Page 92 of Villainous Fate

“Um… I’m sorry…No pickles? Now, why in the world would you take off the best part of the burger?” I ask, momentarily forgetting my anger at him while trying to understand his order.

“I don’t like them—pickles, that is. I don’t like how they overpower everything,” he shrugs.

“Well, I don’t think I’ve ever been more surprised. And here I thought you had taste. You got it, Ace. One completely flavorless and altogether unimaginative burger,” I say, turning to take the slip back to Pete.

He doesn’t like pickles? I might have to rethink this friendship after all.

Marcus stayed in the diner for the rest of my shift, and when I clocked out, he stood up and joined me at the front door. I can’t say I much appreciated the look on Pete’s face as he watched us walk out together, but then again, most people didn’t understand our friendship. In fact, most people didn’t know he knew Deacon at all.

Pete can think whatever he wants.

“I wasn’t going to lie to you,” Marcus says, his voice pulling my attention to him. “Earlier in the diner. I wasn’t going to lie. I just didn’t know what I’m allowed to say about the work we have been doing on the perimeter.”

“There were lots of things Deacon couldn’t tell me, too. Pack business isn’t for everyone in the pack, it seems. Don’t worry about it. It’s just not often I see you at less than a hundred percent,” I explain.

“Just a scuffle. Nothing to worry about,” he replies with a shrug.

“You boys and your ‘don’t worry’ proclamations. I swear you don’t know a thing about women,” I laugh before realizing I’ve never talked to him about his relationships.

“You all don’t make it easy,” he says with a lopsided grin.

“Well, I’m sure the girls back home want the same things we do: snacks, books, and you to be close by but to not interrupt our reading.” I smile because it's wild how much I love Deacon just being near me. He doesn’t have to say a word.

“That’s the secret, huh? Snacks, books, and silence. Well, silence with proximity,” he responds.

“Exactly. I mean, if they are anything like me, is that what your girlfriends have wanted?” I ask, broaching the subject lightly.

“I'm not sure I’ve ever met anyone quite like you, Spitfire, so who knows? I spent most of my time at home at a human school; it didn’t seem fair to lead them on when I knew they could never really understand me, you know?”

My heart clenches at his admission, and for a moment, I see the pain in his vulnerability. He was alone.

“I’m sorry. That sounds incredibly isolating and lonely. What about since you’ve been here? We have a few dozen age-appropriate female shifters in the pack. Any of them catch your eye?” I ask, thinking through who might be a good fit for him.

Someone smart but not in a stuck-up way. Someone kind. He would need them to have his moral fortitude. He needs someone who will challenge him and let him be himself without pushing. He’s funny, so she’d have to have a sense of humor, and she will need to know how to cook the way he eats through baked goods.

As I think through the options, I eliminate most of them. Cheryl is too flaky. Jessica jumps from wolf to wolf. Teressa is beautiful and kind, but there needs to be more going on intellectually.

His lack of a response has me laughing out loud.

“Okay, maybe we don’t have anybody, but you’ll be an Alpha somewhere. I’m sure there will be a line out the door who will want to be your Luna,” I say, confidence filling my tone. “Even if you do lack common sense and taste… No pickles… my word!”

The rest of our walk has us arguing over which foods fall into the ‘nope’ category. In addition to pickles, Marcus doesn’t like cottage cheese, raisins, or any fish with a face still on it. Me, I can’t do Miracle Whip, oysters, or eggnog, like gag me with those textures.

We agree that pineapple should not go on pizza and that the best way to eat fries is with a chocolate shake. Steak should never be ordered well done, and grape jelly is the superior jelly to use in a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

As we stop in front of my house, I grab the mail out of the box at the front and turn to ask my final question.

“Ok, final thing. Let’s see if you have even a shred of intellect in that head of yours. Crunchy or Creamy?” I ask, knowing I don’t need to elaborate for him to know I’m back on peanut butter.

“Crunchy, obviously,” he says with confidence.

“I knew it! You’re a masochist. Who wants the sharp pieces cutting up their mouth? Absolutely not. Creamy is far and away a better choice. It even spreads easier,” I exclaim, raising my volume more than usual.

My eyes catch sight of the electric company’s name on an envelope, and my heart sinks. I’m running out of time.

“On this one, I will adamantly disagree. You need the chunky crunch to make the sandwich,” He says.

“I guess we will have to do a side-by-side competition. You coming to the diner tomorrow?” I ask, pushing the doubt and fear about the electric bill aside.

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