"You have interesting taste, son," Forrest said.
I grimaced over at Archer. His mouth was turned down. Visibly as unhappy to hear Forrest refer to him that as I was.
"It's not about my taste," Cass said. "It's about creating a vibe, you know? A brand. Standing out from the crowd. Being different. It'd be cosy. And unique. Who wouldn't want to come here and have some, I don't know, sausages."
I almost choked on air. Was he referring to the kind made with beef, pork or chicken? Or the kind that lived in people's pants? Those would make for interesting eating.
I could see it now. 'Hey, would you like some salad with your penis?'
It would raise eyebrows. The city had just about everything else you could imagine, why not penis? Although, if I searched, I might find other places that served those. And testicles for good measure. Fuck knows what else.
Each to their own; it wasn't my menu of choice.
"If you're going to do this, you might need something more nourishing than sausages," Forrest said. He sounded unimpressed. Again, we agreed on something. Ugh.
"Do you have something in mind?" Cass asked. "A particular favorite cuisine?"
Silence followed, I assumed Forrest was thinking.
"I quite enjoy Icelandic cuisine," he said finally. "Hakarl with a shot of Brennivin, specifically, but they are an acquired taste."
I frowned over at Archer.
He leaned over to whisper in my ear. "Fermented shark. And a spirit called Black Death."
Of course it was. How appropriate.
"I'll consider those," Cass said. "I have more training to do before I can work in the kitchen myself. I thought I'd hire a chef for a while. I guess they'd have their own menu and style?"
"No doubt," Forrest agreed. "Have you got any particular chefs in mind?"
My heart started to hammer. I was sure he could see right through the walls to where Archer and I stood.
"Not really," Cass said easily. He was putting all of his musical theatre acting skills to good use right now. If I was Forrest, I would have bought every word he said, even if I'd walked in with a healthy dose of suspicion.
After all, Cass was his son. How could he have an ulterior motive? Right?
"Can you recommend any?" Cass asked.
"As a matter of fact, I know of one in particular," Forrest said smoothly. "Someone you might be acquainted with."
"You mean my boss?" Cass asked. "I don't think so. She's busy with her own restaurants."
"Is she now?" Forrest's voice was closer. "For someone who owns two restaurants, she seems busy putting her nose in where it doesn't belong."
"I wouldn't know," Cass said. "I work with her, then go home afterward."
"Mmhmm," Forrest said, clearly not buying a word of it now.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Cass said, sounding more nervous than when Forrest first walked through the door.
"I know it's been a long time since we've seen each other, Cassius," Forrest said, "but I wasn't born yesterday. I know you're involved with Harlow St. James. I know she murderedHypnos, Eros, and all the others. I know she wanted you to ask me to come here today."
"Why would she do that?" Cass asked. "Whatever you think you know?—"
"What Idoknow," Forrest snapped. "Did you think I'd walk in here without being prepared? I wasn't born yesterday. Miss St. James, you can come out now."
Fuck.
