Hooked (Hooked #1)(3)

“Can I help you?” the teenager at the counter asked me. His lips were chapped, his eyes earnest. I noted that he was looking at my butt as I leaned toward the list of food options off to the side. I felt sick to my stomach about it.

I cleared my throat before speaking. “Yeah. I’m starving. Just going to get a late dinner—“ I said, standing up quickly to hide my body from him. “You know, I think I’ll have a tuna melt. That good here?”

The acned boy nodded vehemently and got to work, slicing a piece of bread and swinging cheese out from the back refrigerator. I called to him, “Oh, and a cup of coffee!”

My heart had begun to decrease in intensity from the previous day’s many jobs, constant questions, constant stream of excitement. I needed to be high-energy—a perfect dance instructor. I sighed, pawing through my billfold. What I really needed, I knew, was to charge more from each student. But I couldn’t afford to lose anyone. Part of the reason people even came to me was because I was—well—the cheapest in Chicago. But dammit, I was good.

“Do you have enough?”

My heart jumped. I raised my chin and looked to my right, where the gruff voice had come from. “Um. Of course I have enough. I’m just—“ I parsed through the bills, most of them ones. “I’m just unorganized.”

The man laughed good-naturedly, not making me feel strange or off-kilter. He was very attractive, with these stunning teeth—so white beneath his near-smirk. His eyes were dark, enhanced by the shadows of the coffee shop. He wore a black suit and a dark blue tie. He looked suave, sharp. Why the hell was he talking to me?

“Here you go,“ the coffee shop worker squeaked at me. He looked toward the man. “Oh, yes. What was it you were having again?”

“So, you help the lady first, huh?” the man asked him slyly.

The teenaged boy swallowed, unsure of what to say. His eyes searched around the room, hoping for an out. The man had deviated from the script, and the teenaged boy was in the water now. Drowning.

But the man waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it. I had a turkey panini. Take your time.” His teeth flashed once more, and he began gathering a few ones—nearly ten, I counted—and pushed them into the teenager’s tip jar.

The boy was flustered at the dramatic tip.

I nodded at the teenaged boy, giving him an encouraging look, as he passed me my greasy tuna melt and coffee. He tapped at the iPad computer before him (there was always something I missed, really, about hearing that ding ding ding of the cash register), and he gave me my total. I passed the bills off to him, leaving him a substantial tip in the jar as well. The boy’s eyes were bright. He turned quickly toward the panini and started making the sandwich like it was the only thing he had been meant to do his entire life.

“Good show,” I said to the man next to me, winking at him. What had gotten into me? I so obviously wasn’t in a good state to flirt with anyone. My shirt was sweat-filled; my yoga pants had a milk stain from my morning coffee. I was a sweat-ball, a great big nobody in Wicker Park. I looked outside and noted the beautiful people sauntering by the coffee shop, each with unique dress, unique flair. I imagined this attractive man next to me exiting the coffee shop and having the world at his feet. He could have whomever he wanted.


I nodded at him, choosing to make my exit.

I walked toward the window, still wanting to feel the essence of the city as I ate my sandwich. My stomach rumbled as I walked, making the man beside me laugh, even after I had nodded and exited. I watched him as he waited for his own panini. He searched through the large stack of newspapers, from the Chicago Tribune to younger, smaller papers. He shook his head, slowly drinking his coffee.

Suddenly, his eyes shot up and met with mine. He had caught me staring. Hurriedly, I sent my eyes crashing down to my own sandwich. I had taken so many bites of my pickle without thinking, noting the way my mouth tasted then; laced with vinegar, horrific. I covered my mouth, horrified.

“Here you go, sir,” said the teenager at the counter, handing the man his large sandwich. “I gave you an extra cookie, as well.”

“Well, thank you, maestro,” the man said, nodding his slick chin toward him. “You have a good Saturday night.”

Then the man stepped toward me. I could feel his shadow as it emanated closer and closer toward my table. He paused, clearing his throat. “You mind if I sit here?” he asked me, motioning toward the stool to my right.

Covering my mouth, hoping to avoid revealing that ridiculous pickle smell, I sputtered, “Of course you can!” feeling a bit ridiculous. I caught my reflection once more in the window before me. I tossed my still-curled, still luxurious hair this way, then that. I tried not to linger. My feet were itching to leave.

But something else held me back.

“So. You look like you just came from exercising?” the man said to me, unwrapping his panini. The smell wafted toward my nose. The peppers and onions emitted such savory wonder.

“Oh, yeah,” I muttered, looking down at my yoga clothes as if I were surprised. “I just. I got back from a run. Had to fuel up,” I said, waving my free hand around my face. What was I saying? I knew, of course, that oftentimes when I told guys I was a dancer, they became weird about it. Sometimes, they thought it was really sexy; they wanted to learn all of my moves. Other times, however, guys told me it wasn’t a real thing, to be a dancer; that it wasn’t a real sport or a valid pastime. Plus, there was the whole “I failed at it” thing that I never wanted to go into.