Page 26 of Butcher & Blackbird
And now I stand huddled in the entryway of a department store across the street from3 In Coachfor longer than any sane person probably would, just watching the wait staff and the patrons as the lunch rush tapers off to a quieter hum of activity. In true stalker fashion, I’ve looked up every article about the restaurant since its opening day seven years ago. Every photograph, to the end of the Google search results. Hundreds of reviews. I even found the blueprints from the planning permit submission. I could probably walk the place blindfolded and I’ve never even been inside.
Maybe it’s time to change that.
My bottom lip slides between my teeth as I drive my hands into the pockets of my wool trench and step into the bitter bite of an unseasonably cold spring wind.
Entering the restaurant, I’m greeted by the sound of trendy yet soulless music and a blonde bombshell hostess with a sparkling smile.
“Welcome to3 In Coach. Do you have a reservation with us today?”
A pang of nerves rolls through my stomach as I glance toward the open expanse of dark wood tables and exposed brick. “No, sorry.”
“No problem. For how many?”
“Just me.”
The woman’s gaze rakes over my hair where it’s laying across my shoulder before meeting my eyes with a chagrined smile, as though she was caught doing something she shouldn’t. “Sure thing. Right this way.”
I follow the hostess into the dining room and before I can request a specific spot, she leads me to a semi-circular booth along the back wall rather than one of the smaller tables in the center of the room. She takes the three unneeded place settings away and starts heading toward the kitchen, but a large group enters so she changes course and greets them instead.
The enormity of how stupid this is starts to seep into my veins like wriggling worms. I’ve let these unfamiliar emotions take over. Things likelonging. Andloneliness. It’s as though I’ve been thrown into the ocean, drowning in the swell, and suddenly I realize I could have put my feet down all along. I could have stood up and kept my bearings. It was all just my imagination.
I should just leave. This is dumb. Dumb and so stalkery. Not in a sexy stalker way either. More like a weird, creepy serial killer stalker way, which tracks. So I need to take off, before—
“Hey, my name is Jenna and I’ll be your server this afternoon. Can I get you something to drink?”
I sit back, pretending like I wasn’t just edging my way to the end of the booth, and glance up at Jenna. She’s even more stunning than the hostess, her face lit with a genuine, broad smile and her thick auburn hair pulled back in a perfect ponytail.
Why am I doing this to myself?
“Alcohol…” I say.
Jenna beams, sensing my anxiety. It’s something that’s always worked in my favor. A woman like Jenna, who unfolds the cocktail menu and suggests a few of her favorite drinks, would never suspect I’d be capable of murdering anyone.
All she sees is a nervous data scientist, weirded out by the beautiful, friendly, outgoing woman who’s just ordered me a frozen cucumber margarita which she insists is her favorite. It’s true, I am nervous and weirded out, not only by the drink option I apparently just ordered, but by this whole scenario of being an intruder in a space that feels too sacred to bend to my obsessions.
Maybe I need to big myself up. Positive thoughts, remember my strengths and all that shit. Because just as much as I might appear quiet and spooked on the outside, I am also a serial killer who enjoys vivisection and a bit of cartography.
And I also enjoy an annual murder competition.
And I might be increasingly attracted to another serial killer and now I’m not so sure if maybe Lark was right last year, that I’m losing my shit.
I try to latch on to the rational thoughts that are still swimming in the anxiety soup of my head like drowning flies.Rowan might not even be here today.Okay that’s a lie, I hacked into the restaurant schedule and he’d marked himself down for lunch service.So what if he’s here? Rowan is in the kitchen. If I got up to leave right now, he wouldn’t even know I was ever here.
I shuffle from the edge of the cushion to the middle of the booth where I’m sheltered by the high and curving backrest. It takes a minute to focus enough to actually read the menu, even though it’s short and well-structured, but by the time Jenna returns with my bright green drink, I’m ready to order.
And then stew in silence.
And drink in silence.
And eat in more silence.
I take out my burner phone and contemplate texting Rowan, but I end up putting it away when the pressure only makes me more antsy. I opt for a pen and my notebook instead, and flip to a new sheet of paper.
I pour my focus into translating the image in my mind into ink. The whole universe can collapse into a single page. Distractions ease, and my thoughts follow the lines of black ink, ideas and conversations existing in strokes of darkness rendered by my hand. Even when Jenna brings the charred Brussels sprouts and coconut curry soup, I barely notice, oblivious to the world around me.
At least, I am until the door opens and a boisterous group of seven enters the restaurant. I look up to lock eyes with a man I’ve never seen, but one whose features are unmistakably familiar.
Dark hair. Full lips slanted in a smirk. Tattoos that climb the side of his neck from beneath his collar. His arm is draped over the shoulders of a tiny brunette woman, the rings on his tattooed knuckles glinting beneath her perfect waves. He’s tall and powerfully built. Even with his leather jacket and thick sweater I can tell he’s basically a wall of muscle. And with those dark, predatory eyes that sharpen like a blade set to cut me, I know he’s trouble.
