I’m tempted to argue, but I settle on a scowl speaking for me. Just so he knows he’s not the only one who knows how to make moody faces.
The diner is basically empty this time of night. Only a man in a trucker’s hat sits at the counter, hunched over a plate of steak and eggs like it’s the best meal of his life. An exhausted-looking waitress is behind the counter refilling his coffee.
Otherwise, it’s just me, Killian, and the awkward air that exists between us.
We settle into one of the vinyl booths by the window, the cheap seats squeaking under us we plop down.
Killian once again manages to make something sized for a normal adult human look comically small.
He’s obviously familiar with this place, snatching one of the laminated menus from the napkin holder on the table. We’re silent as he studies the menu, and I sit across from him still unsure what the hell’s going on.
I have no money to pay for this meal. The little money Idohave is going toward my plans for Eva. I can’t spare anything for this diner, even the $8.99 French toast special advertised in the window.
The waitress from behind the counter makes her way over to us. She’s young, with a septum piercing and her hair in a loose ponytail, probably a college student working the late shift to pay for textbooks and ramen. She pulls a notepad from her apron and offers us a weary smile.
“What can I get you?”
Killian glances at me. “What do you want?”
The question catches me off guard. I blink at him as if he’s asked a question in another language. My mind’s gone blank as I try to make sense of what he means.
What do I want?
I can’t remember the last time someone asked me that. When I was with Fedorov, I ate what he told me to eat. There was no menu or room for preferences. Just whatever plate was put in front of me, consumed in silence while he leered.
I wasn’t allowed an opinion on the food. I wasn’t allowed an opinion on anything.
The last time I ordered for myself off a restaurant menu, I was fourteen and Mom had taken me out for my birthday...
“I’ll… um, have whatever you’re having,” I finally croak. I’m vaguely aware how small and pitiful I sound.
Killian’s heavy brow furrows as if he’s once again thinking about how difficult I make everything. He heaves a ragged breath, though doesn’t push the issue any further.
“Two bacon and eggs specials scrambled easy. Orange juice for me,” he grunts. Then he juts his chin at me. “You want orange juice?”
Still unsure, I manage a nod.
“Two orange juices.”
The waitress scribbles it down and shuffles off toward the kitchen, leaving us alone again.
That’s when it hits me, and I finally get why we’re here.
He knows I’m hungry.
It’s been almost three days since my last real meal. Three days of surviving on vending machine chips, stale pretzels from the pub, and half a brownie Bridget decided she was done with. I’d watched her set it down on the bar, stomach aching from hunger, and then shoved the whole thing in my mouth before she could toss it in the trash.
I’ve grown so used to being hungry in recent months it’s become my normal. It’s almost stranger to feel full, as disturbing as that sounds.
Killian must’ve somehow noticed. Maybe my stomach’s been growling louder than I realized.
But it doesn’t even matter how he’s figured it out—it makes me uncomfortable just the same. I shift in my seat and divert my gaze to the grease-speckled window.
It’s obviously a sign of kindness for him to take me out to grab a bite. He’s a gruff and foul-mouthed boxer who also works for the Irish mob. Yet he’s given me a roof over my head (even if I didn’t ask for it), and now he’s feeding me.
It’s just that… in my experience, when men do nice things for you, they expect something in return. Usually things you’d never want to give them. A lesson I learned very early in life.
Still, I should be grateful for the food. I should cool it with the attitude, at least for now.
