Thanks to all those who have sent me their warm encouragement. I hope this chapter is just as worthy! ^_^
Part Two: Rules of Engagement
Chapter Nine:
Trusting My Tongue To Buy My Life
Every day a different story / Every night a new plotted knife / I have no time for tears or worry / Trusting my tongue to buy my life
~ Like Scheherezade by: Gwen Knighton
¤ ¤ ¤
They were coming to the end of their meal, and Sara had realized the dilemma she was now in. The. Bill. That horrible moment that came at the end of nearly every date she had been on. She had started fights before and prematurely ended relationships when it came to that little slip of paper.
Ian was virtually oblivious to the storm that was gathering around their small table. He was mentally going over several moments where she had actually relaxed around him, and wasn't even aware of what was coming to plow him over.
I'm not stupid; Nottingham has this creepy, somewhat old-fashioned idea about ladies and gentleman, and proper behaviour. At least where he is concerned. He's going to insist on paying, and I know this time he won't relent...
I won't let him! But she didn't feel like fighting either. If he won't give in and I won't give in, then where does that leave us?
With a third choice.
Her eyes suddenly twinkled with a mischievous light, and one end of her lipsticked-mouth curled up slightly. Ian caught the look from across the table and had enough sense to shiver in apprehension.
"Are you done eating," she whispered, her head lowered so that her hair fell around her face and blocked curious eyes from seeing her mouth move. She had the air around her of someone trying to be discreet.
He nodded, having no clue as to what was going on. He didn't sense any danger nearby, but if she said there was then he would believe her.
She pushed her hair back behind her ears, then threw a look around them nonchalantly. Ian followed the movement, but still couldn't see the danger her body language was hinting at.
She gasped so loudly that he jumped, his nerves already tingling with the possibility of violence. She was waving her hand desperately above her head, calling out, "Jerry!? Jerry!? Where are you?!"
"Sara, what is it?! What's wrong?!"
Jerry pushed his way to their table at a half-run, his eyes flicking from Ian to Sara, and back to Ian franticly. "Madame?!"
"There is a hair in my food," she said loudly, pointing at her half-eaten pasta accusingly.
Jerry blinked, wringing his hands worriedly before him. "Excuse me?" She was making such a big fuss over such a small thing?
Sara jumped to her feet and swayed slightly on her heels. "Oh," she moaned for good measure, noticing all eyes on her, "I think I'm going to be sick!" Jerry quickly got out of her way as she fled towards the nearest bathroom. In fact, everybody got out of her way, looking a little green themselves.
Jerry eeped silently as the big scary man at the table stood up. But Ian simply brushed past him as if he were nothing but a piece of furniture that had somehow found its way into his path.
¤ ¤ ¤
Sara leaned on her hands against the edge of the counter, grinning at herself craftily in the long bathroom mirror. It stretched the entire opposite wall of the stalls, reflecting them back at her and giving the room a depth that it didn't really possess at all. The sink before her was modestly nice, white and gold, but it matched the one beside it, and the one beside that one. It seemed kind of silly when put in that context.
The door opened and Sara quickly dropped her head so her hair fell forward, the movement being quicker than actually trying to wipe the amusement off her face. No doubt they had sent someone to check up on her.
"Sara, is there anything I can do?" Ian asked in concern.
"Ya know, Nottingham, we gotta stop meeting like this." With a small smile she turned on the tap and began running cold water over her hands. Off to her side Ian blushed, recalling the last time he had seen a public bathroom. It was a good thing the stalls had been open at the bottom, or there was no telling what they would have done. He remembered the women staring at him with wide eyes when he walked in with Sara. Of course, some of them had grinned and winked at him. That had been creepy.
Sara splashed cool water on her cheeks, getting stray wisps of her long dark hair wet. She jerked a paper towel free from the dispenser and pressed it delicately to her face, mindful of the make-up. She really really hated wearing it.
She turned and leaned against the counter. Nottingham leaned against the stall across from her, folding his arms over his chest. Amazingly, his white suit had made it through dinner without a single stain. Must be magic, she thought.
She opened her mouth to say just as much when the bathroom door swung in. A petite woman walked through, in a clingy black party dress and health-club tan. Her pumps clacked noisily against the tiled floor, seeming to echo off the utterly unmemorable walls. In her left hand she clutched a small matching purse.
Glancing at them, or more, Ian, she stopped. She stared openly at Ian, and he stared back. Sara did not catch the look on his face, but the blonde took one step back, and then another. She turned and hurried out the door, nearly tripping on her two inch heels.
"Wow. Do you think you could teach me that trick, Nottingham?"
"What trick is that, Sara?" he asked neutrally, unsure of her mood and if she had fallen back into the old habit of mocking him.
"The one where harmless women scurry merely from the sight of you. Could be handy."
He gave her a small smile. "I believe it is natural talent."
She grinned back, not even caring how strange it was supposed to feel. "Are you ready to go back?"
"Are you feeling well?"
"I'm okay now." She had decided in those three seconds that she had been alone that it was best not to let him in on her plan. It might offend him, or some other thing she couldn't predict. She was never really sure how he was going to react.
...Though she did feel a twinge of guilt at the very real concern in his voice.
But not enough to let him pay for dinner.
"Let's go," she said. And they went.
¤ ¤ ¤
Getting back to their table, they noticed that Jerry was gone and an older, thicker man had taken his place. Ole' Jerry had chickened out and called his manager in to deal with the 'scary couple'. And the manager had a look on his face that said he was NOT going to be intimidated as easily as his colleague.
"What's the problem, ma'am?" he asked Sara coolly, ignoring Nottingham who had stepped back to let her deal with the situation. It was her complaint after all.
Sara absolutely hated being called 'ma'am', it made her feel old. But she pushed the irritation away and tried to convey illness in her face as she spoke to him.
"My meal was completely ruined. I refuse to pay," she said without any sort of fanfare, causing both the manager and Ian to blink in surprise.
Ian felt a warm line of pride flow through him suddenly. That was his Wielder, a true lady of strength and command. But part of his training was to know when it was best to avoid conflict. And it was definitely good to avoid conflict of this nature in such an open and populated setting. It was this conclusion that had him automatically reaching within his jacket to retrieve his money, ready to play peace-maker.
Sara's hand was just suddenly gripping his, her green eyes narrow. "Don't do it, Ian. We are not going to pay this man for a meal we don't even get to finish."
After a moment Ian nodded, letting his hand drop and slide out of her grip. He instantly missed that touch, which was absurd because he hadn't even really noticed it until it was gone. He knew exactly what was going on now; once upon a time something similar had happened at a dinner party with his Father. But he couldn't recall the detail of payment ever actually coming up. And the host hadn't seemed nearly as hostile as the man standing before them.
They weren't going to pay, which made sense. There food and service had made her ill, and so she shouldn't be expected to pay for such a thing. In fact, they should all get down on their knees and beg her forgiveness. How could they stand before her and not know how special she was?
Sara turned away from the very strange look in Nottingham's eyes, and once again addressed the manager. He was a little heavy set, but in that way that made it difficult to tell if there was fat or muscle under his conservative clothes. His neck was noticeably thick, and for some reason it made Sara think of a big disagreeable bear. And that made her feel a little more disagreeable herself.
"I am sorry, ma'am, but you just can't come in here and eat, and then decide not to pay."
She opened and closed her mouth as if she couldn't believe he had said such a thing to her. Finally, she settled on an incredulous (and utterly manufactured) glare of haughty indignation. "Did you see what I found in my food?"
"Yes, ma'am, I did." And then his eyes narrowed on her. "Are you sure it was there BEFORE you started eating?"
She gasped, the sound actually real. She hadn't expected anyone to question her. Wasn't the customer always right in these matters?! "Are you calling me a liar?!" She didn't like that, even though it was technically true at the moment. It still pissed her off that he would insinuate such a thing.
But before she could move in to set him aright, the manager's fat head impacted on the table top, upsetting the dishes spread out there but miraculously missing all of them. His eyes bugged out and his lips moved wordlessly in shock. Ian stood over him, one hand pressed firmly against the middle of the man's back. His other hand had produced a short-sword from somewhere and was steadily holding it against the nape of the manager's meaty neck. It was clearly a warning, but a last one.
"Did you just call the lady a liar?" he asked calmly.
Sara stared at him open-mouthed, in awe. But who could blame her? In his white and gold, he was reminiscent of Saint George standing on the back of the dragon, pressing his spear deeply into the beast's throat.
She glanced down, lifted her pump and made a face. Except it seemed that this dragon had just pissed his pants. Ew.
The big man began to sob, going very still beneath the cold edge of the blade.
"Apologize."
"Sa-sorry!" that was all the manager seemed capable of choking out.
After the initial shock wore off, Sara's first thought was: where in the hell had he been hiding such a dangerous weapon? Her second thought was: has to be a spine-sheath, but how the hell did he get it out so quick without hacking off whole chunks of hair?
Her third thought was the one that actually got her up and moving. Oh shit, the cops!
Oh shit the cops indeed. Cel phones were suddenly materializing in people's hands. A few even had those newfangled built-in digital cameras, and were sending pictures to their friends.
"Oh shit! Nottingham, the cops!" She launched forward, grabbing him and lifting his wrist, and consequently, the blade away from the manager's neck. It was surprisingly easy since he didn't fight her for control. She pulled him along by the wrist, rounding tables and frozen customers.
Damn. She stopped, turned them around and marched back for her purse.
The manager, who had collapsed crying to the floor, squealed like a prepubescent girl when he saw them return. He scrambled under the table and hugged the far corner. He was really too big for it, and one end of the table tilted up, causing what was left of her daiquiri to slide off with an audible crash and shatter of glass. Shaking her head, Sara snatched up her purse and switched her grip on Ian, taking hold of the wrist sans sword.
The woman across from them was still snapping pictures.
Her fingers tightening around Ian's wrist, Sara, detective-extraordinaire, fled the scene of 'the crime'.
TBC...
