Wicked (A Wicked Trilogy 1)

I opened my mouth but Ren beat me. Stepping around me, he stalked up to the counter and planted both hands on the glass case. "Is that how you talk to the lady?"

Oh geez.

Jerome's black brows climbed up his forehead as he met Ren stare for stare. "Who in the hell do you think you are?"

"Someone who thinks you could learn to use a little respect," he fired back.

I wiggled between Ren and a display of voodoo feathers that smelled like patchouli. "Ren, it's okay."

He didn't take that glare off Jerome. "Not okay with me."

Jerome crossed his arms and straightened, expression permanently sullen. I was surprised the deep grooves of his face hadn't truly frozen in a scowl. "No one asked you, boy."

"All right." I held up a hand as Ren looked as if he was about to grab the old man and put him in a chokehold. "Seriously. It's okay. He's not being disrespectful." I glanced at Jerome. "Well, it's not a personal thing. He's a jerk to everyone."

"Not everyone," he replied in a surly tone.

I shot him a bland look. "Your dog doesn't count."

A terse moment passed, and Ren finally looked down at me. Some of the hardness had left his gaze, but he still didn't look thrilled. "Still not cool."

"Ren," I murmured.

"Ivy," he repeated.

Jerome rolled his eyes then lifted his chin. "Hey, you! Yeah, you over by the hot sauce," he shouted. Ren and I turned. A middle-aged white man halted. Two giant bottles of Voodoo Queen Hot Sauce were in his hands. "Those bottles are for buying and not fondling. Either buy 'em or put 'em down."

"Wow," I said, turning back to Jerome. "I'm surprised this place makes any money."

He snorted. "Like I give a shit if it does."

Never really thought that he did.

"Is there a reason why you called her in here?" Ren asked, folding his arms as the customer hurried out of the shop. "Because we actually have stuff to do."

His gaze slid to Ren. "I kind of like you, boy."

"Honored," murmured Ren. "And entirely flattered."

I bit my lip to stop from grinning.

"You owe me." Jerome pointed a gnarled finger at me.

At first, I had no clue what he was getting at, and then I remembered the day. "Oh. Crap." I placed my hands on the counter. "I'm sorry. This has been one hell of a week. I forgot."

"Forgot what?" Ren glanced between us.

"Monday," Jerome grumbled. "Every Monday for about two years, and this is the first time you've forgotten."

"Cake," I said to Ren, letting a little grin peek through.

A brown eyebrow shot up. "Cake?"

"Not just any damn cake!" Jerome slammed his hands on the counter, causing me to jump. "The best damn chocolate cake I've ever had. That girl brings it to me every Monday. I rearrange my points just to have that damn cake."

Ren looked even more confused. "Points?"

"He's on a diet." I grinned then. "I'm sorry. I'll bring it tomorrow. Okay?"

Jerome grumbled something under his breath. "You better not forget. Now get out of here so I can order a pizza."

The thing was, I hadn't been the only one who had forgotten.

Outside the shop, we started toward Jackson Square. We'd made it about half a block before Ren laughed. "What?" I glanced up at him.

"You bake?" he asked, nudging my arm with his. "You bake chocolate cake that's apparently the best in the whole world for a half senile old guy?"

A giggle squeaked out. "Um, yeah. I do. Baking . . . is like a hobby." Okay. That was a total lie. The only cakes I could bake came out of the box. It was Tink who baked the cakes from scratch.

"And why haven't I been offered any cake?"

I wondered what he'd think if he knew the cake was made by a brownie. Sending him a quick glance, I smoothed my hands down my thighs. "You're going to have to get to know me better before you taste my cake."

Ren opened his mouth then closed it a second before he stopped and stepped right in front of me. I skidded to a stop to avoid slamming into him. The guy behind us cursed and shot us a dirty look as he walked around us. Ren ignored him. "Was that an invitation? Because I'm willing to get to know you in any way possible if that means I get to taste your cake."

"Invitation for . . .?" Oh my God. My words replayed. My face turned crimson. "You are such a pervert!" I smacked his chest hard. "That's not what I meant."

"That's a damn shame then," he said solemnly.

I hit him again, on the arm this time, then stormed around him. "You're such a dog."

Tipping his head back, he laughed loudly and deeply, and in spite of my embarrassment, my lips formed a wry grin. I couldn't help it. The laugh . . . it was infectious. He was beside me in a heartbeat. "I really do want to taste the cake—the real cake. Well, I'd also love to taste your cake, too."

"If you stop talking about cake in general, I promise I will get you a slice of cake," I said. "And I won't stab you."

"You'd stab me?" Amusement colored his tone.

I nodded. "Even after giving me a rose."

"Okay. Deal. No more cake." He was quiet as we crossed onto Chartres. "Did you do anything on your day off yesterday?"

I almost stumbled as I glanced at him sharply. Brighton hadn't called me back, which was no surprise, and I planned on paying her another visit. But there was no way he'd known that.

A half grin curved his mouth up at one corner. "It's just a simple question. I'll tell you what I did. I slept in until about ten. Then I roamed around, a bit aimlessly to be honest, and found myself buying beignets. Then last night I staked out the hotel we'd seen the ancient fae go into. That's what I did."

Words were reluctant to come to the tip of my tongue. "I didn't do much," I said after a moment. "I met Val and we went to a bookstore. Then I came home and pretended to tidy up. I had dinner with a friend. That's it."

His gaze met mine, and I thought about the sorrow that had been so clear on his face when the man died. "See how easy that was?"

I nodded, but it wasn't easy. Not at all. As we neared Jackson Square, the breeze off the Mississippi was much cooler, stirring the loose curls at the nape of my neck.

"Those textbooks?" he asked, changing the subject. "What are they for?"

Our steps slowed as I considered what I should tell him. Not that going to college was a secret. I ran my fingers along the fence. "I'm going to college—Loyola. Majoring in sociology."

I could feel his eyes on me without looking. "You're actually going to college?" he asked. "You do that and this?"

Nodding, I squinted up at the deep gray steeples breaking the blue skies.

"Do you plan on leaving the Order?"

I laughed. "I think the only way you leave the Order is in a body bag."