“Do you know what you want?” I ask.
Blue shakes his head, still looking like a kid in a candy store. Part amazed, part overwhelmed. I chuckle and order for us both. But as I fish my bank card out of my pocket, he stops me.
“I should provide for you.” He freezes, blushes and then continues. “I mean, I’ll pay.”
He pulls out a grandpa style leather wallet out of his jeans pocket and opens it up. It’s stuffed with notes. I mean stuffed. The wallet is bursting at the seams.
A little yelp escapes and I try covering it with my hand before anyone else sees, but the cashier’s eyes are already bugging out. I try to pull one note out, but they are all fifties. What the actual hell? Eventually I find a twenty and then hiss at Blue to put his grandad wallet away.
I pay the cashier and then hustle Blue over to a table to wait for our number to be called.
“You’ll get mugged flashing your cash like that!” I say.
“Oh,” he says sadly.
Maybe he doesn’t need to be worried about being mugged. He is a siren, after all. He probably has all sorts of freaky powers, apart from his ability to sing and lure people to their deaths. I’m probably worrying about nothing.
“Where the hell did you get all that from anyway?” I ask.
Call me nosy, but I really want to know.
“Red gave it to me. He says there is more in a bank account and to tell him when I run out.”
“Why is Red giving you money?”
Blue’s eyes glitter in the strip lights. “It’s my money. Com. Pen. Sation.”
The way he says it as three separate words has me confused for a moment. And then it clicks. Compensation. Seems like paranormals have some sort of victim support fund and Blue got a payout from being imprisoned by a billionaire. I fucking hope the money has been taken right out of the bastard’s accounts.
Our number is called, and I go up to get our tray. As I sit back down, Blue barks a question at me.
“Why are you selling yourself?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Because I need money.”
Blue reaches for his wallet and I stop him with a gasp.
“No, Blue. That’s your money. I need my own.”
He frowns and pops a fry in his mouth. His eyes widen and he quickly shovels several more fries into his mouth. I chuckle and tuck into my own food far more sedately.
“Your parents have money,” states Blue.
“You mean Gray and Mal?” I ask, because I sure as hell don’t have any birth parents.
He nods.
I sigh. “I’m a grown-assed man. I need to pay my own way.”
Blue gives me a deeply skeptical look. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
His eyes grow enormous and he nearly chokes on his first bite of burger.
“That’s…that’s… you are just a baby!” he gasps, and he looks genuinely horrified and concerned.
In my world, twenty-one is ancient. Foster care kicks you out at sixteen. I know plenty of people my age with a couple of kids. Or in jail. Or who never made it this far. I know in other circles, twenty-one is graduating university and only just finishing education. Which is wild to me. I think I was fourteen the last time I went to school. My shitty, much older boyfriend didn’t like me going.
