Agent Rogue

Chapter 8

After almost two hours – yes, hours – of whining and complaining about being hungry, I caved and offered to buy Barnes dinner. I beckoned over a waiter and asked him for a menu, much to Barnes's delight; I had to calm him down with the reminder that money was limited between us, but he still tapped his foot as he opened the leather-bound book. After a few minutes of debate, we both settled on a steak – I was called a 'copycat' for the choice but neither of us would change our order, pride or no.

            Soon enough, our food arrived at the hands of a new waiter. I furrowed my brows at the change. This one was a stark contrast to the fair-haired boy that took our orders. He stood at least a foot taller, baring a shaved head with shoulders so wide I wondered how he managed to fit through the aisle.

            But I didn't care about his looks. I cared about the plates he brought with him.

            I could hear the sizzling before I spotted the steak, and licked my lips as the waiter raised the plate with a smile, ready to present it before us. The smell drifted down, stroking our faces in a wave of savoury warmth.

            "Your food," he said.
"No shit, Sherlock," said Barnes, eyeing up the steak with greed. Air caught in my throat and I let it out a sigh.
"Well... Here you go then, I suppose," said the waiter, setting the plates down in a stiff and awkward movement. I shook my head at Barnes as he picked up his cutlery, pulling a confused face at my reaction.

            "Sorry about him," I said, shooting Barnes a glare. He gawked at me, mouthing protest.
The waiter shook off my apology with a gesture that shifted his white sleeve upwards. "No worries," he assured. "That's quite alright."

            I glanced at his forearm as he pulled the sleeve back down, covering the dark circular symbol tattooed on his skin. He had rather tough skin for a waiter, actually. Most hospitality workers, particularly those working in classy establishments such as this train cart, were meticulous with their appearance. I wondered if he also spent time cooking and preparing the food also, drying out his hands with hard work and strict schedules.

            I stared longingly at my steak and reached for the fork. Finally!

            "What's the occasion?" the waiter then asked.
I bit back a sigh and let go of the fork, meeting Barnes's eyes. He flashed a devious smirk.
"You see," he said, "we're actually on our honeymoon."

Evil, evil man. I had to go along with it and mask my distaste with a tight-lipped smile, willing a nod in agreement. He could have easily said there was no occasion to the trip but no, he wanted to torture me again.

              The waiter blinked. "Really?"
I frowned. He was surprised. "Yes," I replied, albeit begrudgingly. "Yes, we are."
"Can I see the ring?" the waiter asked. I shared a wary look with Barnes. Were we being interrogated or dragged into a casual conversation? Barnes bit the inside of his cheek and, in a moment of panic in which all two of his braincells seemed to die, took an onion ring from his plate and shoved it on my ring finger.

            I closed my eyes and exhaled, overcome by utter embarrassment.

            "I took it off to eat," I said, forcing a smile as I looked back up at the waiter. "It's new. I didn't want to risk ruining it."
He looked between the two of us for a moment then took a step back. "Then I suppose congratulations are in order. Enjoy your meals."

            When he left, Barnes swivelled around in his seat to watch him disappear at the end of the aisle. He was frowning when he turned back around.
"That was... strange," I muttered.
"Agreed." His eyes lit up at the plate of food laid before him. "But we have more pressing issues."