Page 29 of Stained Protector

While approaching the valet parking, a familiar car drives toward me. It’s a middle-aged woman and her two sons in the back, not someone I know. I pass the car to the valet and carefully watch the employee who is helping her out.

I smile and offer my hand to her. Her small fingers slip between mine, curling them upward as her nails scratch my knuckles, and the perfect union of our hands forms a quiet chuckle.

The host takes us to the VIP area on the second floor; three couples turn to face us before continuing their hushed conversation, a waitstaff popping the wine cork and another delivering two plates of steaming food.

A staff member cradling a bouquet of roses arrives two minutes after we get seated, and the amaranth red dims at the brilliant glow of her joyful smile.

“A gift from your husband,” the staff says while handing the flowers to her.

She blinks, baffled. Quickly, her face tints with shyness. Anya mumbles her gratitude, smiling endearingly at the bouquet, then she shares the smile with me, a little too pure.

I twirl the ring mindlessly as I indulge in her sweet smile and pretty eyes.

Every artist has a form of muse; a discontinued rare toy, a run-down home in the countryside, or a child-eating lamia.

She’s mine, a muse I gifted to myself on that fateful night.

It was a regret of mine to not look presentable for our initial encounter, but I couldn’t have predicted it. The felon I subdued was spared a harsher punishment because my mind was busily ingraining her face into my soul.

Anya appeared to be just another face in a sea of one million people. In all honesty, I could’ve walked by and not noticed her.

However, at the aligning time and place, my breath hitched in my throat—so painfully breathless that my mind spun like a lonely planet, orbiting solely around her.

The speed at which it moves seemingly wants to try and catch up on the wasted time without her. A purpose and a reason to anticipate tomorrow’s dawn, Anya unknowingly became the force for me to improve as a better person, so I tore through the years of disguises to cradle the real me.

But I can’t show myself to her yet. She’s as stubborn as she’s cowardly. So I build an alabaster mask, untainted and unrefined, to present myself as a harmless man with flaws. Flaws show I’m human and someone she can open up to, knowing I’ll listen even if her words are trivial.

I have too many faults, a born sinner. Sinners are damned to hell, and they are fractured creatures in penance.

“Are you okay?” Anya whispers, dim lights kissing her supple skin.

The waitstaff removes the finished plates swiftly as one couple’s laughter shatters the warm ambiance. No one cares as drinks are topped and cutlery scrapes on plates.

I’ve mastered talking to her while occasionally slipping into my thoughts. Dinner is pleasant; she’s satisfied with a full stomach, and I’m happy to spend a peaceful date night with her.

Only one problem, though. There was an eyesore peeking from the men’s bathroom when we went to the first floor.

“I have to touch up,” Anya says and hands me the bouquet.

I wait till she's in the restroom before approaching the man beside the men's bathroom. His transformation is that of a chameleon, and he could be missed without a second glance.

“Are those for me?” Davis giggles like the ratchet rat that he is. “You shouldn’t have, darling.”

His slicked-back hair and ironed suit are a bold comparison to the usual ragged attire. Women have to be blind or missing screws to find him attractive. He has his looks going for him, but words rot in his mouth.

If he doesn’t offend women in three sentences, he’s jumping in bed with them. Physical attraction… that I get, but those who keep coming back to him are incredibly stupid.

“I know what you want to say,” he scoffs and taps his leather shoe. “I’m on a date.”

And the woman isn’t his wife. I recognize her profile, and Davis grins cockily as he props his back against the wall.

“Hey, free game,” he snorts, rolling his eyes. “Am I supposed to say no?”

If Anya sees her sister here, her mood is going down the drain. They can’t be kicked out of the restaurant as paying customers, and they’ve only eaten the appetizers.

Anya and I will leave, ditch the plan to walk the riverbank, and go home for a movie.

“Not my business.”

---