Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

my little wife doesn’t turn and make a run for it.
This certainly isn’t a place she’d frequent of her own volition.
And yet, the second my hand touches her, she almost melts into the
motion, allowing me to guide her across the room. My shoulders tense as we
walk, irritation bleeding down my spine as heads turn and eyes rake over her
curves, as if on display for them.
They must not recognize me in this light.
We settle into a booth at the back—the same one Knees Morelli sat in
two weeks ago. Gwen, a waitress with spiky blonde hair and a nose piercing,
comes over to take our order, and Elena tentatively plucks a paper menu from
the napkin dispenser, pursing her lips as she scans it.
“I don’t eat a lot of seafood,” Elena says, turning the menu over in her
hands. She glances up at Gwen. “What would you recommend?”
“Nothing solid,” Gwen drones, tapping her pen on the end of her notepad.
“Gwen,” I mutter, resting my arm along the back of the booth where
Elena sits. “Customer service manners, remember?”
She rolls her eyes, shifting her weight to the other foot. “I’m trying to
save her from definite food poisoning. Vincent’s manning the kitchen today,
and Jonas won’t even eat his cooking.” Glancing at Elena, she widens her
brown eyes. “Jonas eats anything. Just not if Vincent’s touched it.”
Sighing, I rub the spot between my brows with a knuckle, trying to dispel
the ache I get each time I step foot in this establishment. If it didn’t have such
a cultlike following on Aplana, there’s no way I’d allow it to continue on in
the shape it’s in, but my mother always told me not to break things if they
didn’t need fixing.
So it stays, in all its shitty glory.
“Why is Vincent behind the bar if he’s also supposed to be in the
kitchen?” I ask.
Gwen shrugs. “We’re short-staffed. The new girl called in sick, so Blue’s
been helping make drinks.”
The new girl called in? Fuck. “And who’s at the door, if Blue’s in here?”
“Um...” Gwen shifts, casting a quick look around the room as if searching
for the six-foot, two-hundred-thirty pounds of muscle I hired to keep an eye
on our patrons. Of course, having come in through the front, I already know
the answer. “No one?”
Inhaling deeply, I try to tamp down the rage bubbling like a piping
cauldron inside my gut. It burns, threatening violence; Gwen takes a step