Succubus Blues Read Free Page B

where he’d been kneeling behind the counter. I often thought Doug and Bruce could be twins in a mixed-race, alternate-reality sort of way. Both had long, scraggly ponytails, and both wore a good deal of flannel in tribute to the grunge era neither had fully recovered from. They differed mainly in their coloring. Doug was Japanese-American, black-haired with flawless skin; Bruce was Mr. Aryan Nation, all blond hair and blue eyes.
    â€œHey Doug, Georgina,” heralded Bruce. His eyes widened at me. “Whoa, you look great today.”
    â€œDoug! This is just as bad. I told you I didn’t want any customers.”
    â€œYou told me not the main registers. You didn’t say anything about this one.”
    I opened my mouth to protest, but Bruce interrupted. “Come on, Georgina, I had Alex call in sick today, and Cindy actually quit.” Seeing my stony expression, he quickly added, “Our registers are almost identical to yours. It’ll be easy.”
    â€œBesides”—Doug raised his voice to a fair imitation of our manager’s—“‘assistant managers are supposed to be able to fill in for anybody around here.’”
    â€œYeah, but the café—”
    â€œâ€”is still part of the store. Look, I’ve got to go open. Bruce’ll show you what you need to know. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.” He hastily darted off before I could refuse again.
    â€œCoward!” I yelled after him.
    â€œIt really won’t be that bad,” Bruce reiterated, not understanding my dismay. “You just take the money, and I’ll make the espresso. Let’s practice on you. You want a white chocolate mocha?”
    â€œYeah,” I conceded. Everyone I worked with knew about that particular vice. I usually managed to take down three of them a day. Mochas that was, not coworkers.
    Bruce walked me through the necessary steps, showing me how to mark up the cups and find what I needed to push on the register’s touch-screen interface. He was right. It wasn’t so bad.
    â€œYou’re a natural,” he assured me later, handing over my mocha.
    I grunted in response and consumed my caffeine, thinking I could handle anything so long as the mochas kept coming. Besides, this really couldn’t be as bad as the main registers. The café probably did no business this time of day.
    I was wrong. Minutes after opening, we had a line of five people.
    â€œLarge latte,” I repeated back to my first customer, carefully punching in the information.
    â€œAlready got it,” Bruce told me, starting the beverage before I even had a chance to label the cup. I happily took the woman’s money and moved on to my next order.
    â€œA large skinny mocha.”
    â€œSkinny’s just another word for nonfat, Georgina.”
    I scrawled NF on the cup. No worries. We could do this.
    The next customer wandered up and stared at me, momentarily bedazzled. Coming to her senses, she shook her head and blurted out a torrent of orders.
    â€œI need one small drip coffee, one large nonfat vanilla latte, one small double cappuccino, and one large decaf latte.”
    Now I felt bedazzled. How had she remembered all those? And honestly, who ordered drip anymore?
    On and on the morning went, and despite my misgivings, I soon felt myself perking up and enjoying the experience. I couldn’t help it. It was how I worked, how I carried myself through life. I liked trying new things—even something as banal as ringing up espresso. People could be silly, certainly, but I enjoyed working with the public most of the time. It was how I had ended up in customer service.
    And once I overcame my sleepiness, my inborn succubus charisma kicked in. I became the star of my own personal stage show, bantering and flirting with ease. When combined with the Martin-induced glamour, I became downright irresistible. While this did result in a number of proffered dates and