Cursed [Book 1] ✔

Chapter 20: But What About Rafe?

Staying away from Tristan was not as hard as I thought it would be. After all, this was a town filled with Lillin, as all the others had been. As the days and nights went by, I questioned my decision to let him live. Had I done it out of pity, curiosity, or God forbid, attraction to the monster? The more I let the decision tumble around in my brain, the more I thought I had been wrong.

Life may be more complex than black and white, but a demon had no shades of grey. Tristan had played me, and I had fallen for it.

I still had the intense aroma of Tristan on my radar, so it was not hard to find him. The trail did not end at his apartment, but at a small restaurant. It was the kind of dive people went to when they were broke but still wanted to eat out. "Dave's Shack" was the name that lit up the neon sign out front. Every table was covered with checkered tablecloths and a vase of fake flowers. Cheesy but quaint.

I scanned the minds of everyone inside, but none yielded the results I needed. Going inside was not something I wanted to do because I could hear the thoughts of thirty people or more, and it would only get worse if I went in.

When I still didn't see him after a while, I went inside the restaurant to look for Tristan. The smiling hostess asked me how many would be joining me for dinner. I told her my party was already seated and I would look for them. As I breezed past her, her fake smile faded and she resumed flipping through a magazine.

Couples and families looked up from their meals briefly, but Tristan wasn't among them. A few of the clientele pointed and whispered about the sword on my hip. But I was used to that.

Smells and shouts from the kitchen caught my attention.

"Order up!" The lilt in the voice surprised me. Through the metal shelves of the kitchen's opening, I could see a golden head of hair that the voice belonged to.

Despite the looks from the waitresses, I waited at the kitchen bar. Tristan whirled around with a bowl and whisk, chewing down a stick of garlic bread. He saw me, and the bread fell from his mouth.

"You."

Crumbs on this mouth did nothing to belittle the beauty of his face. The imperfection made him even more appealing, like a puppy with a discolored tuft of hair on its head.

Where did that sappy analogy come from, I wondered.

"Yes, it's me," I said.

Tristan continued to whisk a white, creamy concoction around in the bowl. A lanky youth in an apron tapped him on the shoulder, and they conferred about ingredients and time tables on orders. A minute passed. Three minutes. Five. I felt stupid just standing there, and equally stupid for showing up and lamely saying, "Yes, it's me," when I should have dragged him outside by his Ken-doll head of hair and fought him to the death. But no, I had stuck myself in the same situation as most teenage girls; I was waiting for a handsome boy to take notice of me again.

A waitress with a heart-shaped face and wiry red hair approaching the kitchen serving counter asked me, "Miss, do you need something?" You've been standing here for no reason.

"No, I was just," waiting around like an idiot, "leaving."

I ducked my head to hide my strawberry face. I was sure that everyone was staring at me as I strode out of "Dave's Shack."

Outside, the air was muggy. I wished I was in Boston, if only for the cold dry air that would have served to refresh me as opposed to the thick Florida air that made me feel suffocated. God, what was I thinking? Was my plan to shyly chat Tristan up and then kill him?

Without thought, I was walking. To where, I wasn't sure, but I had to put distance between myself and my embarrassment back at the restaurant.

Clop, clop, clop.