And that shut me up.
Our table—heavy white linen tablecloth, heavy silverware, heavy crystal wineglasses—was in the back, in a secluded corner, beneath a small potted palm of some kind. The gumbo was delivered while the wine was being poured, something light and smooth that melted in my mouth and matched perfectly with the gumbo appetizer. Bruiser talked about the people he’d known in his life as we ate the soup, and I listened, following his choices as to silverware, which made it much easier. Especially when the salads arrived, all lettuce-y and stuff. It wasn’t bad, for green leaves. And as he talked, I finally began to feel less tongue-tied and started to relax.
And Bruiser had known some amazing people. Mae West, for crying out loud. He had dated Mae West. He had taken target practice with Roy Rogers and Dale Evans at their Double R Bar Ranch in the Mojave Desert. He’d squired (yeah, that was what he said—squired) a teenaged Elizabeth Taylor to several parties, keeping her virtue safe from the aging roués who wanted to sleep with her. I wasn’t sure what a roué was, but it sounded nasty. He name-dropped with abandon, and I learned that Leo had a house in Malibu and shared one with the primo of California’s MOC in Holmby Hills in L.A. Bruiser hadn’t wasted the years he’d been granted as primo, with access to the blood that kept him young. He’d lived it, and I felt both like a kid at her grandpa’s knee listening to stories, and like a seductive woman that men—this man, anyway—couldn’t keep his eyes off of.
For the meal, we were served tiny portions of the speckled trout, prepared two ways: trout meunière and trout amandine, followed by sea bass from the Gulf, caught today, served two ways: filleted and sautéed, topped with fresh Louisiana crabmeat, and grilled fillet topped with fresh tomatoes, basil, extra-virgin olive oil, garlic, and kalamata olives. To die for. I think I said that aloud, maybe for the first time in my whole life. We had three pompano dishes: the pompano Duarte, which was sautéed fillet topped with Gulf shrimp and tomatoes, seasoned with garlic, fresh herbs, and crushed chili peppers; the pompano David—grilled, skin-on fillet brushed with extra-virgin olive oil, lemon, garlic, and fresh herbs—and pompano en croute. And baby pompano fillets and scallop mousse baked in flaky puff pastry, served on a bed of green peppercorn cream sauce. On a separate plate were the veggies, which were wild mushrooms, asparagus, some kind of soufflé, and potatoes, all with their own sauces. I didn’t eat much in the way of plants, but these were enough to make me think about going vegetarian. The portions were tiny but I was stuffed even before the meats arrived.
Between food deliveries—I couldn’t quite call them courses—Bruiser drew me out on my life in the children’s home, and how I started into the security business, though he’d done a deep background on me before I was ever hired to work with the New Orleans’ vamps. He sounded interested, as in interested, and it made me feel too warm, and all weird. He asked me about my weapons training and about my life in Asheville, before I’d come to work here. He made me feel important and . . . admirable, maybe. Which was a totally weird feeling.
There were two veal dishes, three filet mignon dishes, and sweetbreads, which were bull balls and I passed on them. Bruiser ate my portion with what looked like delight. The wines changed with every part of the meal. With my skinwalker metabolism, I could drink most humans under the table, but even I was feeling a little woozy by the time the meal ended. And full. And totally decadent. The food at Arnaud’s was pricey. I snuck a peek at the menu when I went to the ladies’ room, and figured that we could feed a whole house full of unwanted children at Bethel Nondenominational Christian Children’s Home for a week for what we spent on one self-indulgent meal.
“Okay,” I said afterward, as we weaved through the immaculate tables and the hoity-toity diners, Bruiser’s hand warm on my spine through the thin blouse. “Next date, one week from now, in the Clover Grill, my treat.” I grinned with delight. I loved getting what I wanted. “Followed by . . . dancing.”
Bruiser leaned in and spoke next to my ear. “Only in the aisles, not on the tables.” Which let me know he’d really been there. There was a sign printed somewhere in the diner proclaiming that. I smiled slowly as I got into the limo. I can do this, I thought. I really can do this. Not that I knew what this was. Yet.
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