Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

22. Perception

The sky over Pride was just beginning to turn a deep crimson when I reached the restaurant. I waited near the front door, phone in hand, looking this way and that for my date. I carefully watched the east side — in the direction of the nearest elevator station — scanning the face of each imp, sinner, or otherwise that passed by. Every now and again, I glanced down at my phone, anticipating a call.

I waited there for about ten minutes before I finally saw a familiar face emerge from the crowd on the sidewalk. He was out of his regular cowboy garb, instead wearing a simple black long-sleeved button-up, blue jeans, and a pair of brown boots that fit under his pant legs. It was rather plain, but still quite flattering. Less is more, after all, I thought to myself.

"You clean up nice," I remarked with a grin as he approached me.

Striker mirrored my expression. "Why, thank you, darlin'," he said. "You look lovely yourself."

I looked down at my lace-trimmed burgundy sundress, remembering the day Charlie Morningstar had given it to me. She was so excited when I had first moved into the hotel; I'd been one of the first recruits for her passion project. Each year that went by, despite our not being "redeemed", she always celebrated the anniversaries of our first days at the hotel — she was just glad that we stayed committed to the program for so long. The dress had been a gift for my second anniversary at the hotel.

This shade of red really suits you, she had told me. Vaggie picked out a blue one, but I thought the style of this dress would look a lot better on you.

Oh, look at you! You look so beautiful! Would you twirl around in it for me, please?

I told you, Vaggie! The red really brings out the color in her eyes.

I smiled as the fond memories of that place replayed in my mind. "Thank you," I replied. "It was a gift from an old friend."

"They've got good taste."

"Yeah," I said softly. "She does." I smoothed down the skirt of the dress and looked at the restaurant entrance, noticing how most of the restaurant's patrons were dressed in much more casual clothing. "I feel a little bit overdressed, though."

Striker followed my eyes and said, "I think you look fine. If anything, they seem a little underdressed."

I shrugged coyly. "I just wanted to look nice for our first real date as a . . . uh. . ."

An amused chuckle escaped his throat. "As what, darlin'?"

I bit my lip as my cheeks warmed. "Uhm, w-why don't we go on inside?"

Striker let out a small laugh and followed me into the restaurant. We were quickly seated by the hostess and ordered our drinks. Our booth was by a large window facing the front of the restaurant, and I looked out to watch the cars and pedestrians walk down the street. The restaurant was on the edge of Imp City, so there was always a near equal mix of imps and sinners in the area; the residents of my apartment complex were a testament to that melting pot.

"So where's Bombproof?" I asked. "Did you not bring him?"

"Nope," Striker said. "He's back at Darryl's stable. He and Miss Daisy are watchin' him while I'm out of Wrath. I hitched a ride to the station and walked the rest of the way."

"That sounds like more trouble. Why not just ride him here?"

"Bombproof isn't a fan of the elevators — or cities. Makes him claustrophobic. I don't take him to the other rings 'less I need to. Besides, it wasn't too far."

I grinned at the paternal nature of his answer. Miss Daisy was certainly right to call Bombproof "his baby".

His eyes fell to something outside the window. "You said this restaurant's close to your place. You live in Imp City?"

"Yeah," I said. "It's only about a five-minute walk from here."

"I know it's still fairly close to the Pentagram, but what made a sinner come live here?"

I spun the straw around in my glass. "When I moved out of the Happy Hotel, my friend helped me get a job over here. So, I rented my apartment to be closer to work."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a nurse at St. Ann's — the Pride location, of course."

Striker raised his eyebrows, seemingly a little impressed. "You like it?"

I shrugged and let out a nervous laugh. "That's a bit of a loaded question."

"How come?"

I pursed my lips. "It's . . . complicated. I always thought I wanted to help people — and I do. I like watching their progression as they heal, and I like being a part of that. It's fulfilling. And there's parts of the job I do like. But . . . it's just a hard job sometimes." My eyes fell to the ice floating in my drink. "Most of the time, actually."

"I know how that is," he responded. "So that's what you did in life, too?"

"Yeah. Charlie figured my experience on Earth would help me get the job at St. Ann's, and she put in a good word for me." I picked up my glass and took a couple swigs. "And hellborn anatomy is pretty similar to human anatomy, so it wasn't that big of a learning curve, fortunately."

He raised an eyebrow. "Charlie?" he said in a low voice. "You mean Charlie Mornin'star, Princess of Hell?"

Uh-oh.

I froze mid-sip and swallowed hard. I wasn't quite sure what to make of his reaction. So I decided to just go the honest route — at least, partially.

"Uh, yeah," I said apprehensively, setting my glass on the table. "She and I became pretty close when I was at the hotel — I was there for three years, after all. She was surprisingly supportive when I left. Helped me get back up on my feet. We still keep in touch, but we haven't really spoken in a while."

Striker leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. "Probably just did all that to save face," he remarked, his voice dripping with cynicism. "I wouldn't expect her to keep in touch no more, if I were you, now that you're no longer part of her little 'passion project'. Those royals ain't never been too concerned about our kind. They don't tend to give out of the goodness of their heart — they just take from everybody else, greedy bastards. Walk all over anybody whose blood ain't blue."

There was a venom in his words that made me draw back slightly. I watched him closely, examining his bitter glare directed at the façade of the building across the street. My hands wrapped around my glass, the condensation wetting my palms. My gut was telling me that this wasn't just something he came to believe one day. No, something — or someone — put this in his head.

This was something that was burned into him.

"No," I said after a moment, careful to keep my voice quiet and unimposing. "She — I saw so many sides of her while we were together, and she was just a good person overall. She had integrity and never let her status go to her head. She advocated for us — she gave a shit about us." My hand fell to my chest as I thought about Charlie. I missed her. I missed everyone at the hotel.

Striker looked unconvinced, but dropped it and said passively, "If you say so."

We sat in awkward silence for several minutes until the waitress came to take our orders. We named off our orders and handed her the menus, and I turned back to the window as she walked back to the kitchen.

"How's your neck healin' up?" Striker said after a few minutes.

My fingertips brushed the red bandana on my neck. Like I'd done for most of the week, I folded it into a strip wide enough to cover my bruise and tied it snugly around my neck. "It's a lot better," I replied, peeling back a portion of the bandana to show him. "It's already starting to fade." I giggled softly. "If you can stay for a couple days, I can give you back your bandana."

A smirk crawled onto his face, and he leaned forward and propped his elbows on the table. "But wherever shall I stay in the meantime, darlin'?" he teased.

"Oh, quit that," I said, mirroring his smirk. "You know damn well I was gonna invite you over to my place."

He chuckled. "Well, if you insist."