Whatever for Hire

by RJ Blain

  Chapter Nine

  Between my brush with death and the painkillers, I wasn’t capable of tying my shoes let alone planning anything, so Malcolm made hotel arrangements. Had I been coherent, I would’ve ordered him to take us to the cheapest dive possible.

  I accepted my idiocy with cheerful disgust. A hot as hell millionaire wasn’t going to pick a cheap dive. Oh, no. Only the nicest hotel in Little Rock, Arkansas would do. A bald mummy stuck out among the other guests. I couldn’t even call myself a bloody crow to their swans. Crows had feathers. Ah-ha! I was a molted parrot dunked in bleach compared to their peacocks.

  I assumed the well-dressed men and women in the hotel lobby were wealthy, which would explain their disgusted glares and ill-concealed whispers. Within five minutes, I was primed to attempt murder with my bare hands since my Desert Eagle had been confiscated as evidence. The cops had claimed I’d get it back eventually. I expected they’d return it in a few years.

  If I picked the right targets, I could kill most of the snobbish onlookers before someone stopped me. It was a win-win. I got rid of a bunch of obnoxious elitist pricks and I’d get to spend at least six months in prison. If I played my hand just right, Malcolm would face a guilty verdict, too. Prisons were safe. They were uncomfortable and boring, but prisons were safe. How had I never noticed the subtle benefits of incarceration before?

  Alas, I hurt too much to indulge in murder, so I pretended I was alone in the lobby while Malcolm checked us in. Most women probably would’ve loved to be seen with such a handsome man in public, enjoying delusions of grandeur. Me? Not so much.

  Delusions of normality were closer to my speed. Normal meant boring, which in turn meant safe, and I’d had my fill of excitement for a few months. I fixed my gaze on the far wall and waited.

  And waited, and waited, and waited.

  Staring at the wall only helped so much; a line grew behind us, and the other guests whispered to each other about us.

  Malcolm planted his elbows on the mahogany counter, leaned forward, and hissed, “What do you mean my card’s been declined?”

  What could go wrong was going wrong, and we couldn’t even manage to check into a hotel without trouble. Lovely. Stupendous. At least I could do something about the money situation, although I’d leave the worst sort of trail—one the devil could follow. I sighed, fished out my new debit card from my pocket, and slapped it in front of Malcolm. “Put it on this. We’ll figure out what’s wrong with your card in the room.”

  The hotel’s desk jockey swiped my card, and a moment later, he sucked in a breath. “Ma’am, this account is flagged for use by the Mephistopheles family.”

  “And? Just don’t spell it wrong; that’s a good way to piss him off.”

  Malcolm narrowed his eyes and frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Long story.” Any other time, I would’ve flashed the hotel employee my best smile, but I’d figured my recent mummification would twist a normally pleasant expression into a horror show. “I’ve had a long day. Can we have our room key, please?”

  “O-of course, Miss Mephistopheles.”

  I sighed at the misunderstanding but didn’t correct him. Explaining how I lacked a surname, even when I went to the extremes of whipping out my birth certificate and permits, took too much time and effort. Two minutes later, keys in hand, we retreated to the elevators.

  Malcolm pressed the up button and arched a brow. “Miss Mephistopheles?”

  How spectacular. If I didn’t want Malcolm breathing down my neck, I’d have to tell him about the surname issue. “I don’t have a last name. Banks don’t like people without last names, so I’m often addressed by the last name of the expense account’s owner. This just happens to be one of the more annoying expense accounts.”

  “Someone has a lot of nerve using that name on their bank account.”

  The elevator dinged open, and my worst nightmare stood inside, doing a very bad job at playing human. Surprise, surprise. If I ignored the devil, would he go away? Unlikely. Biting back a groan, I stepped inside and held the door for Malcolm. “Oh, look. It’s Satin. Why am I not surprised?”

  “Kanika, I see you’ve embraced your heritage to a rather extreme degree,” the Lord of Hell replied, and the tip of his black tail twitched.

  Malcolm shot me a quizzical look, but I waved him off, waited until he was inside the elevator, and tapped the button for our floor. “Don’t you have better things to do, Satin?”

  “But I came all this way just to see you.”

  “Normal people would call you a stalker.”

  “That’s not very nice.”

  “I’m supposed to be nice to you? That wasn’t a part of my contract.”

  The devil pouted. “Don’t you love me anymore?”

  “No. I’m not your mommy.”

  The Lord of Hell blinked, as did Malcolm. They stared, their lips parted, and I frowned at them in turn. “What?”

  “You’re not my mummy?”

  Shit. I twitched. “If I tap my heels together three times, will your brothers show up and make you go away?”

  “No one has tried that before. Give it your best shot.”

  If the devil’s plan was to drive me insane, he was well on his way to succeeding. Clicking my heels while wearing sandals didn’t work very well, and I wasn’t surprised when no archangels appeared. I shrugged and stared at the elevator’s floor display, willing the damned thing to move faster. “What do you want, Satin?”

  “For you to stop calling me that.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry, Lucy.”

  The devil sighed. “Why are you doing such a good impersonation of a mummy?”

  My mouth dropped open, and I blurted, “You mean you’re not omniscient?”

  “Do I look like Santa to you?”

  I learned something new every day. “How’d you know about the job, then?”

  “There might be some truth to your stalker theory. My wife tells me I have a bad meddling habit, too.”

  It occurred to me if the devil had been poking his nose where it didn’t belong, he was the one to blame for my involvement with Malcolm Findlay Stewart and his cheapskate cousin. “Are you saying this is your fault?”

  “Yes.”

  The devil was going to die, and I was going to be the one to kill him. With an inarticulate scream, I lunged for his throat. “You bastard!”

  Malcolm dropped our bags and wrapped his arms around my waist, grunted, and hauled me back. “Not in public.”

  “You owe me fifty thousand, you piece of shit—”

  The devil laughed, and then he disappeared, leaving me to claw at empty air while the faintest hint of brimstone lingered in his wake. I cursed him and Malcolm until the elevator dinged open, and when I didn’t move, Malcolm shoved our bags out of the elevator with a foot and dragged me down the hallway, ignoring my struggles.

  Once I finished killing the devil, Malcolm would be next, and both of them deserved slow, painful deaths.

  Our suite was spacious enough to have a dedicated sitting room, but there was only one bed. Had I entered heaven or hell? Sharing a bed with Malcolm hadn’t been part of my plan. Beds led to the sort of trouble I couldn’t afford to have.

  I glared at the fluffy comforter and plump pillows. Sharing a bed with him couldn’t be that bad, could it? It wasn’t like I was going to jump him. I could keep my hands to myself, and Malcolm didn’t seem like the type to force himself on anyone.

  Narrowing my eyes, I debated between retreating to the couch or staying in the bedroom.

  I must have hesitated too much for Malcolm’s liking, as he grabbed me by my waist and tossed me onto the bed. I landed hard and bounced on the mattress. The flash of pain was so intense I forgot about everything for a while. When I finally regained the semblance of coherency, Malcolm was stretched out beside me, watching me with a smirk. “Before you try to kill me for that stunt, you needed the rest, and it was the only way I could think of to guarantee you’d stay d
own for a while.”

  I groaned and lurched upright. It went better than expected. My skin felt too tight, but I no longer throbbed, not even where I touched the bed. “That wasn’t nice.”

  “It really wasn’t. The worst you might’ve done is pop a few blisters, and the salves they applied will help them heal faster. You got off lucky. You should’ve had third-degree burns from head to toe. Your worst are second-degree, and they’re not that bad. They hurt like hell, but you’ll heal. There’s a good chance you’ll have minimal scarring, too.”

  “I shifted,” I admitted. “The seat belt was jammed, and my legs were trapped.”

  “I know. I was certain we’d need the jaws of life to get you out. I was debating trying to find help when the pyro arrived to finish the job. I swear on my honor I believed there was no risk of a fire. I’d never leave someone to die like that.”

  It was foolish of me, but I believed him. Then again, my trust in him made sense. Someone like him, who put his life on the line fighting fires, wouldn’t leave anyone to face the flames alone. I respected him for his dedication, however much I disliked admitting it. “Thanks for that. I do wish you’d gotten something useful out of the pyro, like his boss’s name.”

  “That occurred to me right after I pulled the trigger. Sorry about that. I don’t get along with pyros.”

  “Obviously.”

  Malcolm stretched out, looking me over with a smile. “If I have to deal with being a hostage, I think it’s fair you have to deal with sharing a bed with me. Please tell me you normally sleep naked.”

  Malcolm was going to drive me insane. “First, I’m not your type. Second, if you’re trying to make me uncomfortable, it’s not working. Third, I already told you I don’t sleep with my clients or my victims.”

  “You don’t know what my type is, if my goal was to make you uncomfortable, I have far more effective ways of doing it, and I think that should be negotiable. I have a habit of cuddling up to pretty women in my sleep. I wouldn’t want you to get cold at night.”

  I eased my way out of bed, taking care to limit how much pain I inflicted on myself. “How long was I out?”

  “About ten hours. I woke you up long enough for you to eat dinner and take your medicine, but you went right back to sleep.” Malcolm frowned. “You don’t remember that?”

  I shook my head. While having a memory lapse worried me, I suffered from them sometimes, especially when really tired or woken up for a short period of time. “What time is it?”

  “Six in the morning. It’s time to change your bandages and apply the ointment. It’s as good a time as any to hit the road.”

  Malcolm sounded way too awake and eager for my liking, and I hissed my annoyance, heading for the bathroom to begin the tedious process of removing my bandages. Before I could close the door, he stepped inside.

  “I didn’t invite you.”

  “I invited myself. You’ll need help, especially with your back.”

  While true, I scowled at the implication I couldn’t take care of myself. “Don’t even think of trying anything.”

  “I prefer a challenge fairly won.” His subtle smile promised trouble. He picked up one of the jars of ointment, opened it, and sniffed. “I really need your insurance policy. They gave you this and the rest of your medications for five dollars?”

  “That’s what the pharmacist charged me,” I confirmed.

  “Well, they gave you the good stuff. This’ll not only lessen the pain, it’ll help you heal faster, plus I’ll be very surprised if you end up with any bad scars. Think you can undress without help?”

  If I could have balled my hand into a fist without it hurting like hell, I would’ve cleaned Malcolm’s clock for asking. “I’ll be fi—”

  Malcolm poked me in the ribs, and when I blinked, I was on the floor with my head nestled on his lap.

  “I barely touched you,” he announced. “I thought I’d just point out you need help. Please believe me when I say I wasn’t intending on making you black out again.”

  “You’re a jerk.” He was, too. He was a jerk for being right, for pressing my buttons, and most of all, for being far too nice for someone I’d kidnapped using a very illegal drug. Add in that I was holding his magic hostage, and he had every right to kill me and bury my body in a shallow grave.

  “I am. It’s a bad habit, as is cuddling up to pretty women in my sleep.”

  I clenched my teeth, braced for the worst, and lurched upright. “We went over this already. I’m not your type. You could have just waited the two minutes for me to try and fail miserably.”

  “But then I wouldn’t have been in position to catch you. You might’ve hit your head on the floor or the vanity, and you don’t need a concussion on top of everything else.” With a smug smile, Malcolm grabbed hold of my shirt and pulled. I expected him to pull it over my head, flinching at the thought of raising my arms.

  The fabric tore, and he repeated the process until scraps of cloth littered the floor.

  “You ripped it,” I blurted.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “But why? That was a perfectly good shirt. What did it ever do to you?”

  “Unless you want to be at this all morning, would you please sit still while I take care of these bandages? Your shirt was in the way, so I got rid of it.”

  “You have testosterone poisoning, don’t you?”

  He chuckled. “Maybe I was giving you a little demonstration of how strong and manly I am, entirely for your benefit.”

  “I’m not your type,” I repeated. Maybe if I ignored him, he’d go away. I went to work removing the bandages, hissing at the pressure against my burns. As long as I controlled my breathing and avoided any sudden movements, I could handle the pain. While slow and tedious, I didn’t need his help.

  Or so I thought, but then I removed the first of the bandages and got a good look at my stomach and ribs. Some of the larger blisters had popped, I oozed in places I had no business oozing, and I’d never seen skin so raw and red in my life.

  “What is my type, then?”

  I kept quiet, mulling over Malcolm’s type—or what Bubba Eugene thought Malcolm’s type was. While I thought it through, I went to work removing my mummy costume.

  After a few moments of confusion, we settled into a rhythm. I handled the front while he handled the back. We passed the strips of bandages to each other, revealing more and more of my battered, broken skin. Talking about Malcolm’s interest in women seemed far better than thinking about how badly I’d been burned.

  Taking a deep breath, I forced my hands to keep working, averting my eyes as much as possible from the splotches of blood and the greasy yellow smears courtesy of the hospital’s initial treatment of my injuries.

  “You’re after a go-getter, someone who is on par with you, especially financially. You don’t want a trust fund lady. You want someone who works hard without using her sex appeal to succeed. You’re also looking for someone who doesn’t actually need you or your money. I’m guessing you worked hard to build your empire, and you’re not interested in a woman who’ll suck the money out of you given half a day at the mall.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Your cousin.”

  “He would,” Malcolm grumbled, taking the bandage out of my hand so he could work it around my back. He reached the end, balled it up, and tossed it into the nearby trashcan. “This might sting a little.”

  I tensed, closed my eyes, and waited. He pulled one of the bandages, and I yelped at the pressure along my back and right side. When he passed the strip to me, I cracked open my eyes and realized the hospital had used a self-adhering bandage to cover the gauze beneath.

  Removing it hurt like hell, and I wasn’t happy with what the gauze hid. I shuddered, averting my eyes, then on second thought, closed them. Some things I didn’t need to see. Next time, I wanted the strong, manly firefighter with a shirt-ripping fetish showing off without burns being involved.

  “Once we have the band
ages off, if you can handle a shift, it’d be a good idea. It’ll help you heal faster and close some of the open blisters. I doubt shifting will get rid of them, but I think you’ll be more comfortable.”

  It was worth a try. I needed Malcolm’s help to stand, and at his insistence, my only job was to remain still while he worked. I kept my eyes closed. It helped a little.

  I didn’t faint again, which I counted as a victory.

  “All right. Try shifting.”

  Over the course of the next five minutes, I learned how to play a new game: one, two, three, floor. I managed to shift but, like in the hospital, no clothes made a magical appearance, for which I was grateful. I peeked at my arm, hissing at the absence of black fur. The burns seemed to have improved; I wasn’t oozing anymore.

  A single brush of my fingers against my scalp confirmed I had no hair. Since I couldn’t play another round of one, two, three, floor while sprawled on the tiles, I shifted back to human. I trembled on the floor, panting in my effort to catch my breath. “That hurt.”

  “It helped, although not as much as I was hoping. This’ll be the bad part. Let me know if you need me to stop. I’ll start with your scalp and work my way down your back, which is where the worst of your burns are. The ointment will numb your skin in about half a minute, so sit tight.”

  “Do your worst.” I hoped he did his worst in a hurry.

  Malcolm popped the first jar open, and a moment later, he smeared a cool gel over my skin. It hurt, then it tingled, then I felt nothing at all, and I sighed my relief. “Magic?”

  “More medicine than magic. The magic is what’s numbing you so the medicine—and your body—can do the rest of the work. What was the deal with that incubus? Your boyfriend?”

  His question startled me. He wanted to know if the devil was my boyfriend? “No!”