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No wonder his granny paid me so much. It wasn’t just for peace of mind and to make a point about lawsuits and whatnot. It was because the damn necklace has bad voodoo attached, and she knew I’d be risking my ass to handle the freaking thing. Why the necklace? Why couldn’t she just have me steal a pair of boxers or something? Whyyyyy the cursed necklace?
“Are you coming?” Kirian asks, his dark brow arched.
His face is chiseled into an expression somewhere between curiosity and wonder, and he’s looking at me funny. I mean, not really, but I feel like it’s funny because it makes me feel weird to have his aqua eyes—I’m settling for something token right now—on me. They’re unsettling, and I’m unsettled because this whole thing is anything but settling.
Just when I think I can come up with an answer, the breeze shifts, rustling a strand of Kirian’s mahogany hair. It’s also a token word to describe the softest looking strands of dark brown hair shot through with coppery gold hues that the sun brings out because it’s shining on him at just the right angle. It’s like even the weather agrees with him. My mouth goes so dry that I have zero hope of responding.
I can’t just walk away without knowing if I’m fucked because I’m now cursed. I can’t. I want to, but who’d be able to sleep at night knowing a thing like that? I once read an article about an artifact whose owners always ended up dying young. Not that I am the owner of the stupid cursed necklace, but Kirian did say I might be cursed.
So I give a tight nod and fall into step behind Kirian.
Yes, behind him.
And my god, I think his tight behind in those expensive pants which fit just right, attached to the longest, strongest legs that extend from a tapered torso with the broadest shoulders and an athletic waist, should be one of the new wonders of the world.
Great. Now I’m going to be thinking about his ass of wonders all morning. Maybe that’s better than thinking about being cursed.
Yeah, his ass needs to be put in a museum somewhere—the museum of asses—where they can be mounted and set on the wall with those incredible, gorgeous, expensive, and probably tailor-made pants. The tailors tailored them to fit alright. My god, did they ever.
Somewhere close to the coffee shop, which is at the end of the block, luckily enough, so we don’t have to go far, I manage to pull my mind out of the gutter—the ass gutter. I even manage to walk in behind Kirian and find my voice to order a chai tea with extra cream. When Kirian mumbles that he’s paying, I change my mind and get a cinnamon bun, two brownies, a carrot cake muffin, two slices of a lemon loaf, four tuna wraps with just the tuna, hold everything else, including the sauce, and a piece of coffee cake to go. I also get a slice of sticky toffee pudding with extra caramel sauce for here.
I can feel Kirian’s eyes on me. They’re probably big and assessing, wondering who the heck will eat all that, plus the tuna. The tuna is for the cats, but he does not need to know that. I can undo the wraps and give the tuna to them when I get home. The treats, well, most of them are for the neighbors. They have six, yes six, little kids. They live in a tiny house and drive a run-down car, so I can’t imagine they splurge for overpriced treats very often, if ever. I have not interacted directly with them much, but the CCTV cameras have shown me glimpses of their lives.
“Can we eat outside?” I ask when I have my tea in one hand and the bag of treats plus the plate with the sticky toffee pudding in the other. “Inside makes me nervous.”
“Right,” Kirian sighs. He has a plain black coffee, which I consider to be disgusting. I mean, the coffee in general, and the fact that he’s going to be drinking it straight up like someone who likes the dark, bitter, and nasty taste of it. Also, it does not seem like he minds tasting it for the rest of the day, all bitter on his tongue.
Although, I think Kirian’s tongue would be pretty spectacular, even if it was stale, moldy, and tasted like old coffee.
I cut off the moldy thought pattern before it can result in no good and then choose a table outside. There are several inside the small area. This part of the city is no French Quarter, so it’s not set up for tourists. The traffic on the street sends up choking, cloying dust. There are four lanes going, and no one is quiet while they drive. The beautiful morning is ruined by the oppressive heat, sound of whizzing engines, dust thick enough to drink, and a herd of people storming down the sidewalks dressed in business clothes, ready to run the nine to five rat race.
