The hostess leads us to a table in the back, and we wind around seated tables to get there. The place is cramped in that way that doesn't feel like an annoyance, but more of a shared understanding between the patrons that we are all here to partake in something.
The hostess snaps our menus down on the table and tells us Queenie will be with us shortly.
"That's it," Grandma declares, smacking the plastic menu on her open palm. "I'm changing my name to Queenie."
"Sort of feels like it should've been your name all along," my dad says, a note of fondness in his voice.
I sit up straight, the wordswhat the hellhovering in my throat. Where is my indifferent father?
A warm hand presses against my back. Rubs a gentle circle.Dom. His lips meet my shoulder. He says nothing. He doesn't have to. The communication is received.I'm here.
Queenie ends up being an inch below five feet tall. She is ghostly pale, with jet black hair in a pixie cut. She wears dream catchers as earrings, and earns a compliment from Rainbow.
We order two pitchers of beer, one a fruity cider and the second a stout I want no part of. Duke does an internet search trying to learn the story behind Kate with the Big Nose.
"A soiled dove of the American West, and on-and-off girlfriend of Doc Holliday," Duke reads theatrically as Queenie arrives holding two pitchers in one hand and a sleeve of cold glasses in the other. Dom reaches out to offer help, but she's faster, moving with the grace of someone who has performed the maneuver countless times. Duke continues, "While the dance hall girl was attractive, she did have a prominent nose."
"She also had a temper that matched Doc Holliday's," Queenie adds, pouring a beer. "And she was tough and stubborn."
"Sounds like someone else I know," Dom says in a voice meant only for me.
I reach for the cider, bringing it to my lips. "Don't even think of calling mesoiled doveas my third nickname."
Dom's thumb grazes my thigh under the table. Around my kneecap. Back up the inside of my leg. Hot sparks of desire shoot through my chest.
"You're looking piqued," Dom says, bringing his beer to his lips with the hand that is not currently tormenting my leg. He takes a deep swallow, throat bobbing.
"I'm fine," I insist. I'm not. I'm anything but.
Back down my leg he goes, and this time when he gets to my knee, his fingers slip into the crease. His grip on me tightens, and in his grasp I feel one word:mine.
It makes me think of our kiss two days ago, the way the boulder dug into my skin and Dom's lips teased my mouth open, the swipe of his tongue and the way my breast looked in his palm.
I suck down half my beer. Fan myself. Who turned on the heat in this place?
"Hot, Menace?"
I turn to look at him. He wears a smirk. And in his eyes, a hunger.
"I've noticed something interesting."
"What's that?"
"You call me Chestnut when you want to be sweet." My voice lowers, and he leans in, a lock of his hair falling over his forehead. "And you call me Menace when you want to fuck me."
Muscles along his jaw tense. "Wrong."
My eyebrows lift. "How so?"
His fingers flex on my leg. "It doesn't matter if I call you Chestnut, or Menace. I always want to fuck you."
His words send a current of electricity straight to my core. "Combustion imminent."
Understanding filters through his eyes. Grabbing my hand, he hastily hauls me up from the table. My family watches us, waiting for one of us to explain our behavior.
Dom is quicker than I am. "Cecily and I are going to check out the gift shop. I'm sure my parents would love souvenirs from here."
"Do you want to wait until we place our dinner order?" Mom asks.
