House Rules - Chloe Neill Page 0,100
asked.
He ran a hand through his hair. “A burger, maybe? But nothing trendy, and nothing kitschy. No shade-grown beef or organic spring mix or beet consommé,” he said, mirroring the thoughts I’d just been having.
“Shade-grown beef. That’s funny.” I bobbed my head back and forth, debating a couple of options. Chicago was a food-friendly town. Shade-grown beef was an option if you wanted it; so were modernist foams, authentic pho, and diners where the waitress offered you just-fried donuts when you walked through the door. I didn’t mean to put Chicago on a pedestal. Undeniably, it had issues: poverty, crime, and strife between folks—including vampires—who thought they were all “different” from each other. But you truly couldn’t fault the food.
When I settled on a restaurant, I looked at Ethan. “I’ll drive.”
“You have to. I don’t have a car anymore,” he reminded me. “But, out of curiosity, why do you need to drive?”
“Because we’re going to a place for locals. Low-key. Good food. Good atmosphere. Whatever car you might borrow would be . . . too much.”
“Despite the fact that I’ve lived in this city longer than most anyone alive, you’re afraid they’ll think I’m a tourist.”
“Your cars are always so flashy.”
“Your car is so . . . orange.” The distaste in his voice was obvious. Not that he was wrong.
“My car is also very mine, and very paid off. I’m driving.” I lifted the tray in my hands. “I’ll take this downstairs. You grab your coat.”
He grumbled a few choice words, but only because he knew I’d won. Heaven forbid Ethan Sullivan should let me get in the last word.
* * *
Giant neon capitals above the sidewalk read CHRIS’S BROILER. When we opened the door, a giant brass bell on the handle chimed our arrival. The decor was simple and homey, the restaurant populated by small tables, plastic chairs, and a line of orange vinyl booths along one wall.
“Take a seat,” said a waitress in a black uniform dress and white apron who breezed past us with a tray of what could only have been manna from the gods. I didn’t see what it was, but it smelled like heaven on a plate.
“Shall we?” Ethan asked, putting a hand at my back and guiding me toward a booth.
We weren’t seated for more than fifteen seconds before a blond waitress with a ponytail put water glasses and laminated menus in front of us. “Get you something to drink?”
Ethan’s gaze didn’t waver from the menu he’d already snatched up.
“Water’s fine,” I said, and she smiled and moved along, giving us time to consider our orders.
We sat quietly in the booth, the few other diners around us enjoying their late-night meals.
The bell on the door rang, and two uniformed officers walked inside and headed to the counter, where they took seats and began chatting with the waitress.
“What do you recommend?” Ethan finally asked, oblivious to my mental wranglings.
“Patty melt,” I said, pointing to its spot on the menu. “With fries. It’s their specialty.”
“And it appears I can add any number of toppings. Peanut butter. Eggs. Pickles.” He looked up at me. “What’s a jalape?o popper?”
“Nothing that’s made it into the awareness of a four-hundred-year-old vampire, evidently. It’s a cheese-filled jalape?o.”
“Ah. Sounds . . . unhealthy.”
“I wasn’t finished,” I said. “It’s also breaded and deep-fried.”
His eyes widened comically. I needed to get him to a state fair and a booth where everything was fried and served on a stick. He’d probably have a heart attack just looking at it.
“Pick the patty melt,” I repeated, looking at my menu and scanning the options. What was the best thing to eat when you were trying not to think about the murder you couldn’t solve? Salad? It was the classic food of self-denial. The meatloaf platter was a protein – and carb-laden behemoth—more an indulgence than a punishment.
In the end, I settled on something simple. Foods that would sit easy in my gut, even if my conscience wasn’t sitting easy.
“Morning special,” I said when the waitress returned, handing the menu back to her.
“I suppose I’ll have the patty melt special,” Ethan said, giving the waitress a smile and returning his menu, as well.
“Anything you want, sugar,” she said with a wink, tapping the edges of our menus on the tabletop to straighten them, then disappearing into the back. I wondered whether they had a Mallory in the back of Chris’s Broiler—a disgraced witch doing her best to atone for her sins with dishwashing and onion chopping.
I sprinkled