Page 158 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

“This is absolutely a date.”

“Oh, yeah?” I find myself more talkative around him, though I’m not sure how I feel about that. Normally, I prefer to watch and wait and learn about people before I give them what I think will get them out of my hair the quickest. Or, for people like my boss or Esme, give them what will give them a better opinion of me for the long run.

Larkin is…strange. He makes me feel strange, and I huff out a soft sigh. “How do you figure this is a date?”

“Because I told you it was.” He flashes me a bright smile and sets his menu down. “I’m ready when you are.”

“I didn’t agree to go on one with you.”

“Yet here you are.”

I scoff at that and roll my eyes up at Larkin with a quick shake of my head. “You didn’t give me a fucking choice. I’m only here because you physically dragged me away from what I was doing and took my box cutter.”

His smile widens, and I hate the gleam that makes his dark eyes dance. “So? There’s nothing in the rulebook that says a date has to be fully agreed on by both parties, silly girl. I said it’s a date, so it’s a date.”

Glaring down at the menu, I scoff. “Don’t call me that. I’m not a silly girl. I’m not your babe, I’m not⁠—”

“A fierce little monster with less sense than a rabbit in a trap?” He rests his head on his hands, elbows on the table, as he gazes at me from under his thick lashes. God, he shouldn’t look so perfect. My hands come up to fiddle with my jacket, and with a jolt, I realize it’s his. That takes only a moment to fix, and I launch it across the table to him. To my satisfaction, a sleeve slaps him in the face, causing Larkin to close his eyes and sigh. Carefully, he extricates his jacket from the table without knocking off any silverware, and drops it on the booth beside him.

“Careful, silly girl,” he hums with his eyes darkening in warning. “I’m a bit of an exhibitionist, and if I have to teach you a lesson here⁠—”

“Hi! Welcome to Cider House Grill!” I’ve never been saved by a naïve, over-eager waitress, and her sudden appearance makes me jump. Larkin only glances up at her, though I see his slight frown of disappointment at her arrival.

“Hello,” he greets with a half-sigh. He flashes her a smile that’s definitely not real and looks at me. “Are you ready to order, babe? Or do you need another minute?”

“Oh, that’s okay!” the young girl, who’s maybe eighteen, shoves the pad of paper into her apron like it might be offending us. “Can I just get your drink order?”

“Absolutely. Could I get iced tea? I don’t need any sugar,” Larkin tells her smoothly. “And…” He glances down at the smaller drink menu. “A Black Russian.”

The girl nods, then proceeds to look at me, but I just gaze at her nonplussed, as if I’ve never in my life ordered a fucking drink. “Same,” I say finally, my mind blank. “Not the Black Russian, though. Just the tea.” I definitely don’t need any alcohol in my system tonight, but Larkin gives a little snicker at my reluctance.

“I’ll be right back with those drinks and some bread!” The way-too-chipper girl nearly bounces away, like she’s floating on rainbows and good intentions.

“God, that’s certainly a personality type,” I grumble, my own head going to my hands. I glare down at the menu, then up at Larkin. “And I’m not hungry.”

“You’re hungry,” he disagrees, carefully setting down the drink menu. “Figure out what you want, or I’ll order for you. Would you like that? Because I’m not sure I know you well enough yet to accurately order your food.”

“You don’t.”

“Then be a big girl and look at the damn menu.” His words, full of goading amusement, really fuel my irritation. But I open the menu again, the textured vinyl slapping loudly on the dark green table. Shaking my head, I stare down at it, my eyes barely able to read the items listed.

“I know what I want,” I say before I spot a club sandwich. It’s simple enough and easy enough that I don’t have to be difficult, though I will admit to myself that I’d love to try their bourbon filet.

Not tonight, though.

Maybe another night, when I’m not here with some serial killer who’s maybe a little worse than me. Still, I let my gaze linger, curious about the options.

I don’t need steak tonight.

I just need a fucking steak knife for Larkin.

The waitress comes back while I’m still deciding how I’d like to kill him, and with Larkin apparently pleased to just watch me seethe. When she gives us our drinks, Larkin flashes her a winning smile, and I can see her falter under the brilliance of his charm, just a little. With a quick, guilty glance at me, she sets down my iced tea in front of me.

“The bartender is bringing your drink. I’m, uh, not old enough,” she admits. Her eyes dip to his throat, where the winding lines of tattoos crawl upwards from his hoodie, like they do at his wrists. My curiosity is begging to see what all he has inked on his skin, but I’d rather eat my tongue than ask. “But if you know what you want to eat, I can take your orders.”

“Absolutely. And I’m sorry we took so long.” His charm is nearly blinding, and he lists off his order, a steak of course, without looking back down at the menu. When he’s done, I open my mouth, ready to order my simple sandwich just to be done with this, but Larkin keeps going. “And she’ll have the filet. Medium. With”—he looks at me, studying my face—“the bourbon glaze. Mashed potatoes for her side? Yeah.” He’s not really asking.

“What salad dressing?” the girl asks, and she doesn’t bother to even look in my direction. But Larkin does, one brow raised, apparently inviting me to answer.