Page 3 of My Indecent Valentine

I turn off the entryway lights and double-check the bolt on the front door. A quick glance around, and I know I’m alone. I slump. My head drops, and the curves of my horns knock against the heavy wooden door. I let loose the defeated groan that’s been rattling the cage of my stomach for the past half hour. It feels good and awful at the same time.

Ollas Encendidas might have been Sofia’s dream first, but it’s become mine, too, and tonight, I had to shake hands and smile at guest after guest, carrying off our night’s profits in doggie bags. It’s been one financial hit after another. Almost three years in, and I’m still pouring money into this place. Sofia doesn’t know it yet, but we’re slowly sinking.

I tried to cut our losses by crowding extra tables onto the floor, but that’s caused its own problems. It’s clear now we would have needed a bigger place for that strategy to work. I should have known better. I should have scaled back, not scaled up. Her menu is perfection. Diners rave over her food and return again and again. Everything that’s going wrong is my fault. What good is a demon whose businesses falter? As useful as a match that doesn’t strike. My throat constricts against a knot of self-reproach.

It was always going to fail. It’s a dark thought, and I shake my head, trying to dislodge it. My horns scrape against the wood, and in the rasp, I hear my father’s words. “A passion project is a bad investment. Always.” I’ve already proved him right once, in my early twenties, when I naively attempted to open a pretentious craft cocktail lounge. Failure loomed over it like a cloud from day one. When I finally mustered the courage to tell him my partner and I had gone bankrupt, he sneered in disgust. “I told you.” It took me a decade to earn my fortune back, and after that, I swore off any business endeavor involving art, food, or entertainment. Too risky.

Then I met Sofia.

Our last ray of hope on the horizon is Valentine’s weekend, two days from now. The special menu is triple our usual tasting menu price, available only Friday through Sunday. We extended our hours and still managed to fully book all three nights. We’re even expecting a number of celebrities. Valentine’s will put us back in the black unless, of course, we’re closed, which we definitely will be if we can’t get the halo working.

I pull myself away from the door and go in search of Sofia. If I know my wife, she’ll be channeling her frustration into the clean-up. Greasy surfaces, beware. She’s coming for you.

The stage kitchen is empty, so I head to the back of the house, walking through the banging and clanging of the wash stations, pantries, larders, and prep stations. The kitchen crew is making quick work of the closing procedures. Sofia runs a tight ship, but she’s nowhere to be found. A faint flutter of uncertainty stirs the back of my mind. She wouldn’t have left without me. Would she? My stomach drops at the thought of her walking the Chicago streets alone.

“Hey, boss! Do I trash all this?” I turn to see the legumier chef hefting a bin of fresh produce over a trash can.

“Why?” I ask, shouting over the din of the industrial dishwasher that just kicked on. On quick inspection, it looks good to me, but I’m not the expert. Sofia would know.

“We’ll be closed for a while. ¿Verdad? This will all be bad by the end of the week. Might as well chuck it now.” He tips the bin.

“Don’t chuck it,” I say with a growl. The thought of throwing away more of our potential profits churns my already unsettled stomach. “Don’t throw anything out. Not yet. We’re going to figure something out. Do you know where Sofia is?” There’s a buzzing in the back of my brain that I know from experience will grow in urgency until I see her and verify she’s alright. It never happened before we were married, only since.

“I saw Chef talking to a guest on the floor,” he says, then hurries off with the bin of produce, heading toward the walk-in cooler.

I loop around the dining area, squeezing past tables that are too tightly packed, searching for my wife amidst our sinking ship. Where is she? The more empty tables I pass, the louder the buzzing grows, and I have to push away images from my recurrent nightmares. Since our wedding, my nightly dreams have served no other purpose but to remind me that humans are fragile and easily harmed.

There! I finally spot her.

“What are you doing all the way back here?” Sofia is in the corner booth, safe and sound. The buzzing stills. She startles, and her head pops up. When our eyes meet, I flinch at a familiar pain. Sweet Mother Below, the sight of my wife’s face spears me with a sharp and devastating joy every time I see it. I keep thinking the sting will fade, but it doesn’t.

Sofia’s long dark hair is pulled back from the smooth planes of her forehead, cheeks, and jaw. Her large brown eyes are ringed with thick lashes, and her warm brown skin, in certain lights (or with certain stimulation), takes on a delightful reddish tone — she is human but more stubborn, fiery, and resilient than any demon I’ve ever known. And yet, the nightmares persist.

“I was —” she makes a small gesture across the table, but then her brow wrinkles. “I just needed a moment to think. I should go see to closing,” she says and starts to scoot out of the booth.

“They’ve got it covered,” I say as I slip onto the bench beside her, blocking her in. I reach for her hand and fold it gently in mine, cradling it like a hatchling. She shakes it loose and laces our fingers together in a tight grip. I smile until I notice the shiny pink mark on her hand.

“What’s this?” I ask, holding it up for inspection.

“It’s nothing,” she says, tugging her hand from my grip. She hates to be coddled, but if my nightmares have taught me anything, it’s that there’s no such thing as too careful when it comes to my wife. I will not lose her.

“Sofia.”

“It’s minor, and burns don’t scare me, you know that,” she says. Sofia has always liked fire, and when she was a child, one of her many coffee tin fires got out of hand. She still has the scars all along her left side.

She rests her head against my shoulder. “Dinner was a disaster,” she says, and there’s a shaky note in her voice that claws at my chest. I make a noise of agreement. There’s no point in denying it, but it’s not her fault. It’s mine. She shouldn’t have to bear the weight of the disappointment.

“At least your tits looked really good tonight,” I say.

She snorts out a burst of laughter, and the sound of it warms me like the sun thawing snow.

“You managed to appreciate them even beneath my chef’s jacket?” She lifts her head to raise a doubtful eyebrow at me, her mouth curling into a bemused half-smile. Sofia is smiling. Good. I can still see the strain behind her eyes, but putting a smile on her face is a good start.

“I had to use my imagination to mentally undress you in front of our guests and then draw upon my meticulously cataloged memories of every time I’ve seen your naked breasts for comparison, but yes. They earned top marks for bounce and biteability. I’d say they were in exquisite form, quite possibly their best night ever. I propose we celebrate.”

She snorts again, but her smile is wider now, and when I flick my tongue, I catch just the faintest hint of sweetness in the air. Fear is sour or bitter. Excitement and arousal are sweet. The ability to taste the chemistry of others is unique to demons, and I have no qualms about making use of my advantages. She might try to deny it, but my wife likes to be teased. I feel the tightness in her body easing at my side.

Perhaps my carefully laid plans for the evening are still salvageable. A glimmer of hope sparks in my chest. “Do you remember what tonight is?” I ask.

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