Page 1 of Rejected Exile

One

Delilah

"Miss. Miss!"Snap snap."Over here."

If I could shift into a wolf like my father, I'd drag my claws across this man's neck and call it customer service as he bled out. Too bad I have to play by human rules. That's the life of a rejected wolf.

Spinning on my heels, I turn to face the irate customer—of coursehe's a middle-aged man with a much younger female date—and plaster on my best placating smile. It's an expression I've never sincerely meant, but I've learned how to use it over the years.

Men like him think women who work in the service industry are all weak,

subservient drones. Well, I might've been that way once, but my foster mother Cat has taught me how to be strong. If I give him a questioning look instead of slapping him across the face, it's because I choose to. Not because I have to.

"I'm sorry for the wait," I tell him demurely, glancing over his head towards one of the waitstaff, Marco, who's making akill him, kill himmotion with a finger across his neck. I stifle my laughter. "Your waitress let me know that you wanted to speak to a manager. How may I help you?"

"Yes, amanager." He's practically frothing at the mouth. Someone should give him the rabies shot. "I wanted to speak to the man in charge, not another waitress. Go get him, or I'll leave you a one-star review oneveryplatform I can find, and tell all my clients to take their business elsewhere. I've never been treated like this at any establishment in my life!"

I hold back the acerbic retort I want to spit out. No doubt he's been treated like shit at many, many restaurants, and probably been served a few shit sandwiches in his life. Customers like this have no idea just how often they sign their own death warrants. In a moment I'll throw him out, but first I'll ask him what the issue is. It's always something petty and stupid with men like this—and I love a good story.

"I'm so sorry for your bad experience," I tell him in a light, falsely submissive tone, enjoying the way it placates him a little, like prey turning over to show its belly. "Tell me what's the problem, sir, and I'll take care of it right away."

"Well..." He narrows his eyes at me. "Isupposeyou can bring it to your boss."

My boss would eat him for dinner. Cat is human, but she's one of the fiercest women I know. "Of course. Just tell me what the issue is."

"The waitress gave my dinner companion an unacceptable entrée," he gestures towards the stick-thin twenty-year-old taking him for every dime in his bank account. "The menu obviously sayssupremepizza. Does this looksupremeto you?"

I glance over at the ten-inch personal pizza on his date's plate. She's currently cutting a single slice of it in half, and no doubt planning to eat that, nothing more, and sip a bit of lemon water. I can't hate—she's probably going to make her money's worth from this idiot before she hops off the merry-go-round and onto her next scam. The leather purse hanging off her chair and diamond bracelet on her wrist will be sold for parts in a few months' time, and she'll probably pay her rent for a year off all the fake orgasms she screamed in his direction.

Don't hate the hustler, enjoy the hustle.

"I understand the issue," I tell the man smoothly, leaning forward to grab a menu from another table and sliding it in front of him. He gawks at my cleavage, but I ignore him. Soon I'll show him the kind of strength an exile possesses. "It appears that you're illiterate."

"Yes, that's—what?"

The moment it takes him to hear the insult is enough to bring a smile to my face. At his side, the stick thin blonde stops eating her half slice of pizza, eyes jerking up to my face. I look forward to the story she'll tell about this old man's embarrassing run-in with a restaurant manager her own age. Soon I'll really give her something to remember.

"Ill-it-er-ate." I sound out each syllable in the word, shooting him a sympathetic smile, like I pity him for not knowing what it means. "It's another way of saying you can't read. Because of course, if you could read, you'd be able to seethis," I flip open the menu and point at the heading to the pizza section, "right here."

He's staring at me. No doubt only a few people have ever done this to him in his entire life; I may be the very first. It's a moment I revel in, the shock and dismay just before it turns to sputtering anger.

Because he's been knocked off-kilter, he actually looks down to where I'm pointing. He obeys my suggestion, and reads the menu. Right there, beneath the cursive headingPizzas,it clearly spells out,enjoy our selection of ten inch personal pan pizzas.

"As anyone knows," I explain to him slowly, "a supreme pizza is just a pizza with all the toppings. Not an extra large pizza. I apologize for the confusion."

His eyes jerk up. Though his face is red all over and his fists are clenched, he's heard a word that he likes:apologize.I wait for him to come for me, to make the classic mistake and go on the offense.

Before I grew strong, this sort of man would've made me cry in the break room.

He would've gotten me fired, humiliated me in front of the entire restaurant, and caused countless sleepless nights.

Now that I’ve changed, I just wait for the moment I can destroy him. What once made me weak has now forged me in the fire of strength. And while I'll never be able to rip him open with claws and teeth, I'll always love destroying men like this.

Even though they'll never be either of the men Ireallywant to destroy.

"I asked for the manager!" He pounds the table. "You need to make this right. Idemandto speak to the manager."

"You are, dumbass."

---