Dont Blame Me

Chapter 22

My little mouse decided to get a change of scenery today. Maybe she wanted to get away from the house that I seem to keep popping up in.
As if sitting outside of a bar and grill is going to keep her safe from me.
I'm just walking down 5th street, passing a lawyer's office, when Mark comes barreling out of the door. We both stop short, inches from colliding with each other.

"Oh, Lola! Didn't see you there. Were you just coming in..." he asks, trailing off and looking behind him at the door to the lawyer's office.

"No, I was on my way back to my car," I lie smoothly, resuming my walk. My car is in the opposite direction, but I will sit in a random ass car if it means keeping Mark away from Bailey's.

"Let me walk with you," Mark smiles, inviting himself on what would've been a pleasant and peaceful stroll to spy on my girl.

Now I have to deal with this fucktwit.
Mark walks alongside me, prattling on about this and that-nothing that I deem important. He must not have many friends. He's a fucking chatterbox and enjoys the sound of his own voice. I bet money he's one of those guys who stand in front of a mirror and give themselves daily pep talks about how he's still got it goin' on.
Bailey's is straight ahead. Right as we come up to the intersection right before the bar and grill, I veer left, deciding to cross the road so we're on the opposite side of the restaurant. But when I go to press the button to signal for the lights to change, Mark stops me.

"Hey, Bailey's is a good place to get drinks. It's been a little while since I've been here."

I keep from gritting my teeth, though all I really want to do right now is grind them to dust. The main reason I don't is because I would no longer be able to bite Rosie's clit.
And I really enjoy doing that.

"It's pretty crowded in there. You sure you don't want to go somewhere else? I know a perfect place a few blocks from here."

Mark waves a hand, already walking across the road towards Bailey's.
Fuck.
I follow after him, opening my mouth and readying to find another reason to opt-out of the restaurant, but he's turning back to me.

"I actually really enjoy the drinks and food here. I come here every so often, and I usually get in no problem. The hostess loves me," he says, ending his statement with a wink.

Yeah, and how many times did you ask her, "Do you know who I am" before she found an empty table?
My guess is at least four times.
Sighing internally, I force a grin as Mark approaches Bailey's restaurant, walking in and right up to the hostess. And just like when an ex walks in unexpectedly, the hostess' smile drops an inch before forcing the most strained smile known to mankind.

"Hi, Mark. Table for two this time?"

"It would appear so," Mark responds with a smartass chuckle. I keep my face blank and pleasant, even as she sighs and leads us to a table out on the patio.

Right where Rosie is.

Thankfully, she doesn't notice us when we arrive, even though we're seated only five tables down. Our table is perpendicular to her, providing the perfect view of her heart-shaped face, abused bottom lip, and the long lashes fanning her cheeks.
She's writing on her laptop, wholly focused on her task and not the world around her. Her bottom lip rolls between her straight teeth. I have the fiercest urge to walk over and take that bottom lip between my own.

Despite my obsession with my little mouse, I keep my eyes off of her. In fact, I make a point to never look in her direction in front of Mark. I got a single look walking in while Mark was ahead of me, and that's the only privilege I gave myself. If he sees me looking at her, she'll be targeted. And the last thing I want is Rosie on any of these shitheads' radars.
As Mark drones on about some bill he doesn't want to pass, a couple and their kid walk past us, the little girl talking animatedly. She looks to be about five years old-cute girl with a ponytail, big doe eyes, and dimples.
I see the sly look on Mark's face before he even registers what he's doing, and it takes physical restraint not to reach across the table, point his butter knife upright and slam his head down on it.
Instead, I make a split-second decision. The family is walking past Mark, beyond his view. When his head swivels back to me, I lean to the side and pretend to check out the little girl. I look just to the right of her at a plate of food-I'd rather slit my own throat than look at a child in a sexual manner-but it looks authentic to Mark.
I let the predatory look linger on those chicken tenders for a few seconds before I'm straightening and feigning innocence. But I feel Mark's gaze burning into me.
As much as it sickens me, I need him to think I have an interest in the depraved things he does.