Chapter Two Hundred Ninety–Six
ANASTACIA
My clit is still pulsing and my knees are still weak by the time Paul returns from using the men’s room and paying the check. Eyeing him with greedy intent, I lick my lips when my sight falls on the bulge of his biceps that punch against the cotton of his short–sleeved shirt. He had removed his sweater and placed it over his hard on after making me come in a room full of diners. Shifters already run hot as it is, and after the scandalous PDA his skin was fairly burning at the touch. Now, with his vein that runs along his muscles escaping in a trail of hot–blooded bliss from his shoulders to his wrists, I’m almost tempted to forgo the candles in favor of heading back to his place and mapping the damn thing with the tip of my tongue, but I know better.
I need those damn candles.
…And whatever else I might find useful.
A sun crystal might be nice. Some sage…
But I know without asking, I won’t find any of that here. Pity. It would have been nice to find a kindred spirit amongst these folk.
Taking stock of all the eyes around us, I notice they are no longer staring at me the way they were only seconds ago. Paul’s return to my side seems to have reinstalled their table side manners. But moments ago, when Paul left me sitting here alone, the entire place turned toward me. Sizing me up to study me as if it were their job to weigh my worth. Making sure I was good enough for their Pretty Paul local shifter. It leaves me wondering how many of these humans know what he is.
Although the people have appeared to lose interest in me, I can almost feel their hesitance when they glance my way.
They want to know what makes me special.
The tables are full in this place and there are a number of families lined up outside. Not surprised though, the food was pretty damn good. It could have used a bit more heat to it, just a dash or two of cayenne pepper would have done the trick. But I’m no Gordon Ramsay, so
what do I know?
Paul slaps a hundred dollar bill down on the table and then reaches his hand out for me. I squint at the enormous amount, then lift my gaze to scan the floor for our waitress. The New Orleans inside of me saying, this kind of tip shouldn’t be left unattended.
To my relief, she makes an appearance by the time I stand up. “Oh!” she says, lifting the bill and throwing a wary look around the room. Her lovely hazel eyes go straight for me and she smiles, “This is too much, but thank you so much. I really need it right now.”
What?
She thinks I gave it to her!?
As I open my mouth to correct her mistake, Paul yanks me forward and says, “I told her she was crazy, but she insisted.”
Really? You sweet devil of a man.
He knows she would hate it if it came from him, so he lied.
Kendall’s eyes flare with anger that she turns his way. “She’s too good for you, Paul, and if you ever come back here without her, I’ll give you to Charlotte.”
Then she dashes away with our plates, the heaviness of her emotions fading with her steps.
Paul’s eyes are glowing with mischief and that’s the only warning I get before he tosses me into his arms again and the two of us head
outside.
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Chapter Two Hundred Ninety–Six
I ask, “Why does she hate you so much?”
Paul laughs, “It’s not me she hates. At least I don’t think.”
“Hmm,” I murmur as he places me in the jeep and buckles me in like a child. “She’s so sad. I wonder why.”
Paul’s back jerks as he steps away, his spine going straight
us
I simply shrug, not willing to give up all my secrets so easily. “Where to now?”
“There’s only one place that might have everything you need and everything-” he pauses, his eyes going dark with heat as he appraises me “-that I need to see you in.” Paul grins, his blue eyes flashing. “Seattle, baby.”
KENDALL
“Sweetheart, I’m going to need you to stay late. I want you for the evening shift,” Hugh says, eyeing me up as he walks in the door of the diner that serves as my daytime hell.
I’m pregnant, nauseous, lonely, sad, and not in the fucking mood, but I ignore his leering gaze along with his soon–to–be denied request in favor of giving my regulars the undivided attention they deserve. While I finish jotting down their order, I work to control the roiling in my gut that has nothing to do with this pitiful pit stop’s fish grease smell, and everything to do with the sloppy sometimes manager who is the owner’s son. Smiling at Old Bob and Michelle Gordon, I refill their coffees and count to five before spinning around.
Fuck, he’s still standing there.
“A word, Kendall,” Hugh spits (and I mean literally drools) out.
“Busy, Hugh,” I toss, shaking my pen in the air.
Lord when is this place going to get with the times and invest in the twenty–first century? My flippin‘ hand is cramping up. We need tablets asshole! And another POS! Maybe a clover or two or three.
“Can’t do it, Hugh” I say snidely.
He grins, not deterred in the least, even with his snaggle–tooth on full display. “A full ten hour shift, Sugar Tits. Amber called off and Deana is busy so that leaves you.”
Amber called off??? Again!!! Fucking cunt.
“First of all,” I hiss, stepping into the alcove so that the customers can’t hear me. “Do not ever call me Sugar Tits. My name is Kendall.”
Hugh chuckles, his crooked smile flashing so broadly it sends spittle dribbling down his chin. “I like Sugar Tits better.”
“Uh–huh. Well, they don’t like you, so get over that.”
His gaze narrows and he steps so close I’m forced to back into the wall, a hot pot of coffee still in my grip.
TIT accidentally splash you… you slimy little fucktard.
Calm down. You only have to put up with his crap a little longer. Soon his mama will be back from her vacation and he’ll be heading back to Seattle. The prick.
“They haven’t even had the chance to get to know me,” Hugh says, backing away when Charlotte comes barreling through with a tray full of plates.
2/4
Chapter Two Hundred Ninety–Six
I take advantage of that moment and dip into the kitchen to pretend to search for table seven’s order, an order I know I have yet to put in. Locking eyes with Doug, the Papa Smurf of the Land Ho Diner, I send Bim a glaring SOS with my mind powers. He nods handing me a random plate of hash browns that we both know he’ll have to cook all over again and I tip him with a grateful smile.
PS
Turning around, I nearly slam right into Hugh. “Fuck Hugh! Damn it!” slip a little on the greasy floor and stumble right into him, despite that I’m wearing shoes that are literally made not to slide.
“Not while on the clock, darling,” Hugh jeers, his hands locking on my ass to steady me. He’s effectively blocking my escape route and after noting he is not wearing proper footwear, I fantasize about giving him a shove. “So like I said. I need you here until closing.”
I shake my head. “Nope. Sorry, I just got a second job Hugh, and it’s too early for me to miss work. Can’t help you.” Then I bank left, dodging behind Charlotte who appears to be returning for the very same hash browns that I now hold in my hand. High tailing it out of the kitchen and back onto the floor, I release a breath of relief and serve the hash browns to Charlotte’s table that I know has been waiting. The smell of fresh grilled salmon hits my nose and my stomach plummets. Twirling and curling until I’m dizzy from the stench.
Oh shit. Not again.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
With a twirl and slide worthy of the Ice Capades, I skirt toward the customer’s restroom in the back. My steps are light at first, slow and steady, but the closer I get to salvation and that little stick woman in the skirt, the faster my feet become. Blasting through the shit brown restroom door, I hear it as it swings shut, hitting someone behind me with the force of raging bull.
“Damn it!” Hugh’s voice echoes into the potpourri scented haven beyond.
I don’t have time to think about him, nor the creepy realization that he was totally following me into the ladies‘ room. In fact, I hardly have time to kneel as I crumble into the first available stall and send a prayer to the ivory Gods above that whomever was in here before me shot all their nasty down the drain and not along the seat like the last time.
Unfortunately, I don’t have time to check.
My breakfast spews out of me like water from a busted fire hydrant and sploshes back up into my face in a mingle of toilet water and half digested oats. My hands claw the seat as I retch over and over again, the automatic flushing system roaring beneath my chin. Believe or not, it’s powerful enough to spray me in the face with a fine mist of cold air until a yoke like serum dispels from my lips and I’m left gasping for breath, my chin resting on the all too warm porcelain throne.
“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” I say when the heaving finally stops and my stomach stops cramping.
The soft slap of footsteps and creaking of rusted hinges tells me someone new has just entered the restroom, but I can’t seem to find the strength to care, so I remain there in worship, the stall open at my back and my face hunkered over the oasis as it continues to flush.
“Oh my God, Ken. Are you alright?” A voice sounds behind me and I know without looking that it’s Charlottle. Fuck… God, really? Why her? “What are you doing? Did you throw up?”
No bitch, I’m thirsty.
“I’ll be fine,” I sputter. “I just need a moment. I just need… a second…”
She yelps as if she’s just made some grand connection, the neurons firing to life in her tiny little mind. “You’re pregnant!”
Shit. Now the whole goddamned town is going to know.
