29. Mac
29
Mac
Date stuff
She stirs as I sit on the bed, fully dressed, putting on my watch. I tug the covers up higher over her back and she opens her eyes, blinks slowly, and smiles. My body responds instantly to the soft, sweet look, humming with warmth and energy. I lean down to kiss her temple.
“What time is it?” the rasp of sleep is thick in her voice. She clears her throat.
“Early. I have to go check on a few things. But I want you to be ready to go tonight at 9 PM.”
The relaxation disappears from her expression and she lifts up off the pillow. “Go?”
“We’re going on a date.”
She falls back down, rolling a little to face me better. A tentative smile lifts the corners of her mouth. “A… date? Like, outside the house? Around… other people?”
I reach out and trace the line of her lovely neck, down her shoulder. “We’re going to try to make this work, right? Well, couples go out on dates. So, we’re going to a restaurant—a good one. It’s some new place, the Rouge something—”
Her eyes go wide. “Rouge Elephant? You got a reservation at Rouge Elephant?!”
“I know a guy.” I give myself a metaphorical pat on the back at her excitement.
“Chef Robert couldn’t get a reservation there for his anniversary,” she says with a chuckle. “He was so pissed that he completely changed the menu to prove we could do Vietnamese fusion, too. We couldn’t.”
“I’m sure you could,” I say .
She grins and flips onto her back, lifting her arms over her head in a stretch that pulls her shirt tight against her breasts. I lock eyes with the little nubs of her nipples poking through the pajama top. “I assume if we’re going out, it’s safe enough?”
“We think so. For this, anyway.”
Still no sign of him in the 36 hours since we struck. Rossi is somewhere licking his wounds and planning his next move. Logic—and lack of activity—indicates he’s at another of his homes.
I specifically selected the time and location for dinner to minimize the risk. She’s unlikely to see anyone she knows at an expensive, fancy restaurant, far from the center of Ulysses, late on a Tuesday.
“If it’s safe, can I have my phone back? I’d like to look up the menu at some point today.”
“I ordered you a new one, it’ll get here tomorrow. Wes is going to set it up for you.”
She sits up at that. “What? Why? I don’t need a new phone—”
“Because you need a way to get ahold of me so you’re not worried like you were the other night, but Wes still thinks it’s better if you don’t use your old phone. We’ll transfer your contacts and everything once this is all over.” And it’ll satisfy that deep, possessive animal inside of me to know that—at least for a little while—mine will be the only contact she has.
“I… I shouldn’t take it—it’s too generous—but you’re talking like it’s already done, so I suppose there isn’t much point in protesting?”
I shake my head.
“Then, thank you.”
After a quick kiss, I’m out the door. I drive to the crime scene first, and I’m not at all surprised to see that the police tape has been removed. The bodies disappeared after about six hours—two guys in official uniforms bagged and tagged them while Officer McCloskey took all the witness statements and his partner spoke to CSI.
I’m not particularly worried about what the law will find. It’ll be obvious, even to the mayor’s nepo-hire for coroner, that a long-range rifle was responsible for the shooting. But I trust McCloskey to do what he can to bury as many details as possible—they were moving a storage unit full of illegal weapons, after all.
Then, it’s off to the Rossi residence for another long day of fucking nothing. The local cable company comes for maintenance on some of the buried lines, but no one else even drives down his street. 7 PM rolls around eventually, and Dimitri relieves me so I can go get ready for my date.
I don’t see her in our room, but I know she was just here from the steam in the air and the heaviness of her scent. I’m running a little behind, so I shower quickly and throw on the jacket, button down and slacks I already picked out. As I’m dressing, it occurs to me that I didn’t consider what she’d wear. Or if she had anything to wear…
Not a problem, evidently. She’s waiting for me in the foyer, and she’s in one of those little black dresses, as they call them.
“How do I look?” she asks, all nervous energy. “I was surprised the dress was packed—it’s, like, the only nice thing I own—and it’s not quite seasonally appropriate, but I couldn’t wear leggings to the Rouge Elephant.”
I have to school my expression, because I think it’s what’s making her anxious. She looks fucking hot, she just looks… well, too fucking hot. There’s definitely a little too much skin showing for the cold weather, and those legs look longer than normal in her heeled ankle boots. I have to swallow the demand that she go put on those leggings she mentioned.
“You look amazing, baby.”
She grins, and it’s so happy and relieved that I feel like an ass. I should have bought her something. Something expensive. Something worthy of her. Something with a fucking floor-length skirt.
“You look amazing, too.”
I hold out my arm and place my hand on her lower back to lead her out to the car. This place is the kind of deal with a dress code, so I decide to take Wes’s rented Mustang to fit in better—he cares a bit more about horsepower and a bit less about being seen since he usually ends up leaving in the van anyway. I open her door, then trot around to my side. The car starts up with a satisfying purr .
As we get onto the highway, I settle my hand on her knee and—just barely—resist the urge to slide it up between her legs. The skin of her thigh is freshly shaved, smooth, and so soft and warm. “So, tell me some things about yourself.”
“Some things?” she repeats with a laugh, looking down at my hand covering her knee. I can tell she likes it. “Like what?”
“Childhood, family, how you got into cooking. Tell me things. Date stuff.”
She inhales and turns her head to stare at the passing streetlights and dark scenery behind it. “Start at the beginning, huh? Okay, well, I grew up around here. I’ve got an older sister, she was always my best friend growing up…” she trails off with a laugh, “but I was her younger sister so I wasn’t her best friend, ya know?”
I don’t, but I don’t say that. The thought of anyone having her as an option and not picking her is baffling. “Your parents?”
“They’re still together; they did the Jersey thing and moved down to Florida for their retirement. No income tax,” she says, like that explains why someone would move so far from their daughter who clearly needs a little more help and support. “They were around when I was little, but we’re not super close. They just… I don’t know. Mel’s always been the one that needs attention. I always felt like I had to fight to be seen.”
“No wonder you have a praise kink—you were ignored as a child.”
Her jaw drops and she turns to face me. “You… what… Excuse me! Did you just casually turn my whole self-image on its head?”
“As adults, we often want what we didn’t get as children.” I chuckle and give her knee a squeeze. “Go on.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Okay, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to just keep living my life after that revelation. Um, let’s see, you asked how I got into cooking? I guess the same way people get interested in things. I was praised for being good at it early on,” she says with a smirk, letting me know she’s teasing. “I was told I had a good palate and a good nose, but really it fit into this interesting cross section of wanting to experiment and enjoying the process. I find it soothing and challenging. But then I got a job in a kitchen.”
“And now you don’t?”
“Now I… I’m too tired to enjoy the process most of the time. Kitchens are high energy, high emotion, stressful, even a little dangerous with the fire and knives an d all that,” she says, laughing. “It feels silly to say, knowing the relative dangers of our professions.”
“So, you don’t like working in a restaurant kitchen, but that doesn’t mean you don’t like cooking,” I say.
“No, you’re right. I’ve always kind of thought it would be nice to get a private chef type of gig. More freedom, be my own boss, manage the expectations of like four people instead of forty per hour.”
“That does sound better,” I agree. “You’re hired.”
She laughs—like I was kidding—and shifts in her seat to point both knees my way. I take full advantage and move my hand to grab the outside of the other leg. Now they’re pressed against the center console, as close to me as possible.
“I guess it’s why I haven’t been all that worried about losing my job. Maybe it’ll be the kick in the ass I need.”
We chat about the restaurant next, and she admits she never did look up the menu. She starts talking about the different types of fusion food and the ideas she has for different combinations. She’s so animated, so passionate. And even though she cares about food way more than I ever will, I appreciate passion.
Two people don’t need the same interests to be compatible, they both just need to care enough to pay attention while the other person talks about theirs.
The restaurant is a standalone building set back from a main thoroughfare that connects adjacent areas of generational wealth. The architecture has Asian influences, making it feel like the whole place was designed around the type of restaurant it is.
Its distance from Ulysses proper was part of the appeal, and it’s not so far from the house that we can’t make a quick retreat if we need to. I park near the back, open her door and lace our fingers as we walk across the lot. As Eleanor is craning her neck, taking in the two-story ceiling with skylights, I catch a flash of green hair at the hostess stand.
Fuck.
“Reservation? Oh, it’s you. Mr. No-Smell Flowers,” she says, her voice switching over to a purr halfway through, after the surprise of seeing me subsides. She leans forward a little over the stand, letting her eyes drop slowly in an obvious perusal .
“Hello,” I say, aiming for distant but polite. I felt rather than saw Eleanor’s head snap around when the girl spoke. “Two at 9 PM, under Thomas.”
The green-haired girl’s eyes cut to Eleanor. At whatever look they exchange, she smirks a little, and looks down at her seating chart. “Sure, you and your sister can follow me.”
“She’s my date,” I correct, but the girl has already grabbed two menus and taken off through the loud restaurant.
Eleanor glances at me. “Friend of yours?” she asks lightly. She’s trying not to make it too obvious, but I can hear the edge of jealousy.
“Nope.” I guide her forward with a hand at the small of her back.
Our table is towards the back, with a view of the open kitchen, tucked between some tropical plants and an indoor pond. “There’s fish!” Eleanor points out to me in a low but excited voice, pointing down at the koi weaving through the lily pads.
The hostess hands us the burgundy cloth menus with Rouge Elephant embossed in gold after we sit. “Can I get you anything?” she asks me—only me—leaning over the table and giving me a view down her shirt that I pointedly ignore. “Maybe a drink while you wait for your server?”
I clear my throat and press my lips together at Eleanor’s displeased expression. “I’m all right. But maybe for my girlfriend? You want anything, darlin’?” I extend my hand across the table to her.
Her expression is pure gratification as she reaches forward and places her fingers in my palm. She smiles at me, which turns slightly more spiteful when she looks at the hostess. The girl’s eyes have dropped to our intertwined hands and her lips have flattened to a line.
“Is there anything you recommend?” Eleanor asks, obviously enjoying the girl’s newfound discomfort. Gotta say, jealous Eleanor is really turning me on.
“Uh, people like our lychee martini.” The green hair gets a flip and, though she moves to turn towards Eleanor, she doesn’t look right at her.
“Sounds delicious, I’ll have that.”
“Someone will be right with you.” With one last glance my way, she leaves.
“Girlfriend?” Eleanor asks, cocking her head .
I chuckle, lifting her hand to my lips. “Doesn’t feel like quite the right word, does it? I thought about calling you Mrs. Thomas, but that’s not my name and that finger doesn’t have my ring.” Yet.
Her chest heaves a huge breath and her cheeks turn pink as she retracts her hand. “Wait, Thomas? That was my grandfather’s name. Did you—”
I grin and pick up the menu. “So, what do we have here?”
With a little tinkling laugh, Eleanor opens her own book and stares down. After a minute or so, she sighs. “It all sounds so amazing. I would seriously order everything on this menu—it’s going to be really hard to choose.”
A few minutes later, our waiter comes to the table. He makes some small talk, takes our drink orders and I hand him my menu. “We’ll just have one of everything.”
Eleanor’s mouth pops open. “Wh—” she starts, staring at me blankly.
The waiter, too, is dumbfounded. “Really?”
I just nod.
“Any allergies? Special requests?”
I look at Eleanor, and, still making a surprised face, she shakes her head. The waiter grins. “So cool, I can’t wait to tell the Chef. I’ll have the appetizers out as they’re ready.”
He leaves and I sit back in my chair. Her surprise has melted into something else and she’s biting her lip as she looks at me. “You’re spoiling me.”
“That’s the plan. I do love spoiling my girl.”
She shifts on her chair and, between that and her face flushing I realize that she’s getting a little turned on. “I guess I just thought I was too… um, unremarkable?”
I laugh and lean forward in my chair so she’ll still hear me when I lower my voice. “Eleanor, are you trying to ask for a spanking?”
“Maybe?” she bites her lip again and looks down.
“See, that’s the problem with bratting,” I shake my head. “You think you can say the right thing and get me to do what you want, but you’re playing with fire. Me? I don’t like brats. I like good girls who do what they’re told. So, the more infractions, the harsher the punishment. It’s only a gentle warning the first time.”
She inhales sharply and glances around, checking to ensure that no one is close enough to hear. She leans forward, mirroring me, and this time when the dip in a dress presents me with a perfect, deep view of cleavage, I look. The roundness of her breasts spilling out the middle of a black lace bra is hypnotic. “How do I ask for a spanking, then?”
I groan, barely resisting the urge to pull her in. Especially when I feel her foot on my calf, rubbing up and down. “You say, ‘Mac, have I been a good girl?’ and you let me decide if you deserve it.”
I watch her work the swallow down her throat and lick her lips. “Mac, have I been a good girl?”
My dick twitches and I grin. “Absolutely fucking not.” It’s going to be torture, sitting three feet from her and not touching her, and I decide I need her to feel it too, even when she’s overwhelmed by what is sure to be an incredible meal. “But you can do something to help your case. Take your panties off and give them to me.”
“What, here?” Her eyes go wide and she sits back. She glances to the side that’s open to the rest of the restaurant, then down at the long tablecloth obscuring both of our legs, assessing the likelihood that someone will see her do it.
“Right here, right now. Better decide quickly, too. The appetizers will probably start coming out soon.”
It only takes her another heartbeat to choose. She wriggles in the seat, trying to keep her movements subtle and not jostle the table. The cloth moves over her lap and she curves her back as her hands slide the material down her legs.
“Ma’am, your martini.” Someone different than our waiter steps around the plants and deposits a frosty glass in front of Eleanor.
Her face has drained of color other than the two bright red spots at the top of each cheek. “Thanks,” she whispers, sounding caught and mortified.
I grab his attention so she can finish her task, wherever she’s paused in it. “Excuse me? I’ll take one of those, too, it looks good. Though I don’t need the lychee at the bottom. Can you do that?”
“Of course, Sir.”
“Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“Um… I don't think so…”
“Sure. You’re Billy’s kid, right?”
“No, sorry. You’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”
I shrug, seeing Eleanor is finished. “My mistake.”
She straightens just as he turns around and nods at her before leaving. I chuckle, then feel the press of something at my crotch. When I look down, her boot is between my legs and the black lace panties are hooked around the toe. “I’m impressed,” I admit, grabbing the fabric and stuffing it into my pocket.
“I don’t think he saw. Oh God, that was almost so bad,” she groans. “But also… kind of hot?”
I laugh and, after a second, she joins me.
90 minutes, 16 delicious dishes, and several almost-sexual moans of pleasure from Eleanor later, we both sit back with our hands on our stomachs, too full for another bite.
“I have to admit, I was a little concerned when the fifth entree came out. Luckily, it’s a fancy place so the menu is small. And I forgot what a bottomless pit you are,” she says, eyeing the mostly-empty plates on the table. “I’m honestly a little bummed there isn’t any cassoulet left. I wanted to try to recreate the spice blend.”
“Order another to go,” I say simply, with a shrug.
“Oh my God, I can’t,” she says. That flush is creeping towards her ears, exacerbated by the rich food and alcohol. She glances up as the waiter comes to clear the table, thanking him.
“Everything was fantastic and you did a great job,” I tell him as he piles empty plates. “We’ll take the check when you get a minute.”
When I look back up, Eleanor is smiling at me. The heat in her eyes hasn’t disappeared all evening, but it’s shifted a bit. “What?”
“Coming from someone who’s worked in a service industry, you can tell a lot about someone from how they treat wait staff. Sometimes people come into the restaurant and act like they were never taught manners, but you’re polite and kind—you gave him a compliment on his service… I just, I would have noticed and I would have appreciated it. I do appreciate it. Thank you for dinner. This was truly amazing—by far the best date I’ve ever been on.”
Pride swells my chest. “First of many. I’m going to use the restroom, be right back.”
She nods and sits back in her seat .
The bathrooms are down a short hall from the kitchen, and catch some of the echoing noise from it. Pots clanging, people shouting, water rushing… it sounds like pure chaos and I’m not terribly surprised it grates on Eleanor.
I do my business, wash my hands, and step through the door, just as someone passes by the end of the hallway, headed back through the kitchen doors. I have to steel myself not to react as another man approaches the bathroom and I move out of his way.
That looked a lot like Owen Johnson.
I walk quickly, my stomach dropping as I do. If that was Owen, this isn’t good. I glance out into the dining room, and see Eleanor staring at the pond. The tables have started really clearing out for the night with the kitchen closing soon, and a quick sweep of the room confirms that there’s no imminent threat to her.
So, I follow him into the kitchen. I pull out my phone and shoot off a text to Dimitri, then push through the swinging doors. They open into the heart of the kitchen, with a line of cooks in all white barely visible behind stainless steel shelves in front of me, and a long stretch curving to the left, leading to an external door. That door is swinging shut.
“Whoa! Hey, you can’t be back here,” says a short woman in all black, taking out an earbud with one hand and holding a filthy mop in the other.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, giving her a charming smile as I hold up my phone. “But did a man just come through here? I think he dropped this.”
She glances at the phone, then points towards the door. “He just went out that way.” She puts her earbud back in and resumes pushing the dirty water on the floor back and forth in front of her.
I trot towards the door and open it cautiously, aware that I don’t know what the back of this suburban building opens up to. It’s dark, the only light coming from the very back of the parking lot on my left, but I can make out a man disappearing around the other corner. A plume of smoke from his lit cigarette is following him as he goes.
I creep behind him when he clears the side and I know he won’t be able to see me. I have to avoid some lingering snow piles and trash on the pavement, and tuck my head down in my shirt so the steam of my breath doesn’t give me away. I pause to listen.
“—can’t believe he’s still keeping his fucking dinner date.”
“Fuck off, man, it’s dinner with the Mayor, Boss couldn’t cancel.”
“Yeah, but with all that shit that went down Sunday night? It was a fucking massacre. Frank’s right—we should be out there, finding those fuckers—”
Fuck. Three of Rossi’s men—two who either weren't there or I let live. And they’re not just here, they’re sweeping the place, keeping guard. There’s really only one thing that means. Rossi is here.
I need to get back to the table. I need to get Eleanor the fuck out of here. I glance down to fire off one more text to Dimitri, looping Wes in, too.
“What the fuck do we have here?”
Sometimes, you don’t get a choice for your next move. Sometimes, it chooses you.