Page 89 of Sinners Retreat

A man in a black dress shirt places a plate in front of Kindra. A bloody cut of steak lies beside a scoop of mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli. Kindra eyes the meat and clears her throat as she places her hand on the server’s arm.

“I’ve had a bit of indigestion today. Would it be possible to request a salad? I’d like something a bit lighter than meat for dinner.”

The server looks back at the kitchen before nodding and scurrying off, but not before sliding my plate in front of me. I stare down at the hunk of meat and cock my head as I examine it.

I’ve cut up enough humans and strung them on meat hooks that I should know what a cooked human might look like. I should be able to tell what kind of meat is sitting in front of me. I’ve been eating meat for thirty something years, for fuck’s sake. But no. I’m stumped.

Too scared to try the steak, I aim my fork at the potatoes, being careful to steer clear of the bloody puddle edging along the fluffy perimeter. Kindra eyes my plate with a longing look, and I offer her a bite of mashed potatoes, which she accepts.

“God, that is so good,” she says as she tips her head back. “Maybe I should have kept the plate and eaten around the potential chunk of man.”

“You’re not a fan of salad?”

She motions to her body. “I didn’t get this voluptuous physique from eating like a rabbit.”

The server appears again and places a massive plate of greenery in front of Kindra. Her face turns a similar shade of chartreuse.

“Would you prefer this?” I ask, gesturing toward the mayhem on my plate.

She plucks up the fork and shoves a bit of lettuce into her mouth while forcing a smile around the tines. “No thanks,” she mutters past the mouthful.

“Ezra,” Jim says as he taps his glass, “you’re the only one who hasn’t taken a bite of this meticulously prepared steak. You really must try it.”

I shift in my seat. I don’t like having the spotlight on me like this. “What cut of meat is this again, Jim?”

“Maurice has prepared a scintillating cut of Wagyu, straight from Japan.” Jim grins and shoves a hunk of meat into his mouth. As he chews, a bit of red juice dribbles onto his chin.

“Wagyu?” Kindra whispers as she picks at her salad. “I regret my decision.”

Jim swallows, clears his throat, and swipes a cloth napkin over his chin. “I think his name was Phil. Bill, maybe?”

“Never mind,” Kindra whispers. “Spoke too soon.”

My stomach tightens. I haven’t eaten the human delicacies since the first year at the retreat. I learned to mistrust anything that emerges from Maurice’s kitchen.

Jim points at me with his fork. “We won’t continue with dinner until you’ve eaten.”

“Go on, Ezra, eat away,” Kindra says with a smile. She picks up her glass of water and brings it to her lips to keep from laughing.

My vegetarian lie might have worked on night one, but Jim knows me too well. If I say I’ve decided to forgo meat, he’ll call me out.

With twenty-something pairs of eyes on me and no other way to avoid offending Jim, I raise my fork, cut into the meat, and bring it to my mouth.

An embarrassing pep talk blares in my mind. I imagine a big, juicy cow walking in a field with a chunk of its rump missing as I open my mouth. My throat threatens to close, but I fight it and win.

Sorry Phil...or Bill, I say in my mind as I chew and swallow.

Whatever is going on with my face makes Kindra let out a soft chuckle beside me. She’s trying so hard to stay in control.

I choke down two more bites before people turn their attention back to their own meals, freeing me to drop the fork and snatch up the napkin to dab a bit of sweat from my forehead. A swig of merlot helps me wash the taste from my mouth, and I devour the potatoes and broccoli to cushion my roiling guts. It doesn’t help.

As everyone finishes the main course, the servers are back again, this time with delicate cups of rich coffee and beautifully caramelized crème brûlée.

Kindra leans close to my ear. “This isn’t made with breastmilk or anything weird like that, is it?”

“If it is, I can’t be bothered to care. You won’t either once you’ve tried it.” I sink my dessert spoon into the cup and ready my tastebuds for the second-best thing I’ll ever taste in my life—the first being Kindra.

She digs in as well, and we polish off both cups in record time. Our bellies full, we stand from the table and bid our farewells to the host and the other guests.

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