Page 7 of Ruthless Creatures
“Why amIgonna be the one with dementia? You’re the one who refuses to eat a vegetable!”
“I’m about to have some smashed avocadoes. Doesn’t that count?”
“An avocado is a fruit, genius.”
“It’s green, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s a veggie.”
Sloane shakes her head. “You’re hopeless.”
“I so agree.”
We share a smile. At that moment, I happen to glance over to the opposite side of the restaurant.
Sitting by himself at a table, his back to the window, a pint of beer in his hand, the stranger I bumped into outside the restroom stares at me.
Because he removed his dark sunglasses, this time I can see his eyes.
They’re the deep, rich brown of Guinness stout, set wide beneath a stern brow, and surrounded by a thicket of black lashes. Focused on me with startling intensity, those eyes don’t move or blink.
But oh, how darkly they burn.
TWO
NAT
“Earth to Natalie. Come in, Natalie.”
I rip my gaze from the oddly powerful trap of the stranger’s eyes and turn my attention back to Sloane. She’s looking at me with lifted brows.
“What? Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.”
“Yes, I know, because you were too busy getting eye fucked by the beautiful beast who crushed your best friend’s ego.”
Flustered, I scoff, “There’s not a man on earth who could crush your ego. It’s made out of the same material NASA uses on spaceships so they don’t burn up on reentry through the atmosphere.”
Twirling a lock of her dark hair, she smiles. “So true. He’s still staring at you, by the way.”
I squirm in my chair. Why my ears are getting hot, I don’t know. I’m not the type to be unsettled by a handsome face. “Maybe I remind him of someone he doesn’t like.”
“Or maybe you’re an idiot.”
I’m not, though. His wasn’t a look of lust. It was more like I owe him money.
The waiter returns with another round for us, and Sloane orders guac and chips. As soon as he’s out of earshot, she sighs. “Oh no. Here comes Diane Myers.”
Diane’s the town gossip. She probably holds the world record for never shutting the fuck up.
Having a conversation with her is like being subjected to water torture: it goes on and on in a constant, painful drip until eventually you crack and lose your mind.
Without bothering to say hello, she pulls up an empty chair from the table behind us, sits down next to me, and leans in, engulfing me in the scent of lavender and mothballs.
In a hushed voice, she says, “His name is Kage. Isn’t that strange? Like a dog cage, but with a K. I don’t know, I just think it’s averyodd name. Unless you’re in a band, of course. Or you’re some kind of underground fighter. Whatever the case, in my day, a man had a respectable name like Robert or William or Eugene or such—”
“Who are we talking about?” interrupts Sloane.
