Page 30 of The Menagerie

Rowan suddenly feels gross in comparison and desperately wishes he had showered instead of pulling his clothes on over his dirty body. But if the once-over Mal gives him is anything to go by, he’d say he still looks presentable.

“Relax, like I’d be able to pry him from your claws anyway.”

With an exaggerated eye roll, Mal turns to Rowan. “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. Let’s go, Red. Later,” Mal calls over his shoulder as he turns and heads toward the elevator without so much as waiting for Rowan.

Rowan scrambles off the barstool with a quick goodbye to Jeremiah and half jogs to catch up with Mal as the elevator doors open with ading.

They ride the elevator in silence and then make their way through the first floor—which is packed with people. When they pass Camilla on the way out, Rowan sees her eyes flick up to them for a moment before she does a double take, head snapping up and mouth dropping open like a cartoon character. Instantly after, she bites her bottom lip—visibly fighting a smile—and waggles her fingers at them. Mal flips her off behind his back as Rowan turns and gives her a small wave, at leasttryingto be polite. She and Mal might be friends, but Rowan definitely isn’t, and he doesn’t want her to think he’s being rude.

As soon as they’re through the double doors and into the warm summer air, Mal pulls out a cigarette and lights it, taking a deep drag before turning to Rowan for the first time since the bar.

“You smoke?” he asks, offering the cigarette to Rowan as the smoke swirls out from his lips.

“Trying to quit, but yeah.”

“Tch. Been sayin’thatshit since I was thirteen.”

Rowan huffs a small laugh. He takes the butt and places it between his lips to take his own drag, trying not to think too hard about where the cigarette had been. He hands it back, shivering as their fingers brush and mentally kicking himself for not being able to blame it on the weather.

“C’mon.”

Mal shoves his free hand in his jeans pocket and starts walking down the street at a quick pace, making Rowan once again have to take a few half-jogging strides to catch up. He’s thankful for his long legs being able to keep pace with Mal, who would put the old ladies who power walk in the mall to shame. If he hadn’t been there himself, Rowan almost wouldn’t believe this is the same guy who got fucked—and DPd—by ten others. Barely a hitch in his step.

Rowan pushes down the surge of heat he can feel building again, and thinks that Mal is going to be the death of him.

It’s only a five-minute walk to the restaurant, which they pass in comfortable silence. The place is little more than a tiny diner with a neon Open 24/7 sign flickering in the window and a rusty bell that dings when they enter.

Something bluesy is playing on the jukebox, and the air is filled with the telltale smell of fried food and something that might be cinnamon. A plump older woman with rosy cheeks and salt-and-pepper hair in neat pin curls is wiping down the counter when she notices them enter.

“Mal, baby!” Her voice is a soothing low rasp with a hint of sweetness to it.

“Hey, Sheils.”

“The usual?” she asks once they reach the counter.

“Yeah, please. And whatever he wants,” Mal says, gesturing to Rowan.

“Uh….”

Rowan frantically looks up at the overhead menu, consisting of two large blackboards with specials handwritten in chalk. He has no idea what Mal’s usual is, though he has to admit he really likes the idea of him having a “usual” at a small place like this. A Mom-and-Pop type place like you’d see every couple of blocks in the outer limits of the city.

“What can I get ya, hon?” the woman asks. Her name tag reads Sheila.

Fuck, right. Food.

His eyes flit across the menu, seeing typical diner staples and breakfast items served until noon.

“Uh… I’ll have a BLT and fries, please.”

“What kind of toast?”

“Wheat?”

Sheila nods but doesn’t write down his order. Rowan always had to write stuff down when he worked at his sister Aubrey’s diner, even a simple order like that, so he’s impressed.

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