Chapitre 60: Chapter 60: On the Rocks
"Isn't this much nicer than the Olive Garden or the Cheesecake Factory?" she asks, a smirk playing on her full lips.
I nod, fighting the urge to tug at my collar. "Yeah, it's... something else." My eyes dart around the room, taking in the sea of designer dresses and power suits. Even in this tailored ensemble, Erica had secretly commissioned for me months ago, I feel like an imposter.
"You look uncomfortable, darling," Erica observes, her tone softening as she reaches across the table to grasp my hand. Her touch sends a familiar shiver down my spine.
I force a smile. "Just feeling a bit out of place, that's all."
'Like a rabbit in a den of wolves.'
Erica's grip tightens slightly. "Nonsense. You belong here with me, Jason. Always."
There's an edge to her voice that thrills me. I can't help but wonder if she'd hunt me down if I tried to leave. The thought is comforting in this alien environment.
"I know," I reply, meeting her gaze. "It's just... different from our usual spots."
She leans in, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulder. "Different can be good, you know. Especially when you're with the right person."
As if on cue, a waitress materializes at our table, her crisp white uniform a stark contrast to the dimly lit ambiance. She's all poise and professionalism, but I catch a flicker of curiosity in her eyes as she glances between Erica and me.
"Good evening," she says, her voice as smooth as the silk napkins. "Would you like to start off with some drinks?"
Erica leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'll have a glass of milk and a Manhattan," she declares, her tone brooking no argument. The waitress blinks, clearly thrown by the unusual combination, but recovers quickly.
"Certainly, madam. And for you, sir?"
I feel Erica's eyes boring into me, a mix of challenge and amusement dancing in their blue depths. My mind goes blank, the extensive wine list we'd perused earlier evaporating from my memory.
"Uhhhh..." I stutter, my cheeks burning. I look to Erica, silently pleading for help.
Erica's expression softens, a flicker of guilt passing over her features. She turns to the waitress, her voice taking on that commanding tone that never fails to make my knees weak.
"He'll have your fruitiest drink," Erica announces, then adds with a wicked grin, "Make sure it's a double. I want to get fucked tonight."
The waitress's eyes widen to saucers, her professional facade cracking like fine china. Her mouth opens and closes a few times, reminding me of a fish out of water. I can't help but chuckle at Erica's brazenness, a warmth spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with alcohol.
"Hell, make it a triple," I add to make it seem like Erica isn't a creep. The waitress's eyebrows shoot up even further, but she recovers quickly, nodding as if this is just another Tuesday night for her.
"Right away," she says, her voice only slightly strained. As she turns to leave, I catch a glimpse of her shaking her head, no doubt wondering what kind of circus act just rolled into her section.
The moment she's out of earshot, Erica's hand darts across the table, her fingers intertwining with mine. Her touch is electric, sending little sparks dancing up my arm.
"Happy five-month anniversary, darling," she purrs, her blue eyes gleaming with a mix of affection and mischief.
My brain short-circuits. Anniversary? Five months? The realization hits me like a ton of bricks, and I feel my face drain of color.
"I... I completely forgot," I stammer, guilt washing over me in waves. How could I have missed something so important?
Erica's expression darkens for a moment, a storm brewing behind those piercing eyes. "Usually, men are supposed to be the ones that remember these things," she says, her voice tight with annoyance.
I shrug with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. "Well, you know, from my perspective, it'd be like if a girl could remember all the dates here. Usually, the boys in my world forget. Granted, probably not most."
Erica's eyes narrow, her annoyance palpable. "I do remember the dates, though, Jason. All of them."
"Oh," I say, feeling my stomach drop. "Right."
The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. I fidget with my napkin, wondering if I've royally screwed up our anniversary dinner before it's even begun.
"Erica, I have ADHD," I confess with an arrogant smile.
Erica's expression softens slightly, her annoyance giving way to understanding. "No shit," she says, a hint of amusement creeping into her voice. "I've seen you lose yourself to more obsessions than one, remember?"
I chuckle, relief washing over me. "Irma truly is a conundrum."
Just then, the waitress returns, balancing our drinks on a tray. She sets them down with practiced ease, a sophisticated Manhattan for Erica, a tall glass of milk, and what looks like a fruit salad in a hurricane glass for me. The drink is a riot of colors, with at least three different umbrellas and a sparkler fizzing merrily on top.
"Your drinks," the waitress announces, a slight smirk playing on her lips as she sets my monstrosity in front of me.
Erica nods in approval, but as she reaches for her milk, her brow furrows. She picks up the glass, swirling it gently, and I hear the telltale clink of ice cubes.
As the waitress walks away, my eyes go wide and Erica's curiosity is also seems to be piqued. The sound of ice clinking in her glass of milk seems to echo in the suddenly quiet restaurant.
"Are there... ice cubes in your milk?" I ask, leaning forward to get a better look.
Erica shakes the glass lightly, her face contorting into a sour expression. "Yeah," she confirms, her voice a mix of confusion and disgust.
"Did you order it with ice?" I press, already knowing the answer.
"Fuck no," Erica spits, her blue eyes flashing with annoyance. "Who the hell drinks milk with ice?"
I can't help but chuckle despite the tension. "Is it normal for milk to come with ice here?"
"Fuck no," Erica repeats, more emphatically this time. "I mean, I don't know. I've never ordered milk here before, I guess." She sets the glass down with a little more force than necessary, causing some of the offending liquid to slosh over the rim.
I can't help but fixate on the glass of milk, my mind swirling with questions. "Why did you even order milk?" I ask, unable to contain my curiosity any longer.
Erica brushes off the question with a wave of her hand. "I just felt in the mood for milk," she says, her tone dismissive.
I lean in, a grin spreading across my face. "What do you mean you were 'in the mood for milk'?" I press, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice.
'This is officially a bigger mystery than her being a witch.'
She shoots me a glare, but I can see the corners of her mouth twitching, fighting a smile. "Fuck off," she says, but there's no real heat behind it. "Maybe I just wanted a nice glass of milk. Is that so hard to believe?"
"At a nice restaurant?" I counter, gesturing around at the opulent surroundings. "This doesn't make sense, Erica. We're in a place where the napkins probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, and you order... milk?"
Erica groans in annoyance, running a hand through her blonde hair. "Look, it's not that weird, okay? Sometimes, a girl just wants some bone juice."
I nearly choke on my fruity concoction, causing a nearby diner to shoot me a disapproving glare. "Bone juice?" I splutter, my voice rising an octave. "Did you just call milk 'bone juice'?"
Erica's cheeks flush a deep crimson, her eyes darting around the restaurant as if searching for an escape route. "It's not that weird," she mutters, her fingers drumming an agitated rhythm on the table. "It makes your bones stronger, okay?"
I try to compose myself, taking a deep breath and wiping tears of laughter from my eyes. "Erica, please," I say, my voice trembling with barely contained desperation. "Tell me why you really got the milk. I'm begging you."
Her eyes narrow dangerously, a storm brewing in those blue depths. Without breaking eye contact, she reaches for her Manhattan. In one fluid motion, she tilts her head back and downs the entire drink. The sight is both impressive and slightly terrifying.
The glass slams back onto the table with enough force to make the silverware jump. "Fucking fine, you want to know so bad, I'll tell you!" she growls, her voice slightly raspy from the burn of the alcohol. "I wanted to give off big mommy vibes, alright? There are you fucking happy!"
The restaurant seems to go eerily quiet as if every patron has collectively held their breath. I blink rapidly, my brain struggling to process what I've just heard. "I'm sorry, what?" I manage to croak out.
Erica's eyes dart around the restaurant, suddenly aware of the attention we've drawn. But as her gaze locks back onto mine, something shifts. The storm in her eyes calms, replaced by a fierce intensity that makes my breath catch.
"You heard me," she says, her voice low and husky. "I wanted to give off mommy vibes. For you."
I feel my cheeks heat up, a mix of embarrassment and unexpected arousal coursing through me. Erica leans in closer, her blonde hair falling like a curtain around us, creating an intimate bubble in the midst of the crowded restaurant.
"I've seen the way you look at me when you're... you know, sucking my nipples," she continues. The casual way she says it as if discussing the weather, reminds me of how different this world is. "I know you have a thing for boobs, even if people here don't get it. And I like it when you call me momma..."
She trails off, a hint of vulnerability creeping into her expression. "So I thought, hey, what's more motherly than milk, right? Figured you'd find it hot, watching me drink it."
'BUT MOMS DON'T DRINK THEIR OWN MILK!' My Mind palace has becoming very messy as of late with all the table flipping.
I'm speechless for a moment, touched by her misguided but earnest attempt to appeal to what she perceives as my desires. The fact that she'd go to such lengths, even risking public embarrassment, just to make me happy... it's oddly endearing.
A slow smile spreads across my face. "That's... actually really nice, Erica,"
A slow smile spreads across Erica's face, her eyes twinkling with a mix of relief and mischief. "Well, I aim to please," she purrs, reaching out to trace a finger along my jawline. "Though I have to admit, I was hoping for a bit more of a... reaction."
I can't help but chuckle, shaking my head in amazement. "Oh, trust me, you're getting a reaction. I'm just processing it all. The fact that you'd order milk in a fancy restaurant, risk looking silly, all to appeal to what you think I'd like... it's honestly incredible."
Erica preens a little at my words, her posture straightening. "Well, when you put it that way, I do sound pretty awesome," she says with a wink.
I lean in, lowering my voice conspiratorially. "You know what? I think I pushed it a bit too far with all my questions. I should have just appreciated the gesture from the start."
To my surprise, Erica's face falls slightly. "No, no," she says, shaking her head vigorously. "The restaurant fucked it up by putting ice in it. That ruined the motherly vibes completely."
I blink, taken aback by her vehemence. "Oh?"
"Yeah. I mean, think about it. What kind of mother serves ice-cold milk? It's supposed to be warm and comforting, not like you're drinking from a glacier. The ice totally killed the mood I was going for."
I lean in closer, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "So you expected them to serve you warm milk? Maybe you have like a warm milk spell you could cast on it yourself?"
Erica's eyes go cold, and her posture stiffens. "I told you not to bring that up outside the house," she hisses, her voice sharp as a knife's edge.
But something in me refuses to back down. Maybe it's the fruity concoction coursing through my veins, but more than likely its that i've already donned the sherlock cap once this dinner. Can i even take it off now?
"I'm just starting to doubt it, Erica," I say, my words tumbling out in a rush. "You haven't cast any spells, no cauldrons, no potions. I'm just not sure you're..." I pause, glancing around before leaning in even closer, my lips nearly brushing her ear as I whisper, "A witch."
Erica's eyes flash with a manic intensity, her pupils dilating until they nearly swallow the blue. The chandelier light catches in her irises, making them shimmer like the surface of a turbulent sea. Her nostrils flare, and I can see a muscle twitching in her jaw as she clenches her teeth.
"If I say I am a fucking witch, then I am a fucking witch," she snarls, her voice low and dangerous. The air around us seems to crackle with tension, and I swear I can feel the temperature drop several degrees. "Since when did you start doubting my words, Jason?"
Her fingers dig into the tablecloth, knuckles turning white. For a moment, I'm convinced she's going to flip the table over, sending our drinks and fine china crashing to the floor. But beneath the fury in her eyes, I catch a glimpse of something else. A desperate longing, a need for me to believe her, to accept her completely.
My heart clenches at the sight. I reach out, gently prying her hands from the tablecloth and enveloping them in my own. Her skin is burning hot as if she's running a fever.
'She believed me despite my insane story. She really could be a witch I suppose.'
"I'm sorry for doubting you," I say softly, rubbing small circles on the backs of her hands with my thumbs. "I shouldn't have questioned you like that."
The tension drains from Erica's body, her shoulders sagging as she lets out a long, shuddering breath. Relief washes over her features, softening the hard lines of anger.
I squeeze her hands gently, meeting her gaze. "I believe you, Erica," I say, then hesitate before adding, "But god forbid you weren't a witch, I want you to know that I can help you with whatever you feel you need to do. Whatever's going on, whatever you're dealing with, I'm here for you."
Erica's expression shifts, her eyes taking on a mischievous glint that sends a shiver down my spine. She leans in close, her scent enveloping me in a heady cloud of roses and something darker, more primal. Her lips curve into a smile that's equal parts alluring and terrifying, like a predator eyeing its prey.
"Oh, honey," she purrs, her voice low and sultry. She places her hand over mine, her touch electric. Her skin seems to radiate an otherworldly warmth, and I swear I can feel a faint pulse of energy thrumming beneath her fingertips. "I really am a witch."
"And I promise," she continues, her voice taking on an eerie, echoing quality that seems to resonate in my very bones, "I will get Riley where she needs to go."
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone