Brain Storm by Cat Gilbert (ebook reader computer .txt) 📕

and hasn’t figured out his order by the time he gets to the front? This guy. That’s who. I wanted to smack him on the back of the head and knock some sense into him. I thought we were making progress until he couldn’t decide whether or not he wanted whipped cream. I felt my eyes narrow into slits as I shot imaginary daggers at his back. MAKE UP YOUR MIND!

Finally, he opted for the cream. Bad choice. He ordered my drink - white chocolate mocha. It was my once-a-day treat and the perfect start to my work day. Full of flavor, yummy milky goodness and loaded with calories. Adding whipped cream was just redundant in my opinion, and here he had wasted a good 10 seconds making the wrong decision.

He turned around, and I decided to forgive him. Maybe. From the back, he looked like a normal guy, but from the front, there was a definite resemblance to Denzel. The Denzel. As he turned around, he caught me looking at him. I must have still looked irritated because he had the decency to look a little contrite. Well, okay then. Maybe I had been a little harsh in my condemnation. I could cut him some slack. If I had to stand in line, at least there was a view to be had. There is always a silver lining if you look hard enough.

Unfortunately, the silver lining effect dissipated pretty quickly. If possible, the next person in line was even slower. I was never going to get my coffee! I leaned over to get a better view and see what the hold up was. Ah ha. Jason, my regular barista, was missing! Some guy I’d never seen was there, and he was as confused as Denzel had been. No wonder the line was backed up.

They called out Denzel’s order, and he stepped up to the counter and grabbed his drink. I could see the whipped cream swaying as it floated on top and had to admit maybe I was wrong. It looked pretty good. In fact, it looked real good. I could practically taste that whip cream and my mouth started to water. I decided that I deserved the same treat after having to wait in line so long and looked longingly at his cup as he slowly raised it to his lips for that first delicious sip. That’s when it happened.

I remember standing there thinking that he had my coffee and wishing I could just get it and go and the next thing I knew, it was suddenly flying toward me. It was probably the stricken, horrified look on the man’s face that clenched it. It was like the cup had been ripped from his hand. The thought, ‘what did I do?’ barely had time to flash through my brain before the coffee impacted with what had been, up to that moment, my favorite coat, drenching it and my shirt with extremely hot coffee. But flash it did and panic started to rise in me, along with the conviction that Denzel had nothing to do with this. I had done this. I just didn’t know how. It was freaky. And it terrified me.

It was as if, for a second, time stood still. Everyone froze, like the proverbial herd of deer caught in headlights. I was sure I had whipped cream up my nose, and I knew for certain a large amount had made its way into my eyes. My nerves automatically registered the Hot! Hot! Hot! warning and I grabbed at my shirt, in a vain attempt to peel the soaked, steamy fabric away from my skin, while trying to wipe the whipped cream out of my eyes. I was busy flapping my shirt around trying to cool it off, my mind reeling with my recent revelation, when I glanced over at the guy whose coffee I was now wearing.

His previous ‘I don’t know what happened’ look had changed to a calculating, accusing one. I stopped mid flap, confused. It didn’t take a genius to know whether or not you threw coffee at someone, but from the accusing glare he was nailing me with, he had made the leap to blaming me. Somehow he knew. Almost before I did.

My gut clenched as instinct kicked in. This guy was trouble, and I had managed to put myself right in his sights. I felt my hands start to shake as I gripped my shirt, my heart pounding in my chest as adrenaline surged through me. Locked in his gaze, I couldn’t seem to look away from him, so I had a ringside seat when the guy who had been in front of me in line, stepped over and popped Denzel a good one. Right in the kisser.

The sight of his head snapping back from what appeared to be a really strong right cross brought me back to reality. I watched him stagger, but kudos to him, he kept his feet. Whoever he was, this guy could take a punch. My rescuer was preparing to follow up with a left hook, and I quickly stepped into the danger zone between them. Everything in me was screaming to get away from there, but I couldn’t very well leave, and let him get beaten up for something he didn’t do. There was some sort of code, wasn’t there?

“Whoa! Whoa there!” I had my hand splayed across the puncher’s chest, trying to keep him at bay. “It was an accident!”

“That’s right, buddy. It was an accident,” Denzel chimed in.

I looked behind me, exasperated. He might have been talking to his attacker, but it was me he was looking at, the accusing look still on his face, mockery in his voice. I might have felt bad about him getting punched for something that technically, he didn’t do, but he certainly wasn’t helping to calm things down now. His attitude, along with the too familiar ‘buddy’ didn’t go unnoticed by my defender. I felt his muscles bunch up under my restraining hand, ready to let fly with another punch and braced to hold him back.

“Back off!” I silently mouthed the words at Denzel, hoping he’d take the hint. Apparently, he wasn’t completely oblivious to his peril because he held up his hands and took a step backward in retreat.

“Please. It really was just an accident,” I said, turning my attention back to my defender. “I appreciate what you’re doing, but it’s not necessary.”

“It sure didn’t look like an accident,” he mumbled the words, glaring over my shoulder at Denzel. He was still simmering, but the pressure against my hand was easing. He was coming around. He looked down at the hand I was pressing against his chest, and I knew he could feel me shaking through the connection when he squinted one eye at me.

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Yes,” I assured him, shaking my head like a bobble head doll. “I’m fine, really. Thank you for your help, but everything’s under control.”

He gave me another once over, shrugged, threw one last glare over my shoulder to my assailant and turned around to resume his place in line. Relieved, I took a deep breath. One down, one to go. I heard someone clear their throat behind me, and steeled myself for the next round as I turned to find Denzel staring holes through me.

“Care to explain what just happened here?” he growled out angrily. “You and I both know I didn’t throw that coffee at you.”

I hadn’t imagined it. Somehow he knew I’d done it, and now he was waiting for an explanation I didn’t have. Even if I did, I certainly wasn’t going to give it to him. There was something about him that had my danger signals firing on all points. All I knew for sure was that I wanted to get away from him as fast as possible. I racked my brain for any semi-plausible excuse to throw at him, but nothing was coming to me. He took a step toward me, so I did the only thing I could think of and went on the offensive.

“Just what right have you got to be angry? I’m the one soaked with coffee!” I said, jabbing my finger at my stained clothes for emphasis.

I thought I came off sounding quite offended and insulted. The fact that my finger was jumping up and down from nerves was an added bonus to my damsel in angry distress bit, which is why I was somewhat surprised to see his brows lower, and his eyes narrow down to little pinpoints. He wasn’t going for it.

“I’m the one who got hit if you’ll remember!” He was practically stepping on my toes now, and I looked up at him, uncomfortable with him invading my space.

“You’re right,” I said apologetically, deciding to change tactics. “I got soaked, and you got hit.” As I was looking point blank at his jaw line, I got a close-up view of the results of the hit he took. The blood had almost quit seeping from the cut on his lip, but I thought it a safe bet that he’d have some pretty spectacular bruising tomorrow. I expected to feel worse about it, but this guy was creeping me out. I needed to get out of there. Fast. “I say we call it even and leave it at that.”

He wasn’t about to leave it at that and was about to say so when the manager stepped in with some towels effectively ending the conversation. Perfect timing. I grabbed up his offering and mopped off my face. Looking down, I could see my shirt and coat were candidates for the cleaners, if not the garbage. The manager had started talking to Denzel, asking questions about what had happened and I took the momentary diversion as a sign to make my exit. I quickly slipped out the door and all but ran across the parking lot to my car.

Relief swamped me as soon as the door shut, giving me a false sense of security. I hurriedly locked it and slumped over onto the wheel. Oh my gosh, what was going on? I felt myself cringe, convinced that I had somehow been responsible for the whole debacle. I had no idea how, but whatever was happening, it couldn’t be good. My mind immediately started hurling down some really scary paths, which wasn’t helping the situation at all. There was still way too much adrenaline in my system, and I was afraid the doubt and the questions coursing through my head could easily turn into confusion and panic without too much prodding. This was not the time to try and figure it out. I needed to stop and get a grip. I needed to concentrate on the here and now. I needed to get out of here.

Trying to shake off the fear, I managed