Death of a Bachelor ✶ Marcel ✶

✶ S E V E N ✶

Veronica's outfit.

Veronica feels so fuckin sexy. Like she always feels sexy to a degree, but this is kill a man with one look sexy. Her hair is straightened. Her eyeliner is razor sharp. She's wearing a black and white bandeaux top and a matching skin tight pencil skirt. She's got her six-inch heels with the crystals on, and her favorite black lipstick. She's fucking jail bait tonight.

She got last minute reservations at this Italian restaurant on the far side of town that her family hasn't bothered to go to yet. Everyone says it's really good, but it's just so out of the way of everything.

It looks pretty upscale... well, upscale for her little suburban town. The sidewalk is clean and the architecture is very modern. The inner theme is grey, black, and a deep red with tonnes of amber lights hanging from the ceiling. This is definitely her idea of a treat yoself kind of date.

"Hello, I have a reservation for Malik," the girl says to the hostess. This place isn't quite swanky enough for a maitre d or a valet, but it's not like her dad is about shelling out unnecessary amounts of money for fancy food any way. This will do just fine.

The woman nods and directs her to her table. "Your waiter will be with you shortly."

Veronica just smiles and takes the huge menu, immediately ducking her face in to read her options. She's lowkey so pumped to eat some real food. She's actually sick of eating salad at school (because that's what Harry allows) and boxed macaroni at home (because that's what she can cook).

"Hello, my name is Marcel, and I'll be serving you tonight."

Veronica slaps the menu down on the table with a shit-eating grin. "No fucking way."

She just barely catches it— the flash of emotion in his eyes clearly begging God to put him out of this misery. It only fuels her creepy desire to infiltrate his life.

"The specials this evening include the onion soup, the pasta primavera, and the squash ravioli. What would you like to drink with your meal?"

"Your cum," she answers automatically, revelling in the red tinge to his cheeks.

"Please, Veronica. Don't do this here. My aunt will kill me."

"I was only kidding, sheesh. Can I get a cherry vanilla Italian cream soda and also your throbbing-"

"Marcel! What do we have here?" a woman cheers, seeming to fabricate out of nowhere. "Is this a friend from school?"

"No," he answers at the same time as Veronica says "yes."

The woman looks weirdly between them, before giving an awkward smile. "Well, anywho. Enjoy your meal. Don't spend too much time pampering this one, eh. You've still got other tables," the woman winks and nudges at Marcel.

Once she's gone, Marcel just sighs and goes to fetch her drink. She knows she shouldn't fuck with him at his place of work, but it's just so irresistible. She'll keep her dick-talk on the down low just in case.

"Here's your drink," he says, putting a frothy pink and white drink on the table. "Are you ready to order?"

"Mmm, I think I want the garlic angel hair with the grilled shrimp. Also can I get a side of fire roasted potatoes and the broiled Maine lobster tail a la carte?" It's a lot. She knows it is. But she could honestly eat a small human being at this point.

"What salad would you like?"

"Can I just get mozzarella sticks instead of a salad? I never want to see another salad until the day I die."