Blackstar Coffee West End Novels & Stories

The air outside is damp and cold, smelling faintly of rain. The car across the street—the black one, tinted windows—sits where it always does. I force myself not to look at it twice. West End Café is only fifteen minutes away. And "Mr. Black" is waiting. ——— CAINE I arrive early, of course. Always early. The West End Café hums with the mid-morning crowd—students with laptops, retirees lingering over newspapers, a few suits huddled over espresso shots. Ordinary. Safe. That's what makes it perfect.

I asked unsure if I heard him right. “Black, no cream.” I accepted the card and opened the car, the soft warm breeze washed over the cold air from the car air conditioner. The coffee shop looked sophisticated as the door parted open, I stepped inside and took in the interior, it was dark and had too many complex designs if you asked me. I walked up to the counter where a barista was waiting to attend to me with a warm smile. “You’re here for Mr. Greene’s coffee.” The mans name tag read Peter, he was blonde with bright blue eyes and clean shaved face.

He'd spent three years at Caruso's learning which regulars needed to be seen and which ones needed to be let alone, and they were not always the people who talked the most. "Marcus," he said. "Is there a coffee place near here that's actually good? Not a good hotel lobby. Actually, it's good." Marcus looked up. For the first time all morning, his expression was uncomplicated. "Yes," he said. "Walk west on Fifty-First, right on Eighth. There's no sign. Just a green awning. Ask for the single origin." "Thank you." "Don't tell Mr. Reed I sent you. He'll want a report on it." He turned back to his tablet. "He has opinions about coffee that take longer to express than they probably should."

Okay, a black coffee it is. I found myself walking to the direction where the coffee corner is. And when I got there, I quickly made a black coffee for it is what his majesty ordered. In the coffee corner, a coffee machine can be found and there's also a coffeemaker. Everyone was grateful for this coffee corner when Blaise proposed it to Mr. Easton. And since that day, some workers started being on overtime often. With the coffee cup held by my hand, I carefully walked towards Mr. Easton's office. And when I entered his office, I found him standing behind his swivel chair. Facing the glass window with his right hand in his pocket.

"There's my citation. But hey, can I bribe you with some coffee? My treat, of course." She shrugged. "Sure." "What's your poison?" "You know what? It's Sunday, and I'm working, so let's go nuts. I'll take a caffe mocha, no whipped cream." "Done and done. Settle in, and I'll be right back." I put in our order -- a black coffee for me, just so I'd be getting something and not look suspicious returning with only one cup -- and waited. It didn't take long; the baristas were in the zone, moving the line like the pros they were. I took our drinks over to the counter, grabbed napkins, straws, cream and sugar to give me something to do with my hands so my shaking didn't give away my panic, and oh ye

Huge windows decorated with complicated carvings of wolves, vines, stars, and moons. The café had a big sign. It was the silhouette of a black howling wolf with « Crossroad café » written with a bright yellow. She wondered what was the link between a wolf and a crossroads. The logo did not make sense to her. Old Al’ made a sound and she realized that she did not move, too engrossed by the beauty of the café. She joined them as the old man opened the door where a warm atmosphere welcomed them. Bianca got stuck again by the interior. It was everything that she liked. A rustic decoration with massive pieces of wood. A huge bar with an impressive range of drinks from coffee to strong alcohol.