The Beast
Page 92
Leading the way over to where you ordered, he smiled at the twenty-year-old in her poodle skirt—and then really wished he hadn’t.
“Oh!” was all she seemed to be able to say as she stared across the tubs of ice cream in their glass-topped refrigerator units.
“I’d like to try out some samples?” he asked.
And could you please, please, please stop looking at me like that? The only whipped cream you’re putting on anything goes on my banana split.
No, not that banana split . . .
And you can skip the nuts—
Okay, come on, was he really arguing with himself over his own innuendos here—
“As many as you like.” She actually batted her eyelashes. “What flavors? And you can try the sprinkles out, too. If you want?”
The words were spoken fast and accented by all kinds of leaning over and flashing everything that that little button-down tucked into that big skirt failed to cover.
“Let me ask my wife.” He deliberately used the human term. “Mary?”
Mary’s smile was easy and relaxed and he loved that about her—she was so confident in herself and his love for her, she never balked, no matter how many females got up in his grille. “I’m fine with chocolate-chocolate chip in a waffle cone.”
“Bitty? Would you like to branch out from vanilla?”
The little girl surprised him by stepping in close. “I think . . . yes, could I please try some?”
As Bitty stared up at the human female, the waitress straightened a little, like the dimmer switch on her libido had been cranked down some. “You want me to get you and your dad a sampler? I’ll bring it over and you can try ’em at the table.”
Everyone froze. Him. Mary.
No, wait, Bitty didn’t freeze. “He’s not my dad. But yes, please.”
The human didn’t seem to care one way or the other. She just turned around and got out a little tray with twelve different tiny paper cones arranged in a cardboard holder.
He’s not my dad.
The words had come out smoothly and without hesitation, as if Bitty were naming a destination on a map or pointing out a book on a shelf. Meanwhile, Rhage was still stopped in his tracks as the mini-scooping was done, and the tray was set on the counter, and Mary’s waffle cone was delivered into her ever-so-slightly trembling hand.
As their eyes met, it was obvious she was worried about him, and he was a little worried, too. He felt like he’d been sucker punched in the gut.
“—table?”
Shaking himself, he looked at the waitress. “I’m sorry?”
“Do you want to take this with you? I mean, I can carry it to your table if you want.”
“No, no, it’s fine. Thanks. I’ll be back to order more and then we’ll pay?”
“Sure. Fine.”
The whatever was silent. Not that he gave two shits.
Over at the table by the rear emergency exit—which he chose out of habit in case, you know, the ten remaining lessers in the city of Caldwell happened to bust through that pink door looking for a rocky road—he put the tray down and handed a pink spoon to Bitty.
“Have at it. And then you can tell me what you want in a cone or a sundae, or decide you’re full enough.”
Bitty just stared at the display of various colors and textures. From the brilliant greens of pistachio and mint chocolate chip, to the beach-sunset coral of some kind of sherbet and the cheery pink of strawberry, it really was a fine representative sample.
“Where do I start?” she asked.
“Anywhere,” Mary said as she sat with her cone.
“You want me to go first?” he asked.
“Yes. Please.”
Yeah, wow, for the first time in recorded history, he faced off at ice cream and had no interest in it.
“I guess I’ll start here,” he murmured, spooning up something that didn’t register on his tongue in the slightest.
“Is it good?” Bitty asked.
“Ah, sure. Absolutely.”
When she leaned in and put her pink spoon into the half he’d left behind, he glanced across at Mary. His shellan was focused on Bitty, as if something in the way the little girl tried the dessert might offer some important clue as to how the mourning was going. And it was funny . . . as he looked back and forth between the two, he was amazed as he noticed for the first time that they both had brown hair.
In fact, Bitty looked as if she could be . . .
Yeah. Wow.
He needed to pull back here. After all, there were how many vampires on the planet? And humans? So the fact that the pair of them both happened to be female and both had dark hair as opposed to blond or red or straight-up black was not a huge surprise.
There was, he told himself firmly, absolutely nothing cosmic or preordained about the three of them sitting here in this ice cream shop—other than the fact that the particular kind of dessert served under this pink roof just happened to prove the existence of a benevolent God.
“—please?”
“What?” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m distracted by the menu above that counter over there.”
“I think I like the chocolate–chocolate chip the best?” Bitty said.
Rhage glanced at Mary again and then had to look away. “Consider it done. In a cup or a cone?”
“I think . . .”
Waffle, he finished in his head.
“Waffle,” Bitty said.
“Roger that.”
“Oh!” was all she seemed to be able to say as she stared across the tubs of ice cream in their glass-topped refrigerator units.
“I’d like to try out some samples?” he asked.
And could you please, please, please stop looking at me like that? The only whipped cream you’re putting on anything goes on my banana split.
No, not that banana split . . .
And you can skip the nuts—
Okay, come on, was he really arguing with himself over his own innuendos here—
“As many as you like.” She actually batted her eyelashes. “What flavors? And you can try the sprinkles out, too. If you want?”
The words were spoken fast and accented by all kinds of leaning over and flashing everything that that little button-down tucked into that big skirt failed to cover.
“Let me ask my wife.” He deliberately used the human term. “Mary?”
Mary’s smile was easy and relaxed and he loved that about her—she was so confident in herself and his love for her, she never balked, no matter how many females got up in his grille. “I’m fine with chocolate-chocolate chip in a waffle cone.”
“Bitty? Would you like to branch out from vanilla?”
The little girl surprised him by stepping in close. “I think . . . yes, could I please try some?”
As Bitty stared up at the human female, the waitress straightened a little, like the dimmer switch on her libido had been cranked down some. “You want me to get you and your dad a sampler? I’ll bring it over and you can try ’em at the table.”
Everyone froze. Him. Mary.
No, wait, Bitty didn’t freeze. “He’s not my dad. But yes, please.”
The human didn’t seem to care one way or the other. She just turned around and got out a little tray with twelve different tiny paper cones arranged in a cardboard holder.
He’s not my dad.
The words had come out smoothly and without hesitation, as if Bitty were naming a destination on a map or pointing out a book on a shelf. Meanwhile, Rhage was still stopped in his tracks as the mini-scooping was done, and the tray was set on the counter, and Mary’s waffle cone was delivered into her ever-so-slightly trembling hand.
As their eyes met, it was obvious she was worried about him, and he was a little worried, too. He felt like he’d been sucker punched in the gut.
“—table?”
Shaking himself, he looked at the waitress. “I’m sorry?”
“Do you want to take this with you? I mean, I can carry it to your table if you want.”
“No, no, it’s fine. Thanks. I’ll be back to order more and then we’ll pay?”
“Sure. Fine.”
The whatever was silent. Not that he gave two shits.
Over at the table by the rear emergency exit—which he chose out of habit in case, you know, the ten remaining lessers in the city of Caldwell happened to bust through that pink door looking for a rocky road—he put the tray down and handed a pink spoon to Bitty.
“Have at it. And then you can tell me what you want in a cone or a sundae, or decide you’re full enough.”
Bitty just stared at the display of various colors and textures. From the brilliant greens of pistachio and mint chocolate chip, to the beach-sunset coral of some kind of sherbet and the cheery pink of strawberry, it really was a fine representative sample.
“Where do I start?” she asked.
“Anywhere,” Mary said as she sat with her cone.
“You want me to go first?” he asked.
“Yes. Please.”
Yeah, wow, for the first time in recorded history, he faced off at ice cream and had no interest in it.
“I guess I’ll start here,” he murmured, spooning up something that didn’t register on his tongue in the slightest.
“Is it good?” Bitty asked.
“Ah, sure. Absolutely.”
When she leaned in and put her pink spoon into the half he’d left behind, he glanced across at Mary. His shellan was focused on Bitty, as if something in the way the little girl tried the dessert might offer some important clue as to how the mourning was going. And it was funny . . . as he looked back and forth between the two, he was amazed as he noticed for the first time that they both had brown hair.
In fact, Bitty looked as if she could be . . .
Yeah. Wow.
He needed to pull back here. After all, there were how many vampires on the planet? And humans? So the fact that the pair of them both happened to be female and both had dark hair as opposed to blond or red or straight-up black was not a huge surprise.
There was, he told himself firmly, absolutely nothing cosmic or preordained about the three of them sitting here in this ice cream shop—other than the fact that the particular kind of dessert served under this pink roof just happened to prove the existence of a benevolent God.
“—please?”
“What?” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m distracted by the menu above that counter over there.”
“I think I like the chocolate–chocolate chip the best?” Bitty said.
Rhage glanced at Mary again and then had to look away. “Consider it done. In a cup or a cone?”
“I think . . .”
Waffle, he finished in his head.
“Waffle,” Bitty said.
“Roger that.”
