Lipstick & Lattes

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  About The Author

  Acknowledgements

  Lipstick & Lattes

  Tracy Krimmer

  Copyright 2016 by Tracy Krimmer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Najla Qamber, Najla Qamber Designs

  For Andy

  Chapter One

  What’s a girl gotta do to get coffee? I’m in line at Perc Me Up, tapping my feet on the ground and trying not to chew my nails. The skin is already pulled back on my thumb and the same is starting on my ring finger. That’s it. Today I vow never to bite my nails again.

  What’s up with this line, anyway? I stand on my toes to see how many people are in front of me before I can order. Being short sucks. A step stool is required to reach the top cabinets in my apartment and capris fit like jeans. My brother was blessed with the height in our family, and he’s ten years younger than me. Lucky bastard.

  The line moves forward. Thank GOD because I’m already running late. We have coffee at work, but who wants to drink that crap? The best beans are ground here at Perc Me Up, a small, family-owned café. Forget the big chains. If you want spectacular java, splurge on the small business.

  I shove my thumb back before meeting my teeth. Not even two minutes and I broke my promise to myself. But come on, it’s coffee. Caffeine deprivation is a real thing, and I’m suffering from it right now.

  One more person and I can order. I turn my ear, concentrating to hear his order. Black coffee. Good. That’s easy. Wait .... and then another black coffee and two lattes? Ugh. He’s ordering for his office. Wonderful. Screw my promise. I must feast on my nails, or, if I’m forced to wait much longer, my skin.

  The line deepens behind me, and I’m grateful I got here when I did, even though I’m still waiting for a horrendous amount of time. I could have picked the coffee beans myself before I’m awarded first place in line.

  Crap. Leann’s not here. No wonder this line is moving slow. “Hi,” I say to the guy standing behind the counter where my everyday barista should be. “Where’s Leann?” Leann always takes my order. She doesn’t even write anything down. The second I step up in line, she hands me my cup. When the line isn’t backed up to Timbuktu, I’m in and out. Another reason I love this place.

  He glances over me, his scruffy beard making me want to scratch my face. I’ll never understand why men want to hide what’s behind the hair. This guy could be super attractive, but I’ll never know because his gorilla hair masks it. Not to mention his thick eyebrows that could use a little pluck. Yes, guys need to manscape their eyebrows. This guy didn’t get the message. “She’s out today.”

  “Are you new?” I’m here every single day. Even Sundays. I’ve never seen this man in my life. At least not behind the counter.

  “Kind of.”

  How is someone “kind of” new? Either you are or you aren’t. I can’t argue with myself over this, though. The construction in town delays me at least five minutes every day, and the entrance line to the highway is never short. Once I’m in the seventy mile per hour zone, I’m forced slow back down to fifty-five because, of course, more orange cones. And then moments later I’m in a traffic jam. When will cars that fly be invented? That’ll be the only way I can guarantee I’ll arrive to work before my start time.

  “Large coffee. Black.”

  “Sure thing. Coming right up.”

  I check my phone as he turns to grab a cup. Should I bother texting my boss I’ll be late? On a typical day I’m a minute or two late. She’s even commented that my start time should be five minutes later than everyone else’s. She’s joking, but I also don’t think she’s thrilled about it. I always show up, though, and within that five minute time frame. She’s used to it by now. I can skip it.

  “Miss?”

  I pull my attention away from my phone and Barista Boy is holding an empty cup. “I’m making another pot. It’ll be about two minutes. Is that okay? Or would you like decaf?”

  He did not suggest decaf. The only place decaffeinated coffee belongs is in the trash. “Um, no. I’ll wait. Don’t you have a light and dark blend brewed?” I prefer the darkest blend I can get my hands on but will settle for a blonde roast in a pinch.

  He rakes his fingers through his thick, black hair. How can someone have this much hair on their body? I imagine thick strands covering his chest, and, dare I say, his back. Gross.

  “I did. I haven’t had a chance to refill either. This line hasn’t stopped moving since we opened.”

  Where are all the other people that work here? Leann is the only one I ever see, and she never has this problem. “Well, I guess I’ll wait then.”

  “I’m very sorry, Miss.”

  “It’s fine.” I cross my arms to fight the urge to bite on my nails again. “Doesn’t anyone else work here? Someone to brew, someone to serve?”

  “Leann is out and the other person is running late. I’m on my own for the next thirty minutes.”

  I understand people running late—I’m a prime example. But this affects me. “That’s too bad.”

  “The coffee only takes a minute. Literally. You’ll be out of here in a snap.”

  That was my goal over five minutes ago. The people behind me chatter, and I overhear their complaints. Now they think I’m the one holding up the line. I should show a little sympathy for this guy. It isn’t his fault Leann has the day off and the other employee is a no show. But I’m sure there are more people he could call in. I doubt only three people work here.

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.” I put my attention back to my phone, open Facebook, and scroll through my timeline. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the barista standing behind the counter, his hand on the formica, leaning toward me. Is he trying to hold a conversation for this full minute? I. Just. Want. My. Coffee.

  “I’m Ed, by the way.”

  What’s my obligation here? I didn’t come into Perc Me Up to make friends, as friendly as it may be. The coffee should finish any second and then I’ll be on my way. “Whitney.” I force a smile. “And I’m super late.” I hope adding this in pushes him along.

  “Let’s get you that coffee then, and you can move on with your day.”

  “Great. Thanks.” I slide my phone into my pocket and grab my punch card out of my wallet. It would be so much easier if this place had an app. One disadvantage to a smaller coffee shop is the loss of these benefits. But, two more punches and I earn a free one!

  The total is $2.59 with the tax included. I’ve got this routine down and my money counted out. Exact change. And an extra dollar in my hand to toss in the tip jar, though I’m not sure he deserves one.

  “Thanks so much for waiting.” Ed pours my coffee and tries to snap on the lid. His hand slips, and liquid spills down the side. “Ow!”

  “Are you okay?” Shit. Not only did this guy burn himself, but now my coffee is everywhere but in my cup.

>   “Yeah.” He grabs paper towel and wipes up the counter. “I’ll be fine.”

  Whew. “Good.” Now I need my coffee so I can haul ass out of here. The way this morning is going I’ll hit an epic traffic jam, too. Oh, and it’s April first. Happy April Fools Day to me.

  He finishes wiping the mess up and stares at me. Should I look away or maintain eye contact? Is he waiting for me to say something? Now I’m noticing his sharp eyes, a blue only present on the brightest summer day with no clouds in sight. Underneath the beard, I swear a dimple dots his cheek. When he smiles, I’m forced to smile, too. I want to resist but something about his lop-sided smile pulls me in.

  “Ahem,” a voice behind me interrupts. “The rest of us need coffee, too.”

  “Coffee!” Ed tosses his finger up. “I’ll get you a new one.” He pours it and hands me the cup, this time being much more careful with the lid. “On the house.”

  Free? “I can’t.” I put the $2.59 on the counter.

  “Take it. I’m sorry for the mess.”

  “Thank you.” I have to leave now if I have any chance of not getting fired from my job. I nod as I scoop the money back up, tossing it all into the tip jar. Once I exit the building, my loyalty card falls out of my hand and onto the ground. I bend over to pick it up, dumping my drink on the concrete.

  The joke’s on me. This day can’t get any worse.

  ••••••••

  “These aprons suck.” I double knot the back of my red and white apron that reminds me more of a candy striper uniform than one for a beauty consultant. My boss didn’t have time to confront me about my tardiness when I showed up thirty minutes late, so now she’s insisting I stay late to discuss it. Hannah and I made plans tonight. A new club is opening, Vogue, and I’m in the mood to dance. I’m tired of bars and bowling alleys. A space dedicated to shaking my booty? Yes, please.

  “They’re fine. You’re just pissed you’re in trouble.” Hannah arranges her counter, displaying the bright red tones in the front and shoving the neutral ones to the back. We spend a solid twenty minutes every day making sure our stations are attractive enough to make customers stop.

  “Do you honestly think little old ladies want to wear loud lipstick?” I try to appeal to the types of people who walk through our area in the mall on a daily basis. It’s not often we entertain customers from a younger generation, who tend to shop online or at specialty boutiques for makeup, instead of the local mall department store. On an average day, I guess our customers are in their fifties or sixties and in search of anti-aging cream not realizing they’re a little too late.

  “I don’t care. If they come to my station, they’re presented with what I put out.” She’s always pushing the limits and trying to force others to the same. “When a customer comes to me, they’re here because they need help. If they had a clue what they wanted or needed, they wouldn’t be here.”

  “Well, they won’t come to you with those colors staring them in the face. You’re blinding them more than anything.” We can get away with bold colors even in our late twenties but my grandma, rest her soul, wouldn’t be caught dead in the colors Hannah pushes.

  “I’m so tired of these boring palettes. I want to transform people. Isn’t that the point?” Hannah throws her hands up in the air as though that’s where the answer lies.

  “Yeah, but this is our start, Hannah. We won’t get anywhere by forcing women to wear lipstick that makes them look ridiculous.” I love clicking through slideshows of actors and actresses after they’ve been through a significant change for a role. Many become unrecognizable. Imagine that—changing yourself so much no one can even recognize you. What Hannah wants, though, she won’t get here. Not at a makeup counter. But everyone has to start his or her career somewhere.

  “What do you suggest then?”

  I shrug. “When I graduated from school, I didn’t expect to be stuck in some mall.” A voice over the loud speaker announces a thirty percent off sale on all summer gear. I sigh at the disappointment in myself. Dream big, everyone always says. Aim high and you’ll never lose. You’ll always be climbing. The problem with that is the higher I aim, the more I break when I fail.

  “Me either, but we put in our dues, haven’t we? Minimum wage in our field for more than a few years now. It’s time to move up from this.” She spritzes glass cleaner onto the counter and wipes down the surface. “I guess I thought my big break would have come already.”

  “Did you expect Mindy Kaling to sit down at your station for a makeover and insist you become her personal makeup artist? Then you’d move to LA and live the celebrity life?” That would be a nice dream, but I doubt Mindy Kaling has any desire to visit Wisconsin.

  Hannah twirls her blonde curls in her fingers. “Not exactly, but I’d make an excellent celebrity.”

  She’s not kidding either. She’s in a word, gorgeous. The entire package. Her hair is natural blonde, which is uncommon these days, and her eyes are this striking shade of green. She’s taller than me (of course, most people are) and when I think of high-class, she comes to mind. From high heels to flats, she pulls them all off. I would kill to wear flats, but I’m too vertically challenged. If I don’t wear a heel I get lost in the crowd. Even though I wear make up every single day and my hair takes me a good forty-five minutes in the morning, I’m still frumpy next to her.

  “Enough about you, Hannah.” She could talk about herself for hours. The Hannah Show, day in and day out. I’d be lying, though, if I said it wasn’t entertaining. Vain or not, she makes me laugh, and we have fun together. “If I’m crabby today, blame Ed at the coffee shop.”

  “What did Ed do? And who’s Ed?” Her voice perks up when she says his name.

  “Ed’s the jerk who spilled my coffee and made me late for work.”

  “Ed made you late? Not the fact that you refuse to get up a half an hour early? Or that you insist on bringing in coffee from your fancy place in town instead of drinking what’s in the break room? Or stopping off at a Starbucks drive through instead? What’s so special about that coffee shop, anyway?”

  “I love it there. Sure, Starbucks is great, but I love the hometown feel of Perc Me Up. Leann knows who I am, and she doesn’t even need to ask my order. I step to the counter and she hands me my drink. It’s like I’m home when I’m there.”

  “If Leann makes your coffee, then who the heck is Ed?” She leans against the counter and wiggles her fingers, admiring her own nails, long and painted deep purple. I can’t even wear fake ones. I bite those, too.

  “Ugh. Apparently, Leann called in sick today, and he was manning the place on his own. He had no idea what he was doing and dropped the ball on brewing other pots of coffee. Everyone had to wait for their order. It was a total nightmare.”

  “Oooh, not getting your coffee right away. What a horror show!” She shakes her hands in the air and widens her eyes, then offers me her traditional eye roll. She should trademark the gesture she uses it so much.

  “Stop being so mean.” I throw a fake pout her way as a young woman approaches my counter. A few feet down she picks up moisturizer, reads the back, and sets it back down. After a moment’s hesitation, the bottle is in her hand again, and she’s smelling the lotion. She snaps the container shut and puts it back. I recognize a face like this. She doesn’t know what she wants, but intends to make a purchase today. “Okay, I’m up.”

  The woman is maybe a few years older than me, early thirties if I guess. She’s attractive with brown, straight hair falling right below her shoulders, and bangs that hover above her eyebrows. Her appearance doesn’t fit the mold of the customers we’re used to, but we don’t discriminate when it comes to sales.

  “Do you need help finding anything?” I smile, hoping this is welcoming enough. The wrong tone in a greeting can turn off a customer in a second. Always upbeat and without judgment is what I like to remember when saying hello.

  The woman jumps and puts her hands on her chest. “Oh, you startled me.”


  “I’m sorry. I noticed you browsing the moisturizers. Your skin looks so soft already. Is there something specific you need?”

  The woman touches her face. “Gee, thanks. I don’t think so.” She keeps stroking her cheek as she tries to accept this compliment.

  It’s really not that soft looking, but the more I compliment her, the more likely she is to buy something. I make minimum wage and commission, and more sales equals more money. “Oh, it’s gorgeous! Do you already use a moisturizer?” My goal is to lift her confidence enough that one small negative will cause her to ensue upon a spending spree at my counter.

  “Just something I pick up at the grocery store occasionally. Nothing too expensive.” She lifts her shoulders into a shrug, but I know she wants me to take the hint that price is important to her.

  “Okay, well, you get what you pay for and sometimes those cheap ones barely have anything in them that will help your skin. What’s your name?”

  “Elena.”

  “Nice to meet you, Elena. My name is Whitney.” I shake her hand. I love getting personal with my clients. The more one-on-one I am, the more they buy. “If you want to sit down, I’ll give you a full consultation.”

  She crosses her arms and rubs her elbows. “I don’t know. I’m browsing, that’s it.”

  She’s wavering. I need to reel her in. “No obligation to buy! Please. Sit.” I point to my chair. “Let’s look over your skin and consider what products may work for you. I’ll print out a sheet with all my recommendations, and if you ever come back, you have the recs with you.”

  She hesitates but sits down. For the next twenty minutes, I go over every aspect of her skin, focusing on the crow’s feet. “I guess I never noticed before.”

  I pull out a mirror and show her. “It’s not very defined right now, but as you age, it will become more distinct.”

  The horror in her face says it all. I’ve almost got her. She’s an attractive woman even with the wrinkles. This isn’t what I want—making women feel less of themselves so I can sell a few bottles of whatever my manager is pushing that week. But until I can break out of here into something better, I’ll succumb to the disgusting person I am for doing this.