Withered Fate (BxB/Paul Imprint Story)

No shoes no shirt and they still get service like whaaaaaaat

Disclaimer: Rowan is a mere figment of my unruly mind, everything else you may recognize belongs to this amazing brunette with owlish eyes and imagination the size of Narnia, sure rings a bell? If not here's a clue: it begins with Stephanie and ends with Meyer, got it now?

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"Be always thankful to those who unselfishly make you smile, after all, they are the charming gardeners who encourage our souls to blossom."

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Rowan

To say 'The Wolf's Den' was packed would be putting it lightly. The lunch crowd was brisk and busy. Cleared tables were wiped down and immediately re-seated while a steady stream of people kept the door flapping with carry-out orders. My eyes raked over the beautifully themed place, which was cunningly disguised as a 50's restaurant with its black and white checkered tiles and its picnic clad tables with its colorful matching chairs. Amazingly, the walls were a distressed red mahogany, adorned with lots of vintage posters from Coca-Cola, Jack Daniels, Jägermeister and other product brands well known by the community. I guess being placed in the middle of an isolated highway had its perks, like no rivalry, none, whatsoever...

I was currently perched on a high back red gloss bar stool, my anatomy hunching slightly forward to squint at the black electric guitar clock above the Nespresso breeding machine, gingerly pondering how much suffering would this feeling of anticipation grant me. My foot kept an ongoing tapping against the bar as I sensed the first crusty droplets of perspiration grossly gathering in the back of my neck, palms of my hands and temple.

If my body's defences kept on their bucket productions of slick I could kiss goodbye the cheap makeup screening my battered countenance. Not that it really added to my whole appearance, in fact, my form, itself spoke volumes. Unwashed and unkempt clothes donned my anatomy, ripped holes in the fabric of my washed out dark skinnies let the audience a full view of my bony kneecaps and the black gap sweatshirt concealing my upper half looked old and unquestionably worn out and well... Let's not even mention the state of my converse...

Fuck, I was nervy and indeed sweating more than a hooker on Sunday mass.

Positively sure I won't get this job, more likely a restriction warrant and a free coupon to a dry-cleaner's.

My self-conscious mind did a double take when abruptly, and completely out of the blue a medium size basket overflown with... wait a minute... Are those blue waffle fries? Like BLUEBERRY BLUE?

"Here darl," the welcoming female added as she took in my baffled stance. "'S on the house," Honey pumpernickel eyes met forestry green in a silent tranquil exchange. The overly friendly woman with raven hair severely cut that barely reached her jawbone bestowed a bright reassuring smile, pushing the basket of fries further into my personal space.

"Come on, love, eat up. Can't have my stuff looking like a sack of unhealthy bones, now can I? Plus they're the house speciality, trust me."

Since words eluded me, I decided to show my appreciation by stretching my quaking hand to grab one of the peculiar blue salty treats afore dropping it gingerly in my mouth. A shameful moan parted my lips as I relished in the heavenly bitter-sweet taste of the crusty fry. Scrumptiously sinful for my beggarly palate. My hand reached on its own accord for another one only to repeat the action after I greedily swallowed.