My Sweet Boy

Jason POV

Another long fucking day.

I wiped down the counter for the third time, the rag damp and sticky against my palm from a spilled caramel syrup I hadn’t had time to properly clean. My feet ached in my worn-out sneakers, and the black apron tied around my waist felt heavier than it should have. The Daily was in full swing; the scattered voices of conversation, the ringing of the register from those who paid cash, and the occasional burst of laughter from a group of tourists by the window. The smell of fresh coffee and warm buttered croissants hung thick in the air, mixing with the faint scent of expensive cologne coming from the two suited men dressed in all black seated in a corner booth who hadn’t looked up from their phones in twenty minutes.

Exposed brick walls lined with old black-and-white photos of the Strip gave the place character, and the warm afternoon sunlight poured through the large front windows, having caught on the glass display case and made the pastries inside look almost plastic. Comfortable leather armchairs were scattered throughout, most of them occupied by people who looked like they had nowhere urgent to be.

I, on the other hand, was counting down the minutes until I could clock out and head to my second job.

The bell above the door chimed.

I glanced up out of habit, already reaching for my notepad in the front pocket of my apron. This woman walked in, carrying herself as if she owned the very air we were breathing.

"She doesn’t look like someone who even tied her own shoes." I scoffed under my breath. It took everything in me to not roll my eyes.

Nope, be good Jason; we need this job. I internally brought myself back to reality.

Graceful.

Commanding.

Polished.

Her dark hair was pulled back into a sleek low bun, not a strand out of place. She wore a tailored black blouse tucked into a high-waisted charcoal pencil skirt that somehow looked expensive without trying too hard. A thin gold chain rested against her pronounced collarbone, and even from across the café I could tell her heels were the kind that cost more than I made in a year. She moved with that boss-like confidence that made a few heads turn, including mine, unfortunately. But come on, that wasn’t crazy to admit. I was broke, not blind.

I’d seen her before. My first day here, actually. The other staff had already filled me in, but honestly, I barely registered much, including learning her name. All I bothered to remember was that she paid a retainer just to keep Table 12 available only for her, whenever she visited. I thought that had been a joke. I mean, how was that NOT the most ridiculous thing you’d ever heard?! Who the hell paid to reserve a café table like it was a VIP lounge at a club? But here she was again, heading straight for it like the chair had been waiting for her all morning.

She didn’t scan the room, didn’t hesitate, nor immediately pull out her phone. She just walked over to her usual spot by the large front window, slid into the leather chair, and crossed one leg over the other like she owned the place. I continued to observe the little details, like how she rotated a ring on her pointer finger twice before adjusting the cuff of her sleeve with two fingers, then rested her hands on the table, perfectly still.

For a few seconds, I just watched her settle in.

This woman was genuinely attractive. Yes in that loud, obvious way, but also in a way that made it hard to look away once you noticed. Flawless tan complexion, not a wrinkle in sight, soft cheekbones, hazel-colored almond-shaped eyes, plump pink-stained lips, small button nose with a softly tapered chin complimented with barely visible makeup. Apart from lipstick and eyeliner, I couldn’t tell if she was even wearing any. For a woman probably in her early forties, she looked incredibly fit. It was as if she somehow robbed the Sandman himself and had all the time in the world to craft her idea of a perfect body. This was the kind of attractiveness that felt almost unfair. Her manicured hands moved with a fluid steadiness as she retrieved her cell phone from her handbag resting on the opposite side of the table.

A faint trace of her perfume drifted over as she got comfortable. Her scent of something warm and slightly sweet cut through the usual café smells of coffee and toasted bread. I caught myself staring a little too long and quickly distracted myself by wiping down the sweets counter behind me that had already been thoroughly cleaned.

From what I was told, Macy, one of the more senior staff, has been the only one to serve this woman since she started frequenting here, but Macy was on a temporary leave for the next god knows how long, hence the reason why I was able to get this job so quickly. I looked around and noticed the other servers were preoccupied.

Table 12 wasn’t technically in my section, but I assumed if she was as much of a golden goose as people were making her out to be, it probably wouldn’t have been a good look to make her wait for service.

I grabbed my notepad and walked over.

“Hello, welcome to The Daily,” I said, keeping my voice polite even though my throat felt dry from the heat of the kitchen. “What can I get for you today?”

She didn’t look up from her phone. She simply raised one hand and gave a small, dismissive wave.

“My usual.”

I paused, pen hovering. Honestly, her cold dismissal didn’t even faze me; this was Vegas after all, The Land of the Pretentious Snobs who swore they were a gift to the world. I drew in a slow breath through my nose and plastered on my practiced customer service smile.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I'm actually new here. Could you tell me what that is?”

She finally lifted her gaze with a raised eyebrow and stared at me as if I had just said the stupidest thing ever. Her eyes gave nothing else away apart from looking bored, as if she was being forced to deal with something beneath her. I briefly caught as she crossed her legs, the fabric of her skirt had shifted slightly with the movement.

“I see… well, I suppose you’ll have to learn,”

she said, her voice flat and precise. “

Regular coffee, one cream, no sugar. Bagel with light butter, cut in thirds.”

I scribbled it down quickly. “Right away.”

I turned on my heels and headed toward the kitchen, the soles of my shoes sticking faintly to yet another fucking spot on the floor that wasn’t properly mopped. The espresso machine let out a random hiss that scared the shit out of me and I had to quickly look around to make sure no one saw me flinch. I sped up my walking and pushed through the swinging door into the heated kitchen. Bracing my hands on the low serving counter, I exhaled hard and brushed my jet-black hair back from my face with one hand.

“I swear to God, having a fucking conscience is keeping me broke. I’d rob that lady blind if I wasn’t too chicken shit of getting caught.”

I whispered bitterly under my breath. She looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine; perfectly tailored outfit that fit like a second skin, perfect hair, and that quiet kind of power that didn’t need to raise its voice. Meanwhile, I was wearing the same black apron and white shirt for the third day in a row because daily laundry was another thing I didn’t have time or money for.

While the kitchen started on her order, I slipped back out to check on another one of my tables, a young couple who still couldn’t decide between avocado toast or the breakfast wrap. I was halfway through explaining the difference when the sharp DING of the kitchen bell cut through the air, signaling her order was ready. I quickly wrapped up with the couple. They ended up ordering a bowl of chicken soup instead.

I grabbed the tray and headed back out.

When I placed the coffee and bagel in front of her, she barely acknowledged me. She took one sip, gave the smallest nod of approval or whatever the hell that was, and went right back to her phone like I’d already disappeared.

Pompous bitch.

I thought to myself as I walked away from her table to resume making my rounds, asking the other guests if they were ok and if I could get them anything else, as if I actually gave a damn.

Just as I was about to approach my last table, the couple that couldn’t decide between the wrap and toast, Mrs. Hargrove, a retired 74-year-old real estate mogul, cut me off with her usual bright energy, her neon green designer leggings practically glowing under the café lights.

Christ, where the hell did this woman shop? I thought, stifling a laugh while flashing her a polite smile as I took in the lime-green monstrosity she was wearing that was paired with neon pink sneakers and a long zebra-print jacket. Her fashion sense was definitely questionable, but she was sweet, in that grandma kind of way.

“Oh, Jason!” she beamed, patting my arm as she discreetly squeezed on my biceps. I definitely noticed, but I paid her no mind and smiled down at her as she winked at me.

“I swear, If I were a few years younger, you’d be in trouble, young man! You’re getting handsomer by the day! Tell me, how’s that engineering program treating you? You look exhausted honey. Burning the candle at both ends again?”

She didn’t even pause for breath, her voice ringing softly yet high-pitched, kind of like that overly hyper teacher you used to have in middle school who wanted everything to sound exciting but spoke too fast.

“And I see you’re taking care of Caldwell over at Table 12? She’s usually in and out like a ghost. Must be the new staff throwing her off her routine.”

I chuckled lightly, shifting the tray in my hands. “It’s going alright, Mrs. Hargrove. Just been busy, and Table 12 is no bother; she seems to mostly keep to herself.”

I glanced over at Table 12 without meaning to. She was still sitting there, scrolling through her phone like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Mrs. Hargrove followed my gaze and gave me a knowing little smile, but thankfully didn’t push it.

“Well, don’t let her scare you off,” she said with a wink. “She tips well when she likes you.”

With those parting words, she patted my arm again and shuffled off toward her usual seat by the furthest window from the entrance, leaving me standing there with a tray in my hands and the strange feeling that I’d just been given some kind of warning.

Fifteen minutes later, I watched the woman at Table 12 stand up without a word and walked out, the bell above the door chiming behind her. I thought nothing of it, people often didn’t bother waiting for the bill, they just knew they could afford it.

I cleared the table without thinking much of anything as I reached for the bill out of habit.

Then I stopped.

A crisp fifty-dollar bill sat on the table.

Thirty dollars in tips. She barely ate her toast, her cup of coffee still full.

I stared at it for a second, the number not quite clicking in my tired brain. Then I quickly pocketed it before anyone could see, my fingers closed around the cash like it might’ve disappeared.

"Must be nice to be able to slap down fifty dollars on a twenty-dollar bill," I said under my breath, shaking my head as I wiped the table down. But hey, no complaints here. This thirty bucks just bought me guilt-free dinner tonight.

This woman was just another rich customer with too much cash and too little patience.

Nothing special.

But as I slipped the money into my pocket, I couldn’t help but feel this nervous sense of curiosity; something about her energy was… off.

Who the hell was this woman?