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

36. Reservations

Around dusk the following day, Striker and I set off to the Pentagram for our date. I wore a pretty little black number Angel had given me one year, and Striker wore his plain black button-up and dark blue jeans. It was a nicer restaurant, but there ended up being other patrons with more casual outfits, so Striker fortunately didn't quite stick out like a sore thumb.

Quite.

"It's right around this corner," I said, my heels clicking on the sidewalk as I walked.

We entered through the ornate wooden double doors, Striker holding the door open for me, and approached the hostess in the foyer.

"Reservations for (Y/N), please," I said with a friendly smile.

The hostess, a sinner, glanced at us before checking her reservation list, then looked back at us. She was mostly looking at Striker, examining him over her thick-rimmed glasses. She clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth while grabbing two menus and said in a monotone, "Right this way."

The dining area was almost completely packed with guests — all of them sinners. As we passed by the other patrons, I noticed several of them side-eyeing Striker, who was strolling quietly behind me with his thumbs hooked into his pockets. The hostess led us to a small booth in the corner of the dining area where there were hardly any other seated tables. Our closest neighbors were a couple of sinners in the booth next to us, and every now and again I could see them sneaking dirty looks at Striker over their shoulders.

Our server came to the table, his smile dissolving when he laid eyes on Striker. He was curt and spoke very little when taking our orders, and he snatched the menus from our hands after we finished rattling off what we wanted and strode back to the kitchen.

I crossed my arms and frowned, admittedly a bit infuriated by the not-so-subtle sense of superiority both sinners and other hellborn seemed to have over the imps. There was no way that wasn't it — the staff here had never been this standoffish whenever I came with Alastor.

Striker looked at me and said with a smirk, "What're you frownin' like that for?"

I blinked at him before looking back down at my folded hands on the tabletop. "It's nothing," I muttered.

He raised an eyebrow. "I think I know."

I sighed softly and shook my head. "We can talk about it later."

When we had received our food, Striker's steak was cooked far beyond well done, with burned edges and a dry, tough center. Striker found it mildly amusing, much to my chagrin. When I flagged the server down to tell him Striker had ordered his cut medium-rare, he silently scooped up the dish and returned shortly after with a new one . . . except this time, the steak was nearly raw.

The damn thing looked like the chef had simply shown it the grill and slapped it on the plate. The dish made a loud clatter as the server plopped it on the table in front of Striker. He looked at the cut of meat skeptically before cutting into it and confirming his suspicions.

"I didn't order it blue neither," he said with a slight edge in his voice. Even he was starting to grow sick of their games.

The server looked down at Striker with a blank expression and reached for his plate, but as he lifted the dish from the table, it bumped into his glass and knocked it on its side. A good-sized amount of Striker's drink splashed onto his shirt and jeans before he quickly slid to the far side of the seat. Striker glared daggers at the server as he very poorly feigned concern, and I heard his tail begin to rattle underneath the table.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir," the server said rather unconvincingly. "Let me go get you something to dry that with." He quickly turned and hurried back to the kitchen with the rawer-than-blue steak.