While I was still wary of Ren, going out to eat was a safer bet than hanging around in my apartment. Banging pots and the sound of cooking was a call that Tink could not refuse. The brownie would make himself known, and I wouldn’t risk that. So I kept Ren in my bedroom while I quickly threw on a pair of jeans, snapped a bra in place under the tank top, and added a loose three-quarter-sleeve shirt.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Well, my hair. It was doing its own thing, curls going everywhere, and I didn’t even attempt to try to tame them into submission. I let them fly. Whatever.
I grabbed an extra iron stake from my dresser and secured it to the inside of my boot. Although I wasn’t hunting, I didn’t want to get caught unprepared.
On the way out, I saw Tink peeking out from behind the couch, and he still had his war paint on, looking like a demented pixie. It took every ounce of self-control not to laugh. As Ren walked outside, I sent Tink a thumbs up, and he responded by doing something inappropriate with his hand. Obviously he didn’t like that I was going out with Ren.
The temps had dropped, and even though it was late, the hole in the wall diner Ren was talking about only had a few booths open. The place smelled good—like food and not a septic system, which is how a lot of places tended to smell. I’d eaten here a few times in the past and the food was good, so Ren was lucky being a newbie to the town and picking a place to eat where you probably wouldn’t get listeria.
We sat down in a booth near the door, the exhausted looking waitress quickly filling our requests—coffee for Ren and a coke for me. “I’ll give you two a couple minutes,” she said, nodding at the grease-stained paper menus resting on a clean table in front of us before spinning around and tackling another set of customers in a nearby booth.
Ren glanced at the menu as he grabbed the white caddy and started pulling out the packets of sugar. “Awesome. They’re serving breakfast.” He ripped a packet open and dumped the sugar in his coffee. “I could go for some grits. What about you?”
“Breakfast does sound good,” I said, and watched as he emptied a second packet into the coffee. “I guess I could eat some gravy and biscuits. And bacon.”
“Extra crispy bacon.” A third packet went into the coffee. “Bacon tastes different here than in Colorado. That might sound stupid, but it’s true.”
“No, you’re right. It does. I guess it’s just the way they fry it.”
He glanced up, and even in the horrible fluorescent lights, his skin still looked golden, as if it were kissed by the sun. I hated to even think about what I looked like or what color of red my hair was in this lighting. “So, you’re not from here?”
YOU ARE READING
Things are about to get Wicked in New Orleans. Twenty-two year old Ivy Morgan isn’t your average college student. She, and others like her, know humans aren’t the only thing trolling the French Quarter for fun… and for food. Her duty to the Order is...