“Get your own.” I jab at his hand with my fork. “Now, now,” he says. “That’s no way to impress the ladies.” He lifts his chin in the direction of the salad bar. I turn and see Dalma coming toward us with a tray full of food. He steals half my fries while I’m looking at her, but I don’t really care anymore. “I can sit?” she says. Her hair is so smooth and shiny, it’s like metal. Liquid metal, if there is such a thing. Quinn goes, “Here, take my place” and gets up. “I was leaving anyway.” He’s the type of guy who thinks he sounds smooth even with his mouth full. Dalma asks him to stay, but he shakes his head. He swipes his elbow across the table and brushes the grunge he left onto the floor. “For you, Lady Dalma.” He bows at her, then gives me a big sleazy wink, tongue out the side of his mouth and everything. “Later, Mick.” She puts down her tray, tucks her hair behind her ear and watches him go. She’s wearing little gold hoops. “How he knows my name?”
