She bent over the counter searching for the door keys.
"Thanks, Cassidy. This was the highlight of my day," Tristan remarked before he turned around and walked slowly out the door.
Cassidy felt an unexpected moment of sadness at seeing him go. For some strange reason, the coffee shop suddenly felt empty. She shrugged away the thought and reached for the mug he used. It was sitting atop a crisp five hundred dollar bill.
"What the fuck … ?" Cassidy gasped, reaching for the bill and running to the door in hopes of catching Tristan. However, she found the streets empty except for a silver BMW that was turning a corner.
Cassidy stood in shock, staring at the bill in her hand. Where could he have gone so quickly, and why would he leave her such a huge tip? Shit. Five hundred dollars couldn't possibly be categorized as a tip, could it? Tristan had definitely struck her as a bit eccentric, so did he really mean to leave such a large denomination? She'd hoped he hadn't foolishly left a five hundred dollar bill instead of the five dollar bill he'd intended.
She reentered the coffee shop, grabbed her notebook and purse, and turned off all the lights as routine. She locked the door and stood by the sidewalk, waiting for the bus that was rounding the corner. She'd think about this later when she was back in her apartment in Queens. She had to admit, this was one of those nights she'd certainly never forget.
Chapter Two
When she got back to her apartment, Cassidy was too tired to have much of an appetite. She threw off her coat and headed into the bedroom where she slipped into her favorite pajamas. Back in the kitchen, she forced herself to eat some leftover lasagna she found in the refrigerator as she mulled over the disarray of her personal life.
Her main concern was her mom. Cancer. The very word brought chills. It was like a death sentence. Her mom, so caring and good natured, struck by an inexplicable disease. Her dad, just as loving in his own way; driving Mom to her appointments, making certain her medications were correct and on time, and all the little things Cassidy knew he did.
She felt a wave of homesickness. Warm, caring, safe home with people who loved her and would do anything for her. But, the reality was there were no decent jobs there anymore now that the paper mill had closed down. She was doing her part sending money from her two jobs to help with the medical expenses.
Her two jobs. She loved the café. Ron was a great boss, and although the work was physically demanding it was still fun. And the people! She loved the majority of the clientele. She liked interacting with them, and even though they didn't know it, they helped feed her notebook.
She wrote down snippets of conversation and physical descriptions. She even collected names. She liked to play with them combining first and last names, then creating characters based on those "new" name combinations. Perhaps this is why she felt a mild attraction and curiosity towards the mysterious Tristan who'd tipped her so generously. They both seemed to have a fascination with observing people.
Her second job, the one she purposely avoided telling Tristan about, was very different indeed. She was there solely to make money, and that was it. She was in charge of screening applicants at a local escort service, and she was well aware that it lingered in the gray area between prostitution and legitimate business.
Theoretically the girls, who were all young and gorgeous, were only there to provide companionship and conversation to men looking for temporary companionship. Sometimes they'd accompany the men to dinner, a cocktail party, or even the opera, but in the end all these men wanted was a good looking woman dangling on their arm for the evening.
Cassidy knew that many, no … most, of the girls provided "extra" services not listed with the agency and whatever they earned was theirs to keep. No money was split with bodyguards or the agency, it was all their own and was to be kept as hush-hush as possible. While she tried her hardest not to look down her nose at these girls, Cassidy could never bring herself to offer her body to some strange man no matter what he was willing to pay. She needed an emotional connection to go with the sex. To her, it wasn't just a physical act but a deeply intimate and personal one. It would never be a commodity to barter as far as she was concerned.
She'd had a boyfriend in Alabama back in high school and he was her first love. They had kissed and engaged in some heavy petting, but hadn't gone all the way. Since she'd come to New York she'd met and dated several men, and even had sex with a couple. One ended in a disastrous fight when she discovered she was one in a long line of many, and the other just didn't hold up over time. They drifted apart. They ran into each other from time to time and remained friendly, but neither actively tried to stay in touch.
She rinsed her plate and fork, grabbed her notebook and a pen out of her bag, and headed back to her bedroom. She turned on the lamp by the bed, placed the notebook and pen on the nightstand, and made her way into the bathroom for her nightly ablutions and tooth brushing.
Now was her time - the time she kept secret. Someday she hoped to be a successful writer, and a well-known one at that. Each night before she went to sleep, she cleared her mind and dove into her notebook.
She started with some name play. Chelsea De'Ath. There was one for a gothic tale, but that wasn't her genre. She liked real people and made sure the characters she sketched were modeled after them. No gothic tales, zombies, ghosts, witches, or aliens … just real people. People like her. Ordinary people leading ordinary lives who got themselves into unusual situations.
Easily the most unusual thing that had happened to her today was the handsome stranger who knocked on the door after closing: Tristan. Aside from Brad Pitt, he was also a Knight of the Round Table as he certainly looked heroic. She started scribbling in her notebook.
Tristan Williams placed the nozzle back on the tank and turned his mahogany face toward Jake.
"Okay, mister. That's sixty dollars for the tank, and forty-five for your portables."