#mr.orange

You’re in the middle of your day shift when a group of men in suits come into the cafe. 

They don’t all arrive at the same time. First, comes a middle aged man with brown hair, then another enters soon after, holding a lit cigarette between his lips. Another comes in, taller and anxiously scratching at his beard, then another, middle aged man with a smile, who sends a nod and waves your way. 

Two men come in who aren’t decked out in formal wear head to toe to join the others; the older one is in a casual t-shirt and pants, the younger, in a tracksuit and harboring a resemblance to him. Maybe father and son. 

Eventually, their booth fills up to eight. The last man to arrive is pulled into a seat by the friendly looking guy. He’s thinner than the rest—boyish, like a kid playing dress-up. 

Well “kid” is the wrong word. He’s certainly older than you. Likely in his late twenties. But he sits down among them casually, slumping his arm over the back of his buddy’s seat like he belongs there. 

It’s early morning, the summer sun is beginning to shine its heat through the faded plastic glass windows, and the street is quite empty still. 

It's a weekend, so students like yourself are off working, instead of walking the streets to their lectures. 

The cafe was an ideal place to find work. Right next to your residence building and a little over 10 minutes from campus. 

Sure, there’s the occasional drunkard stumbling in and demanding food, junkies running in with knives, or, in today’s case, a table of men in suits on a weekend morning muttering around in hushed tones. 

But your university never really concerns itself with matters of safety. 

It's why you always carry a can of pepper spray around in your bag, and why you and your roommate attend a weekly self defense course. 

A lady must. 

You exchange a look with Ethel, one of the waitresses who’s currently sharing your shift. The middle aged woman works to raise her two kids, and sometimes treats you like a third, so you always feel safe when she’s around. 

Ethel gives you a mini shake of her head, acknowledging the weirdness of the customers but telling you not to mind it, as she continues to wipe down a table. 

“Sweetheart,” Someone calls out, you turn to look at the owner, George. The old man leans back in his chair behind the cash register, he adjusts the radio to a 70s rock station and a retro song fills the restaurant at a low volume. 

“Let’s not stand around all day, yeah?” George says, nodding in the direction of the newcomers booth. 

The volume of his tone makes the cafe attendants look up at you, the men in suits included. Most of them spare you a glance, then turn back to their business. 

“Right” You mutter, cheeks pinking. “On it, sorry, George.”

You pick up eight menus and make your way over to the table. 

As you come closer, you overhear a bit of their conversation and pick up on some strange names. 

The first man to have come in addresses the anxious man as “pink” and the latter in turn addresses him as “brown”.

You appear in front of them and the conversation dies down as you hand them a menu each. 

“Good morning, gentlemen.” You say with a welcoming smile. “Can I get y’all started with some coffee?” 

The eldest man, the one dressed casually clears his throat. “Yes, honey, we’d like eight coffees for the table.” 

Next to him, pink looks uncomfortable. 

“Eight coffees comin’ right up.” You grin. “I’ll be back to take your orders- ahem. Excuse me” 

Cigarette smoke wafts from your side, forcing you to hold down your cough. The one with the lit cigarette gives you a smirk. 

You swallow and try to maintain your smile. 

Brown rolls his eyes, gesturing to the smoker. “Come on, you gotta do this right under her nose?” 

The smoker keeps his grin. Looking up at you he mutters a heal-hearted. “Sorry.” 

“It’s alright” you smile at him. “It’s a free country, ain’t it?”

Smoker huffs another puff of smoke, which you’re pretty sure is laughter.

As you turn to leave, you glance at the young one and see his eyes already following you. 

On the table, he absentmindedly fidgets with a sugar packet. 

From here, you have a better look. His dark blond hair is slicked back, and his eyes are light green. He looks younger up close, and maybe you were wrong, maybe he is a student. 

It's brief, and after a second, his eyes are on brown as the other continues the conversation he was having before. 

And you remember you have eight coffees to deliver. 

Wiping your hands on the skirt of your cafe uniform, you rush up to the new customers at the entrance and sit them at a clean booth, then head to the coffee pots. 

“What did I say about your sass?” Ethel says softly when she lines up beside you to pour her own coffee. 

You turn to her, ready to defend yourself, but then you see the grin she’s barely hiding. 

“This about the ‘free country’ comment?” You ask. 

“Mhmm.” She raises her brow. 

You wish things were different but she’s right. And she’s probably getting tired of telling you this each time you sass a customer. 

Waitresses live for time. 

“I’ll watch myself.” You sigh.

“Please,” she says pointedly. “Although, I'm not entirely sure he didn’t enjoy that.” 

You follow her gaze to the suit booth. They're all engaged in a deep discussion. 

Brown is in the middle of some kind of animated speech, waving his hands and enunciating words. You look over to the young suit, he’s just as attentive to Brown's words as the rest of them. Actually, more so. 

Suddenly, he's looking straight at you. 

You tear your gaze away, feeling your pulse spike. 

You run through your customers for the following hour, taking orders, then carrying trays of food from the kitchen to the table, wiping them down after the customer leaves. 

At least everyone else who comes in today seems normal. 

In your runs to carry the suits, their food and fill up their coffee, you manage to gather that the smoker is called “blond”, the friendly suit is called “white”, and the older suit is “blue“. The older man in casual clothes is called “Joe”.

They talk about dicks. A lot. 

At first, they were discussing Madonna songs, and then they somehow came to-

“I mean all the time. Morning, day, night, afternoon, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick” Pink says. 

“How many dicks was that?” asks Blue. 

White answers, “A lot.”

At least he's got a sense of humor. 

The youngest suit doesn’t talk much. Only listens as the others speak, so no one ever addresses him by his name, at least, not from what you can hear. 

Maybe you misread them. 

Maybe they're just a group of formally dressed friends gathered together to have breakfast and talk nonsense. 

You’re busy with another table when Ethel goes over to the suits, giving them their receipts, wishing them a good day, and asking them to pay at the table. 

George passes by you. “Nice job sweetheart. Clean up booth ten once you're done with this table.”

You nod and continue to stack dirty cutlery onto your tray. 

Joe, the oldest passes by you with a nod.

You nod back and then you overhear Pink grumble to the others about not tipping. 

Oh goodie, he’s one of those. 

Surprisingly, Blond is the one to speak up against him. “Waitressing is the number one occupation for female non-college graduates in this country. It's the one job basically any woman can get, and make a living on. The reason is because of tips.”

You blink. You did not expect something so profound to come from a man who blew smoke in your face mere minutes ago. 

Pink sighs. “Hey, I'm very sorry that the government taxes their tips. That's fucked up.  But that ain't my fault.  it would appear that waitresses are just one of the many groups the government fucks in the ass on a regular basis. You show me a paper that says the government shouldn't do that, I'll sign it.  Put it to a vote, I'll vote for it.  But what I won't do is play ball. And this non-college bullshit you're telling me, I got two words for that: ‘Learn to fuckin type.’ Cause if you're expecting me to help out with the rent, you're in for a big fuckin surprise.”

You can’t help it, you scoff and look up from your tray. 

And before you can say “That was four words, asshole. Learn to fuckin’ count.” you hear the young suit speak for the first time. 

“He’s convinced me,” the dirty blond says.

He lifts his gaze and meets yours. You swear he looks almost amused when he says, “Give me my dollar back.” to his friend.

The table laughs. 

You roll your eyes. You don't care that he can see. It’s not like you’re getting tipped!

You come to clean their plates and wipe their table down as they sit around, lazily discussing their final thoughts. 

You successfully block their voices out, giving them your best smile and telling them to have a great day before walking off with your tray. 

You head to the back. “Ethel, I'm gonna take a quick break!” 

“Sure thing, hun.” She calls back. 

You stand at the side parking lot of the cafe, near the garbage bins. You hold a cigarette between your fingers, exhaling the smoke as you watch the occasional car drive by. 

You pick up a hint of cologne. The sound of approaching footsteps makes you look to your right. 

The young suit comes to stand beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. 

He’s quite tall. You crane your neck to look at him. 

The expression on his face is curious. 

“You didn’t like that joke, did ya.” He smiles down, amber eyes gleaming.

There’s a lot you can say to that, the problem is you’d be taking the bait, and you get enough stress from school already. 

So you return your gaze to the parking lot and take another pull. “Strip club’s down the road.” 

He snorts beside you. “Maybe later. For now, can I ask for a light?” 

He’s holds out a cigarette of his own, placing it between his lips. 

Wordlessly, you fish your lighter out of your pocket and offer it to him.

Ignoring it, he shakes his head. “No, no, no. Not what I meant.” 

“What—?” you start, but gasp, nearly dropping your cigarette when he suddenly steps in front of you, bringing the cigarette in his mouth to yours, using yours as a light. 

Leaning down, his gaze flicks from you to the cigarette. Lips curving up at the corners.

Like a deer in headlights, you stand frozen, unsure what to do. 

He’s definitely coming on to you. And on one hand, it's neat, because he’s attractive and clearly charismatic. But on the other hand, you're on the clock, and you shouldn’t be doing this. Oh, and the fact that you don’t know anything about the guy also isn’t ideal. 

“There we go,” He mutters softly, taking a step back when his cigarette is lit. 

The distance helps you catch your breath. You tell yourself not to gasp, not wanting him to see he got to you. 

“You like waitressing?” He asks, pulling a drag. 

“No.” Your voice is shaky when you answer. “But it pays the bills. Sometimes.” 

His brows rise. “You look young. You study around here?” 

“Yes. Teacher's college.” 

“No kiddin’? What do you wanna teach?” 

“Math.” You answer.

“Math.” He echoes, looking out the street. “That's a noble profession.” 

Your cheeks warm again, so you quickly mutter. “What about you? What do you do?”

He turns to you and offers a small grin and gestures to his suit. “What do you think I do?” 

“I think you're in the mob.” you blurt out.

“Heh,” he laughs, looking back over his shoulder. “Nah, nothing like that, teach. Don't worry.”

Your cigarette is down to the butt and part of you is grateful you can save yourself from the interaction. While another part is reluctant to leave. 

At the end you decide it's time to go back to work. You put the cig out on the gravel, and toss it in the bin before wiping your hands down your skirt. 

Just as you open the door to head in, you glance back. 

You’re about to ask him for his name, but some part of you feels like you shouldn’t have to. If he approached you, literally got in your face to light his cigarette, then he’s damn sure capable of asking for your name. The fact that he hasn't means he doesn’t want to know it.

At least that’s what you make of the situation. 

“Try to stay out of trouble.” You finally say. 

He puts out his own cigarette, and turns to you with a timid smile. “Yes, ma'am.”

One week passes.

It’s seven thirty in the morning and the cafe is quiet as the early morning sun turns the sky from grey to light blue. 

You came in around an hour ago, hanging your bag and jacket and pulling on your uniform. 

Monday mornings are always busy, and you like to come in early to make yourself something to eat before the rush. 

You brew a pot, pouring yourself a mug and cook yourself a basic omelette. No ingredients other than eggs today. No cheese or sausage, you’re too distracted. 

Sitting on a barstool, you hold your coffee as your eyes hungrily scan over the newspaper. 

The headline reads, "Seven Dead After Jewelry Store Robbery".

The paragraph describes a bloody massacre when the police arrived at the scene. Seven men in suits and one police officer were found covered in blood - their own and each other’s after they robbed a jewelry store. 

The criminals’ names and aliases are stated in bold print. 

You clutch the paper, covering the parts you hold in sweat as you rapidly read through the names. 

Mr. Blond, a.k.a. "Toothpick" Vic Vega., Mr. White a.k.a. Larry Dimmick, and the list goes on…

A chill runs down your spine as your gaze goes from the newspaper to the booth on the far left corner, where eight men in suits sat and ate just days ago. 

You never got his name. You eliminate the suspects who you know can’t be him. Blond, Pink, White, Brown, even Blue…

Why isn’t his name on the report? Did he run off? Did he get away?

The bell rings above the door rings and you jump, gripping the newspaper. 

You look at the entrance, it’s only Ethel. 

You sigh. “You scared me.” 

Ethel hangs her coat. She gives you a look of confusion which resolves once she zeroes in on the newspaper in your hand. 

“I read about it this morning,” She makes her way over to me, shaking her head as she pulls on her apron. “Those were the boys sittin’ here that day.”

“I know.” you run your hands over your hair, then reach down into your pocket to ensure you feel the can of pepper spray in it. “It’s insane.” 

He had laughed when you said you thought he was in the mob. 

“Nah, nothing like that, teach. Don't worry.”

Yeah, right.

The bell rings once more and this time, a man and a woman walk in, wearing office attire and holding on suitcases. Customers. 

Folding the newspaper and putting it away, you wipe your hands on your skirt and head to take their order.

It’s ten in the evening and you’re just about ready to collapse and drift off right there on the floor. 

Ethel and George had punched out an hour ago and you were left to close.

Flipping the sign over at the front door, you wipe your brow and turn the radio on. Rock comes on to accompany you as you mop the floor.

The door bell rings and the door opens. 

Had you forgotten to lock it?

You look up from the checkered floor you were mopping and nearly drop the mop. 

It's him. 

Standing at the entrance in jeans and a white top under a black leather jacket, his hands are stuffed in the jacket pockets. His hair free of gel falls onto his forehead. 

You gasp. “You!” 

He gives you a casual wave. “Hey,” 

His voice is somewhat hoarse. Quite different from the confident tone he used that day and it snaps you out of your shocked state. 

You scramble for the can in your pocket and hold it up to him. “Get out!”

His eyes widen, and he slowly pulls his hands out of his pocket, raising them up. “Woah, what-”

“I know about you and your buddies. It’s all over the news!” You rush out. 

His tone is calm when he says, “I can explain-”

“Explain it to the feds, pal.” You say, making your way to the phone, pepper spray still raised at him as you lift the telephone. 

“There’s no need for that.” 

“I think there is-”

“Teach, look at me,” he says.

You hesitate.

Then slowly, your eyes lift from the phone.

He’s holding up a badge.

Your eyes narrow. “What the hell?” 

“Believe me now?” He asks. There’s a hint of amusement in his tone.

“You’re a cop?” 

“Yes ma’am.”

“So what were you doing with those guys?”

“My job.” 

Your gaze jumps from him to the badge, back to him. You put the phone down.

“What? Were you infiltrating them or somethin’?” You raise a brow.

He hesitates, looking uncertain for the first time. “I… can't explicitly confirm nor deny that.” 

Then he nods. Slowly.

Your eyes widen. 

Now that you’ve gotten a good look, something about him seems different. His skin looks a shade paler, his green eyes seem almost melancholy, even if he smirks in amusement. 

“But,” He starts, bringing his fingers up to yours and lowering the pepper spray away from him. You let him. “I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you. And I really want to take you out to dinner.”

His tone is soft. Vulnerable even. And you can’t deny the pulse of excitement you feel knowing he’s been thinking about you.

Your shoulders drop. “That’s why you weren’t mentioned in the article.” You murmur. “That’s why they wrote there were seven, not eight bodies…”

He gives you a nod, confirming your suspicions. 

“What about the others?” You ask. “They were all criminals?” 

He looks torn, guilty even, as he clears his throat. “They… yeah they were. Doesn’t make it any easier.”

He doesn’t look exactly excited for someone who singlehandedly took down a gang of notorious gangsters.  

You sigh. An undercover cop. You sure know how to pick ‘em.

“There’s a… pizza joint down the street from me." Even as you say it, you know you're being crazy. "It’s cheap but it’s not bad.”

He freezes, looking at you past his lashes, as if checking if he heard you right.

“I just need to close up.” You say.

His lips curve up, a little timid, and he smiles down at the floor. “Pizza sounds great.”

Biting off a piece of your black olive slice, you lick the grease off your fingers. 

The two of you are sitting on the hood of his car.

You’re in your work dress and a pair of scuffed boots you thrifted. 

His leather jacket is sprawled under you as a cushion. 

You now have a clear view of the muscle on his arms, visible underneath his white tee. 

Around you, the evening is relatively calm for a Monday.

Sal’s pizza is open almost 24/7 so students and faculty run in and out at random times. 

With your clean hand, you pick up his badge and inspect it. “When did you graduate?” 

“Two years ago.” He answers, sipping from a glass coke bottle. 

You note to yourself that means he was around five to six years older.

“Did you always wanna be a detective?” 

“Ever since I was a kid.” 

You huff a little laugh, picturing it. 

You hum.

“Noble profession,” you echo his words from earlier.

He glances at you now.

Eyes lingering on your mouth, on the curve of your jaw in the streetlight.

“Well…” he says finally, his voice quieter. “Not always so noble in practice.”

You dab your mouth with a napkin before leaning back, studying him.

“Did you know any of them?” you ask, gently.

He doesn’t ask who you mean. His jaw tightens.

“Only briefly, but White... White was different.”

Something fragile stirs behind his eyes. Then he blinks, and it’s gone.

“But he was still a criminal,” he says, more to himself than to you.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

He shakes his head, exhaling slowly. “It’s life. You have nothing to apologize for.”

You sit and talk for a long time, watching cars pull in and out of Sal’s parking lot while the sky darkened to almost black. 

You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake, you’re being carried up the stairs to your dorm, your head tucked against his chest.

Sleepily, you hand him your keys. He unlocks the door carefully, stepping inside with quiet precision. Your roommate’s door is shut, thankfully.

He sets you down on your bed.

“Stay?” you whisper, barely awake. Your fingers find his sleeve, hold it.

He stills. Then he kneels beside the bed and brushes your hair from your face.

“I want to,” he says. “But I’ve got to be at the station in a few hours.”

He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead. 

“Stay,” you whisper again. 

His fingers curl at your hip. The movement bunches up the material of your dress.

“You’re trouble, teach.” He murmurs before his mouth meets yours — slow, reverent, like a secret.

He kisses you slowly, thoroughly, like he’s afraid he won’t get to again.