Kiss & Hell

by Cassidy, Dakota

  Closing her eyes, Delaney trembled while trying to stave off the dark memory that never failed to leave her weak in the knees with a dry mouth full of cotton balls.

  Dog number one, a blind, diabetic, partially deaf, fourteen-year-old surmised mixed breed no one could positively identify—but one which her vet said reminded him of a Chinese Crested disaster waiting to happen—scratched impatiently at her leg. She stooped low, letting him smell her hand before she ran her fingers through the tufts of spiky hair along the top of his scalp. “I know, punkin—you’re hungry. Tell me something—do you find it as funny as I do that you can’t hear me yell shut up, but you can totally hear me open a bag of dog food from a million miles away? Uncanny, no?”

  He burrowed his head in her hand and her heart clenched. They’d been together a long time—almost as long as she and Darwin before he’d left this plane.

  Setting down their food bowls, Delaney rinsed their water cooler out and threw the Tupperware filled with leftover Hamburger Helper in the microwave. Checking the time, she encouraged them to chow down. She’d already missed almost ten minutes of Ghost Whisperer. “Dogs! Hurry up, would ya? Melinda and her über hawt hubby await.”

  Running a tired hand over her scalp, she massaged the back of her neck, heading back to her bedroom, situated just off the kitchen. The only saving grace for today was the anticipation that filled her at the thought of climbing into her king-sized bed. Her one and only luxury—a luxury she’d splurged on at a high-end thrift store so her puppies could sleep with her. Which some might call obsessive, but whatevs.

  She was in her tiny adjoining bathroom, pulling on her nightgown, when she heard the sound of voices, familiar as old friends, drift to her ears.

  “You know, I’ve been watching this Ghost Whisperer, and I have to tell you, you’re nothing like Melinda Gordon. You’re kinda cranky. She seems much less irritable than you.”

  How lovely. He was baaaaack.

  Very Poltergeist.

  “Yeah?” she called out, digging in her hamper for her bathrobe. “Well, that’s because her paycheck’s a whole lot bigger than mine. Not to mention, she has cuter clothes.”

  “I’d definitely have to agree that what she puts in those clothes is very cute.”

  How quaint—even from the grave, men lusted for Jennifer Love Hewitt. She continued rooting in her hamper, hoping against hope he’d go the frig away. Where the hell was her bathrobe? How could she watch Ghost Whisperer without her crappy, moth-eaten, comfortable bathrobe? It was what Friday nights were all about at Chez Markham. Her pink bathrobe, a bowl of leftover Thursday night Hamburger Helper, her puppies sprawled out on her bed, and Ghost Whisperer. In that particular order, damn it.

  Delaney poked a head around the corner of her bathroom to find the voice in her head had become a big man, lying casually in the middle of her bed in a pink-bathrobe-clad lump.

  Her pink bathrobe.

  Which was now semicovered in puppies.

  Light and breezy. That was the goal here. Try not to overreact to his materialization. Or react at all, if it could be helped. Ghosts had uncanny senses, and if their intent was malevolent because of the chaos they were experiencing over being in limbo, you couldn’t let ’em see you sweat. It also took a good deal of patience to figure out what they wanted you to do, because most times, they were as confused as you were by their presence. But he’d tried her patience. So if he wanted her help, it was going to be on her terms, and her terms included waiting until she was good and goddamned ready to help him do whatever it was he needed her to do for him. Which was as yet to be determined. He didn’t seem terribly needy in the way most spirits were, though. “Pink is so not you,” she remarked dryly.

  He lifted the collar of her robe with tapered fingers and smiled. “You don’t think?”

  She shook her head, sticking her hand out. “I don’t think. Now give it to me. My Friday night’s fucked enough—don’t screw with my chi by taking the only thing I have left.”

  He eyed her warily with indigo blue eyes shielded by square dark-rimmed glasses. “But I’m naked.”

  “So I’m guessing you died while you were boffing, then?” Most ghosts who showed up in the buff were wonking someone when they kicked the bucket. Definitely a nice way to leave this plane, but not so much if you had unfinished business and had to return.

  “What is boffing?”

  For real? Her eyebrows shot upward in surprise. “You know . . . uh, having sex.”

  His full lower lip curled upward. “No. I wasn’t having sex when I died.”

  “Then why are you naked?”

  “Had I an explanation, don’t you think I’d give you one?”

  “The only thing you’ve given me so far is agita.” Delaney crossed her arms over her chest to hide the filmy nightgown she wore.

  He grinned again, playfully, as if being stuck between two planes was no big thang. He wasn’t even a little frantic, she noted. Absently, he reached out to stroke a random dog’s head. “Again, this is me apologizing to you.”

  “Forget the apologies. How about you explain how you picked up my bathrobe? Learning to pick up physical matter once you’ve passed is like a long-term gig. It can take a good while to accomplish.”

  He shook his head. His neatly groomed, shortly trimmed head of hair, as dark as the night had become, and thick like his stubborn skull, bobbed. “I don’t know what you mean. I realized I was naked, and I found something to cover up with—a logical thing to do, seeing as this is our first meeting. Though I have to say, it’s a little small.” He unsuccessfully tried to tug the two sides of the bathrobe together over his thighs.

  His lightly sprinkled with crisp hair thighs—all muscled and lean. Niiiice.

  Delaney forced her mouth to close because really, gawking at your spirit was unattractive in a medium. She threw a silent prayer upward that whoever was in charge upstairs might want to consider the long dry spell her love life had been suffering and send in some ugly spirits from here on out. It was only fair . . .

  He continued to wait without explanation.

  This was turning into a battle of wills, and it was time to raise the white flag. He clearly wasn’t leaving, and she clearly was going to miss Ghost Whisperer if she didn’t acquiesce and figure him out. Treading carefully to the end of the bed, she sat at the very edge, noting he had some weight to him. The dip in the middle of her mattress said so.

  Huh. When was the last time she’d encountered a spirit who was solid matter? Or for that matter, one who could pick up solid matter?

  Once. Only once and that wasn’t up for discussion.

  Hell to the no.

  The very idea made her shiver and rub her arms with icy hands.

  “I don’t suppose you have anything else I could wear?” His question rang hopeful, cutting her fears off for the moment.

  Cool. Calm. Collected. All soothing c words she needed to apply here. Delaney slapped a placid smile on her face. “Forget something to wear. You can have my bathrobe for now. So how about we start at the beginning? I’m Delaney Markham. Your earthly guide to all things crossing over to the other side. I’m here to help you with whatever you need, and while I don’t want to grudge about it, you’re definitely not going away. So how is it that I can help you? Do you need to clear up an event in your life you left unresolved before you died? Contact a living relative? Make peace with someone? Like maybe a sibling—or a girlfriend? Your parents? College roommate? Dry cleaner? Say something—I’m grasping at straws here.”

  He cocked his head at her, his sharp jaw lifting, his eyes skeptical behind his square glasses. “You can do all that?”

  “I can try.”

  “Well, thanks, but that’s not why I’m here.”

  Delaney nodded knowingly—she’d seen this a million times before. Now she knew why he was here. “I see. So you don’t want to cross over? Is it that you’re afraid of retribution for something you did in life? Because if that’s the case, rest assure
d, no worries. You wouldn’t have ended up talking to me if you were going somewhere crappy. I only do happy-clappy stuff. And if you’re worried about what’s on the other side, trust me, I’ve done a bazillion crossings and I only hear good things about where you land. So how about we problem-solve together, figure out why you’re stuck here, and then I can get some friggin’ rest. I’m thirty-four. I need rest. The kind of life I lead with you nut jobs inspires wrinkles by the dozens.” She winked to show she was teasing.

  He peered more closely at her, leaning forward, yet keeping his hand on the belly of dog number six. Her Benji wannabe. He’d make a perfect stand-in for the movie dog if not for the fact that he only had one ear, because he’d been tragically injured in a dogfight, and three legs, because his left front leg had been riddled with gangrene and had to be amputated. “I don’t see any wrinkles. You look fine to me.”

  Delaney rolled her neck from side to side. “Hookay—one more time. First, what’s your name? Do you remember it?”

  Rolling his tongue along the inside of his cheek, he shot her an indignant glare. Like now he was losing patience with her. “Of course I do.”

  “Then hit me.”

  His eyebrows, as dark as his hair, rose, creasing his forehead. “I would never hit you.”

  Oy. “I mean, tell me what your name is.”

  “Clyde. Clyde Atwell.”

  “And you died how, Clyde? Do you remember?”

  “Yep.”

  And he clearly wasn’t ready to tell her how he’d died. It was written all over his lean, chiseled, yet oh so serious face. Which meant she might be treading into murky, sensitive waters. “Were the circumstances surrounding your death suspicious?”

  “Nope.” He crossed his legs at his ankles, brushing a toe against her fingertips.

  Delaney snatched them away without thinking. No ghost she knew could touch or be touched . . .

  Hoo boy. This wasn’t looking like what it had appeared to be just moments ago.

  She gulped, the sound almost louder than Melinda Gordon’s voice coming from the TV. “So why did you contact me?”

  “Well, you’re Delaney Markham, right? And this is the East Village, correct?”

  “What’s that have to do with why you’re here?”

  “I was told to find a Delaney Markham in the East Village.”

  “Why?” she squeaked—none too proud of the fact that she had.

  He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “Because you’re sort of supposed to come with me—or I’m supposed to make sure you end up there, anyway.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Where?”

  “Hell.”

  Oh.

  Well, then.

  Yeah, she’d get right on that.

  Pack a fucking bag or something.

  What did one wear in Hell?

  It was hot there—definitely hot.

  Thongs, anyone?

  two

  Oh, this was a bad, bad thing.

  As bad as bad could be.

  Letting her head hang between her shoulders, Delaney gnawed on the inside of her cheek, wrestling to keep her cool so she could decide what to do next.

  Because she had to do something.

  If Clyde was what she thought he was, and she was pretty sure he was no floundering ghost, that meant he was possibly demonic. Though the bulk of her spirit encounters were of the ghostly kind, she’d run into a demon from time to time, and mostly, they were fairly easy to expunge.

  Well, except one.

  Delaney shivered.

  So she had two choices. Neither prospect terribly debilitating to him, but they would hopefully stall him until she could call for reinforcements. Yet she experienced a flicker of doubt about her conclusions where this Clyde was concerned. And then she mentally scratched that after but a moment’s pause. Of course he was what she thought he was—what other explanation was there for his ability to move, er, wear physical matter?

  Clyde slid to the edge of the bed with her, letting his elbows rest on his knees. Their thighs grazed each other’s—his muscled and sharply angled, hers fighting to keep a quiver visible from his naked eye.

  Her dogs scampered to either side of his broad back, scratching at her worn bathrobe for more of his attention.

  Well, well. So much for their otherworldly sensitivity. Clearly, it wasn’t just their bodies and psyches that were jacked up—so was their judgment. Which gave her pause. Her babies were very keen to spirits, good, bad, and otherwise. Sometimes they knew shit was going to go down long before she did.

  Again, Delaney debated mentally, but only for another nanosecond before she decided her assessment of this situation was right.

  Clyde’s large hand cupped the back of her Dachshund’s head, stroking it with firm fingers. He wiggled his BeDazzled backside in panting appreciation. “So I’m guessing you’re angry again?”

  She swallowed hard, letting the curtain of her hair cover her face in case she did the unthinkable and gave herself and her plan up. “Nope.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  Delaney rolled her eyes upward, forcing her body to remain relaxed. “So now I’m a liar? Already, this early in our relationship, you’re calling names?”

  “I hate to point out a flaw so harsh this early in our relationship , but you’re pretty quick to anger.”

  “No. I’m only easily hacked off if someone’s stealing my damned grocery money. Which, P.S., you did. And while we’re not pointing out flaws so early in our relationship, I just have to point that out. You started this.”

  She watched the nod of his dark head through the strands of her hair, and it sure looked damned sincere. “True enough, but I did apologize, on several occasions, and I’m still getting the gnashing-your-teeth vibe from you. I hate to beat a dead horse; I’m just trying to express myself honestly here.”

  Bravo. Score one for the interloper for honesty in the first degree. “Well, then, you suck at reading chicks. I’m definitely not angry. I’m not happy, but I’m not angry.”

  “That’s highly likely.”

  “What is?”

  “That I’ve read chicks, er, that I’ve read you wrong. In another moment of stark honestly I’ll tell you I was never very good with . . . uh . . . chicks.”

  Delaney fought a snort. He was really quite charming, all things considered. She found it hard to believe he wasn’t good with chicks—as brick shithouse as he was and all.

  Clyde folded his hands, strong but lean, with fingernails that were well manicured, around his knees. “And now, I suppose we ought to talk about this.”

  Charming or not—she didn’t want him touching her. Delaney slid a little further off the edge of the bed until only one butt cheek clung to the lip of the mattress, her thighs burning and screaming from the strain of keeping up the pretense that she was willing to hear him out—and it hurt every muscle in her body.

  So now would be the time to thank God for Pilates.

  All that crazy talk of your core strength and such, the crap that had seemed soooo silly while she’d been playing with that dumb-ass piece of blue elastic tangled around her ankles, was actually working in her favor. If she could take action without freaking the dogs out, and without warning, she just might have a chance. The element of surprise was what she needed here.

  “So can we talk?”

  “Uh-huh. Sure we can talk. You do a lot of that without any help from me—you have an uncanny gift for gab—so go for it. My listening ears are on—wide-open.” She didn’t lift her head—didn’t try to read his face for signs as to why he sounded so calm and reasonable when he’d just told her his intent was to drag her back to Hell.

  Delaney knew that threat—it’d been around for fifteen long years. It’d also been reinforced by someone far more frightening than Clyde here.

  Though, it wasn’t delivered quite the way Clyde had delivered it. It’d been accompanied by a
whole lot of maniacally scary roaring—riddled with some serious potty mouth, a couple of screaming balls of fire, and sometimes, when effect was the goal, speaking in tongues. Which could be fabulous to behold if you didn’t let it make your panties wad and saw it simply for the supernatural phe nom it was.

  Far, far more dramatic than Clyde’s rather dry, almost cheerful statement.

  He sighed rather forlornly. “Explanations are in order about that, or something, I guess.”

  Something was definitely in order . . . she was so close to being sucked in by his tone, the calm, assured presence he gave off, an aura that literally seeped from his pores, that she found she had to fight the simplicity of his easygoing manner. Too close. “Sure. Explain away.”

  Delaney felt him change positions on the bed, the dogs following close behind, moving as one teeming swarm with him, begging for more of his attention. “Can you give me just a sec so I’m sure I get it right? This was just sort of sprung on me today, and I want to be one hundred percent accurate when I relay the information I have to you.”

  Sweat trickled between her breasts, forming beads on her forehead, yet she held her ground while she waited for just the right moment.“You can have all the seconds you need.” Her face scrunched up while she fought back a grunt, her toes dug into the thin carpet of her bedroom floor, her arm ached from holding herself two inches above the bed.

  The bedspread rustled behind her. Obviously there was some deep thought going down on Clyde’s behalf.

  And really—why was that? What was all this introspection and getting his explanations right about?

  What the fuck kind of demon gave a flying Dutchman about how he was going to explain he was here to collect her for Lucifer?

  Because that’s what Clyde was—a demon.

  If she hadn’t been sure before, she was now. That she hadn’t picked up on that the second he’d entered her head—or even when he’d been able to don something from this plane like a bathrobe—made her want to bang her head against the edge of her dresser until she was unconscious.