I kissed him again, more insistent, pouring every feeling I was too overwhelmed to voice into it. He pulled away, breathless and laughing, and from the tender look he shone on me, he’d understood.
“Sing it again?”
His pleased growl shot electric sparks through my blood. But the smile he bestowed on me? It wasn’t some sexy wattage or the deadly-deserved arrogance of his hunter smirk that got me hot and wet. No, this one, warm and intimate and a bit shy to fully emerge, swelled me up with light and air and a bittersweet ache like there was this amazing thing if I could only stretch my fingertips one more millimeter to grab it tight.
I couldn’t contain it, so I molded it into something I could handle. I got onto my knees, fingering the hem of Ro’s T-shirt. “Keep singing.” I tugged it over his head, pitching it carelessly at the foot of the bed.
His eyes darkened but he started the song again, a capella.
I snapped the button on his shorts and Ro’s voice wavered. I raised an eyebrow and he grinned his apology, singing the chorus in a steadier voice, even as I pulled out his cock, stroking it, luxuriating in the feel of it swelling.
I reached over to the night-table, got the bottle of water-based lube and pressed it into Ro’s hands. He was about to stop singing when I shook my head and took out Snake Clitspin, my S-shaped vibe. He smiled and oiled the toy up just at the chorus.
The song ended right as I hit the “on” button and Snake hummed.
Ro reached for me but I wagged a finger at him. “Uh-uh. Keep singing. Mood music. But no touching.”
“Come on–”
I sucked his erection into my mouth.
Ro bucked off the bed and burst into song. “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Not in my top ten bow-chica-wow-wow songs, but rolling off his tongue, his voice a low growl and the corner of his mouth quirked in a knowing smile, it was positively pornographic.
I squirmed, his answering smirk ruined by the flush on his cheeks and the white-knuckled grip he had on the sheets.
A better musical choice was his rendition of Maroon 5’s “Harder to Breathe” accompanied by me on dick and vibe. Ro’s breathing was growing harsh, but champ that he was he kept singing, albeit a bit more growly than usual, his eyes darting between his blowjob of the century–I wasn’t even using my magic on him, I was just that good–and my writhing, getting myself off on Snake almost as much as on what I was doing to Ro.
By Britney’s “Slave to You,” he was snapping his hips in time to the music, his erection in my mouth impossibly hard. He strained to stay in control enough to do as I’d asked and keep singing. Keep his hands curled in tight fists so he wouldn’t touch me, his voice wavering as he tried to follow my dictate.
With a word I could unleash it all, let the storm of his passions devour me. The knowledge was heady to the point that my wanton moans threatened to drown him out. I rocked Snake inside me in rhythmic pulses; my fingers and toes tingled from the fat coils of pleasure rippling through me. I vibrated, strung taut.
We didn’t even make through the first chorus of “Wicked Games” by The Weeknd. Ro sang these filthy lyrics in a ringing voice and I came hard. It sent Ro over the edge, his body bucking, all pretense of singing abandoned.
He mumbled a string of Hindi curses, sprawled against the pillows.
I rode the aftershocks coursing through my body, then mustered up the energy to turn Snake off. The room smelled of sex, drenched in musky good times.
“Your blow jobs are the fucking bomb,” he said. I laughed and he nudged my shoulder with his knee. “Happy birthday, Sparky.”
I crawled up the length of his body, sliding blankets over us both. The incandescent glow of the firefly lights tapped up around my ceiling made the room softer, warmer. Rohan’s chest pressed against my back and my breathing came easier, my heartbeat slowing to match his. “Thanks for making it happy.”
He tucked a kiss into the nape of my neck, stretched to switch off the light, and then settled back against me with one arm holding me close. “Always,” he said.
And right before I fell asleep, I thought that sounded pretty good.
Chapter 10
Tuesday morning I ambushed Kane and Ari at the front door, forcing them both to hug me at the same time. “Be careful.”
They were headed into the interior of the province which had been affected by extremely bad flooding. Natural disasters: demon’s crack.
Twin sets of elbows jabbed me to get free. “We will,” they chorused.
“Take care of each other. I refuse to be down a sibling or a friend.”
Kane hefted up his duffel bag. “It’s always about you.” He winked and strode out to his Porsche.
Ari slung his backpack over one shoulder. “Promise you’ll talk to Mom. Apologize even.”
“I promise that at some point in my life I will once again speak to her.”
“Nava.”
“Ariiiiii.” I squirmed, miserable. “Fine. I promise.” I gave him one more hug for the road, waving until he and Kane had driven off.
Drio and Rohan were in the library. Drio, in sweats, was typing on Rohan’s laptop, while Ro stood in the corner on the phone in board shorts and another faded T-shirt. He waved hello at me.
I set a foil-wrapped plate down in front of Drio.
He pulled up one edge and peeked in. “This is cake.”
“Actually it’s cakes plural, but solid attempt on the identification.” I tossed a fork at him, hitting him square in the chest. “Next time, come to my damn party.”
He glared at me but tore the foil off and dug in, so I figured my point had been ceded.
I sniffed the air. “Wearing Sexy Ruby now, are we?”
He smelled his wrist, his eyes going soft and dreamy for a moment.
I smirked.
“It’s on her sheets. Shut up.” He dug into the cake with ferocity.
Well, well. I refrained from poking the beast further, especially the beast with a fork and über-speed. I filled him in on what Leo had told me about the oshk’s bogeyman status, omitting the part where she’d learned it directly from her goblin father, and letting him think she’d discovered it from the demon clientele she worked with as a part-time Private Investigator. I shuddered to think how the Rasha with the biggest hard-on for killing demons would react when he learned he was sleeping with a half-goblin.
Drio entered the keywords “bogeyman” and “urban legend” into a new search in the Brotherhood’s database but it still didn’t yield any results for the oshk.
Rohan sat down next to me. “That was Zahir.”
“Learn anything useful about Ferdinand?” I said.
“Not exactly. Drio, I need you to go to Palm Springs.”
I didn’t understand Ro’s request, but Drio gave two slow blinks before replying. “You are without scruples.”
Rohan wagged a finger at him. “You’ll make an old lady very happy.”
“Phrasing and huh?” I said.
Drio licked frosting off the fork. “He wants me to visit the widow of the rabbi who ran the Los Angeles chapter.”
Rohan spread his hands wide. “Rabbi Soriano has been gone a couple of years and Golda must be lonely. Besides, she loves Drio. It would be such a mitzvah.”
Drio kicked his chair. “Golda has early stage dementia and I’m not going to harass her. She can barely remember–” He snapped his mouth shut.
“Aha! I knew you still visited her.” He patted Drio’s cheek. “Such a mensch.”
Drio knocked Ro’s hand away, then smacked me with the fork. “Quit gaping. They are pity visits.”
I tossed the fork on the table, wetting my finger and rubbing the front of my purple sundress to clean the smudge of frosting. “Sure, softie.”
I took his growl for the assent that it was, smothering my fond smile at how much the big meanie was going out of his way to help me. Drio’s loyalty to Ro was absolute; having even the tiniest sliver of his support made me more certain that we could pull t
his off.
“Golda befriended everyone who ever came through the place and Zahir said Ferdinand was based out of there for about a decade, starting in the late 80s,” Rohan said. “Not sure why the Brotherhood doctored his record to show Ferdinand was there this past year, but chances are Golda stayed in touch. She might be able to tell us more about his death.”
“I understand you don’t want to ask the current rabbi in case he’s involved, but why don’t you visit Golda yourself?” I said. “Los Angeles is your home chapter.”
Drio barked his laughter and finished his last bit of cake off with his fingers. “She’s never forgiven him for ruining her Passover dinner one year.” He nudged Rohan. “Go on. Share.”
Rohan stood up abruptly. “Not worth retelling.”
“I beg to differ,” I said.
“Ro got hold of this–umph!”
Rohan grabbed Drio in a headlock, muffling his mouth. I was totally getting that story out of him one day. Still holding Drio by the head, he dragged his friend out of the room, saying they’d be back in a bit because he was going to buy Drio a cash ticket to Palm Springs.
“Make it one way!” I called out.
Mahmud had texted my burner phone to confirm that other than the possible deaths themselves, there was nothing suspicious about the four Rasha who’d died in Askuchar. Nothing on their records had been redacted and no one was hiding anything about their lives or covering anything up. I thanked him and reminded him to stay in touch on this phone only.
I prepared a few things for the drop later this afternoon. The sooner we nailed Candyman, the better.
My Brotherhood-issued phone beeped madly. I’d never heard that particular sound before and was shocked to see that Orwell had sent me a text with no one else on the chain.
There’d been another Sweet Tooth incident. I called Ro. “We’ve got a death.”
“You want me to meet you? I’m way on the other side of town,” Rohan said.
“I’ll handle it. Just keeping you in the loop.”
“Thanks, Boss.”
“Most Superior Goddess works, too.”
“Goof,” he said, and hung up.
About twenty minutes later, I pulled up to Rocco’s Pizzeria, a squat brick storefront off West Tenth Avenue that wasn’t too far from our mansion. Close to the University of British Columbia, it was a popular student hangout for its huge portions. I salivated just thinking about their pesto pancetta slices.
Yes, pancetta, my not-so-secret love. I was a bad Jew. Jew-ish.
I slung the laminated press pass identifying me as one of the reporters for The Vancouver Sun newspaper over the business casual blouse and linen pants that I’d changed into, and fished a spiral bound notebook and pen from my purse.
Crime scene tape had been strung across the open door, allowing the scent of baking dough and spicy tomato sauce to drift out into the street. Cops milled about.
The first officer I spoke to directed me to another cop who was willing to say that an alleged assault and death had occurred on the premises.
A crying Indo-Canadian woman a few years older than me was inside the restaurant speaking with an officer, but there was no way to get to her. Other than her there were just a lot of gawkers out on the sidewalk speculating on what had happened.
I headed into the alley behind the store. The dumpster hadn’t been emptied and the stench of rotting food in this heat made my stomach lurch. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait there for very long. The back door opened and I fished a new pack of cigarettes out of my purse, making a big show of unwrapping it.
“Could I bum one of those?” An unshaven dude in a sauce-stained apron with a dusting of flour along his jaw nodded at the pack.
Thanks to Yael’s many stories from her years of working in kitchens, it had been a fair assumption that someone in this place was a smoker.
I held the pack out. “Help yourself.”
He jammed a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, flicking open his lighter and lit up. He closed his eyes to better savor that first deep drag. “Need a light?” He sparked the flame for me.
That was the only downside to my plan. Cigarettes were gross. I took the barest drag and then mostly held it.
He gestured at my press pass. “I can’t talk about what happened.”
“Sweet Tooth is a really shitty drug,” I said.
He flicked his tongue over his lips before puffing away some more. “Got that out of the cops?”
I shook my head. “My friend had a bad experience on it a few days ago. Surgery bad. She assaulted someone, too.” A long column of ash fell onto my open-toed sandals, startling me out of my daze. I ground the tip into the brick wall.
“Sorry to hear it.”
“Everyone affected has friends, family. If you could just tell me–”
He crushed the butt under his shoe. “Sorry.”
The door to the pizzeria closed behind him with a reverberating thud.
“Was that just bullshit for the story?” The Indo-Canadian woman watched me from the mouth of the alley with red-rimmed, puffy eyes. “About your friend?”
“No.” I walked over to her, glad to get away from the garbage. “One of my friends did Sweet Tooth and was fine. The other one?” I shook my head.
She drew in a shaky breath that racked her slight frame.
I handed her an unopened water bottle. I’d been taught all kinds of tricks for getting victims or their family and friends to open up. This particular purse held all my props. Yeah, it was kind of cold and manipulative, as was exploiting Naomi’s tragedy, but if this got me to Candyman and made sure that no one else got hurt, I’d be as manipulative as it took.
“Was it your friend?” I said.
“Cousin. Jake.” She twisted the cap off but didn’t drink.
“I’m so sorry. What’s your name?”
“Harjit.”
“I’m Nava. Did you take any?” I checked her pupils but didn’t see any dilation.
“No. It wasn’t my thing. Caffeine junkie, yeah.”
“Can I buy you one? I mean, it is recess time. I generally need a hit about now.” She mustered up a weak smile, but I could sense her hesitation, so I bulldozed over it. “There’s a café about half a block from here. Blast Brew Bar. You know it?”
“The hipster place?”
“Yeah.” I started walking, maintaining eye contact and essentially forcing her to come with me. “They do that handmade, pour-over coffee thing, which yes, is so pretentious, but they’re close.”
“They’re kind of overpriced.”
I leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s because they factor in the price of the physio from their carpel tunnel. It’s my treat. Come on. Let me buy you a hot drink and get some sugar into your system. If you don’t want to talk, you don’t have to.”
Harjit nodded, hesitant, but still agreeing to come. The cops had cut her loose for the moment and she looked adrift. She hadn’t immediately gone home so I figured she wanted a chance to steady herself after the loss she’d suffered.
Not letting up my stream of chatter, I led her over to Blast and got us settled in with coffee and biscotti. The Brew Bar was all distressed wood, copper accents, and caffeine condescension with a massive stainless steel espresso maker focal point. The barista rubbed it down like he was jerking it off.
I worried my Starbucks-loving ass might be outed and I’d be run out of the place in a flurry of manbunned indignation, but I managed to place my order with enough ennui to make it seem like I belonged.
True to my word, I powered through my bitter brew, letting Harjit have her space. She broke her biscotti into smaller and smaller pieces until the crumbs mounted on her plate. “I wasn’t even supposed to see Jake today. I’d only met up with him to get on his case for ditching his treatment.”
“Substance abuse?” I licked my finger and pressed it to the three measly crumbs on my plate. I’d inhaled my biscotti and having gone this far, was committed to leaving no tra
ce.
She pushed her plate away. “No.”
“Okay, so you met up and he had already taken the Sweet Tooth?” She nodded. “Was there a sudden shift in his behavior? Like zero to extreme and it was terrifying?”
She glanced up at me, startled.
“It’s what happened with my friend,” I said gently.
“Jake had ordered his pizza, but he didn’t have any cash and I was so mad at him that I didn’t want to pay.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Rocco? The owner? He’s a big guy. He was behind the counter and when he told Jake to come back with money or leave, Jake casually grabbed this decorative vase on the counter and bashed Rocco with it.” Harjit lined up the creamer and sugar bowls. “Then Jake jumped the counter and started stuffing pizza slices in his mouth. He wasn’t even chewing them, just swallowing them down whole. I was freaking out calling 911.”
“Was Rocco okay?”
“Yeah. His head was bleeding, but he was conscious. He and the cook tackled Jake but he didn’t seem to care. He fought them for more pizza. He must have eaten two pies.” Her voice caught. “He had a heart attack.” Grief twisted her features, her eyes bleak as they met mine. “It was over so fast.”
“What was he in treatment for?”
She closed her eyes, the answer dragged out of her in a rushed breath. “Food addiction.”
I drove Harjit home, making her promise that she would call the number for counseling that the police had given her. I also checked in on Christina, who was doing better because Naomi was doing better. I got it; Naomi was her Leo. Neither of them were up to visitors yet but she did want to see me at some point.
I vowed to make more of an effort with friendships. Or have them at all.
I texted Rohan an address and the words “Meet me?” He texted back his agreement and I gunned my car west.
I parked my car at the lot on top of Queen Elizabeth Park, nicknamed Little Mountain by Vancouverites, and commandeered a wooden bench on the covered boardwalk that curved around the giant fountain. I stretched out my bare legs, letting the sunshine soak away the despondency of this mission.
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-6: A Complete Paranormal Romantic Comedy Series Page 97
