Kiss & Hell

by Cassidy, Dakota

  She had no defense against the stark truth. The coyote ugly truth, so she went for a different tact. “Didn’t I tell you to go away and not come back until I told you to?”

  “Sí,” Marcella said with a jut of her chin. “But this is me not listening to you. So go on, ghost whisperer gone over the edge, tell me how not right I am.”

  Tears, from frustration, from the reality of this situation, from anger because her friend was spot-on, from fear for her friend’s safety, began to threaten. “Marcella, you have to go. Please.”

  “Nope. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to and I’m absolutely not leaving here until I have an answer.”

  “I’ll get the salt.” Her lower lip trembled as her resolve weakened.

  And Marcella pounced all over her resolve, rising up over the back of the chair and thrusting her neck out. “Oh, the fuck you will. Ju arrre mariquita—a big-ass sissy. Ju—you hate demon expulsion and the mess it leaves, so save the threats. Now tell me what’s going on and tell me now before my fiery temper makes me do something hasty. I want to know why you’re sleeping with Clyde, and the reason better be good or I’ll put a spell on him that makes his winkie shrivel up and fall off!”

  “I can’t.” She looked down at the floor at her purple-painted toes.

  “Oookay, then maybe you can tell me why you’re all the rage in Hell these days? Your name’s been tossed around more than a whore in a frat house.”

  Fuck. Now she was angry that Marcella just didn’t know when to stop. “Marcella, I can’t tell you anything. I can’t. I won’t. Go home. Go shop. Go do something far away from me.”

  “Aha! That’s fear I hear in your voice. Fear for me—which explains everything. It’s not like I can’t find out if I want to, Delaney—so you might as well knock the bottom out of it. Now. Because I’m not going away until I have some inkling as to why you’re boffing the big boy. That bad big boy. The very bad big boy. I want to believe there’s some logical explanation for it—but I’m having a really hard time putting it all together. So you do it for me.”

  Guilt infiltrated her morality, spreading like Ebola. “I wasn’t. Boffing him, I mean. Not until tonight, and that’s all you need to know.”

  “You’re going to make me use plan B, aren’t you?”

  “What’s plan B?”

  Her smile became suddenly playful. “That’s where I duct-tape you to a chair and dangle red meat in your face while I mainline icky preservatives into your veins to make you talk. I may not be a very good demon, but I can totally take you.”

  Delaney burst out laughing, quivering with partial relief. “If I could tell you and know it wouldn’t put you right in Lucifer’s line of fire, I would.”

  “So threatening me with monstrous acts of salt hurling was to protect me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And fuck Lucifer. Like that asshole’s stopped me so far.”

  Delaney waved a warning finger under Marcella’s nose. “That’s only because he’s chosen not to stop you, Marcella. You might be one kick-ass broad, but you’re no match for Satan. You know it and I know it. Let’s not pretend anything different. Don’t go talking shit because you’re angry. If you weren’t already dead, I’d say your temper would be the death of you.”

  Understanding spread over her beautiful face. “So you’re worried about trouble with the pitchfork lover. You never have been before—what’s the deal now?”

  “Yes, I’m worried, and stop asking me questions.”

  “No. Then what’s the sleeping with the enemy about?”

  “He’s not the enemy.”

  That stopped Marcella cold. She shook her glossy black head. “Come again?”

  “He’s not the enemy, Marcella. That’s all I can tell you. The less you know the better off you’ll be.”

  “And you’re sure he’s not the enemy, how? Divine intervention?”

  Her fist tightened at her abdomen. “Gut instinct.”

  “Oh. Good. Your gut tells you he’s not a bad guy, but he comes from Hell and he’s a demon. Good instincts, D. Remember when your gut instincts told you Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt were soul mates?”

  “He’s not supposed to be a demon, Marcella.” That she was jumping to Clyde’s defense was so transparent. She felt like she was telling her mother he’d only been convicted of one little felony—it wasn’t like he’d committed homicide.

  Her look screamed scathing. “Yeah, me neither, but whaddya know—I am.”

  “His story’s much different than yours, Marcella. I just need you to believe that and knock the interrogation off. Please.”

  “Well, his story must have some similarities to mine or he wouldn’t be in Hell. Did he fuck up going into the light, too?”

  “No,” she gritted out. “And I’m not saying another word.”

  Marcella flipped up her palm. “That works. I’ll say all the words. First, I’ve been hearing your name from some of the other demons I sometimes run into when I’m trying to well, you know . . .”

  “Hook up?”

  Marcella’s expression soured, but her eyes glittered. “Don’t hate. I’m a demon. We have needs that can’t be denied—they’re bigger than we are. It’s more of a curse than anything—so save the Bible thumping. I am what I am. I’m always careful, and I never see my prey again. That’s all beside the point I’m making here. What’s going down with you and Hell? Why are you all of a sudden prom queen there?”

  Delaney tugged at her lip with her fingers. “I’m not budging.”

  “Wanna know what they’re saying?”

  Damn. And then it happened. She cracked—big—wide-open. “Yes,” Delaney sputtered.

  “They’re saying you’re due some serious throwdown from the boss and they all seem to be getting a real kick out of it. Oh, they were having a fine time talking smack about you at this club I was in. I almost ruined a perfectly good purse, beating the snot out of one slug for it. That makes me really angry. It was a nice purse—red with gold piping. So what did you do to piss the fucker off?”

  If she were truthful by omission here, she truly didn’t know what Lucifer was so het up about other than she’d beaten him to the punch. The punch that still made no sense to her. He’d still won in the end, though in a roundabout way. So she was going to lie—again. It was becoming a habit. “I don’t know.”

  Marcella’s huff was harsh. “I get the feeling I’m being bamboozled here, amiga, and I don’t like it. You might not know the exact origins of Satan’s issue with you, but you have an idea what his freak is about and it has to do with Clyde . . .”

  Among other things. “In a very roundabout way. Look, Marcella, I’m begging you here—stop asking me questions. When the time comes, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, but I can’t right now. Not now.”

  The chair scraped the floor as Marcella rose, smoothing her short, floral dress over her legs and straightening her cropped blue denim jacket. “You do know what you’re doing is loco, right? Toying with Clyde, even if only on a sexual level, that just isn’t you, D. You’re going to get hurt. I can feel it, and I don’t want that to happen. You’re vulnerable to a man’s attention. Any man. You haven’t been even a little involved with anyone for a very long time. The last man’s name I heard you utter was the fuck who cheated on you back in college—Harry—Larry—whoever.”

  “Gary,” she provided helpfully, then cringed at the mention of his name. Gary was a large part of the reason she’d had the run-in with Satan to begin with. Gary and Vincent.

  “Yeah, him. So stop this now before it goes any further. You’ll only end up with red eyes and a runny nose, but worse, a broken heart.”

  “Then remember the bucket of chicken. Extra crispy, no wings, please.”

  Marcella tweaked her cheek, but her eyes were on fire. “If Lucifer plans to harm one hair on your head—”

  “You’ll go all gangsta on him.”

  She nodded her head in the affirmative. “With every path
etic fireball I’ve got. I’ll go, D, because I get now that you’re looking out for me, and as much as I appreciate that, as much as I love you to itty-bitty bits for it, I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for a long time now. My friendship with you has never been a problem for Satan before. I’d have to wonder if he even knows about it. But the talk I’ve been hearing says you’re going to get yours in a big way, and it scares the living shit out of me. And for what? You cross over souls who are nothing more than disoriented. You don’t steal potential clients bound for Purgatory. Sometimes you cause a good eyeball bleed with a demon or two. Big deal.

  “If that’s what Lucifer’s so pissed about, why is he taking action now? You’ve been doing it all your life. So whatever’s going on has to do with something that happened recently. Why you can’t tell me is very suspicious—especially seeing as I’m probably the best connection to Hell you have and more than likely could help you. So okay, because you keep giving me those pleading eyes and vib ing some fucked-up body language, I’ll go, but I can’t promise I’ll stay gone.”

  Delaney bit her tongue to keep from refuting her friend’s statements. On impulse, she grabbed Marcella’s hand, squeezing it. “Just stay out of it. Please. Don’t ask questions. Don’t go fishing for information from demons in bars. Satan barely knows you exist, but if he finds out we hang, you’re toast, seeing as I’m in his sights these days. Please, just trust me.”

  Marcella squeezed back, letting Delaney know everything between them was okay. “Right. Oh, and I’ll expect apologies and shopping when all’s said and done for the trauma you’ve caused me this past week. You’d better line up some séances soon or you won’t have the kind of cash I’ll need to cover my trauma. Later, chica.” She waved a finger before disappearing into the dark of Delaney’s living room.

  On a shaky release of breath, Delaney sat in the chair Marcella’d vacated. Christ on a cracker—this clearly wasn’t going to go away. First Clyde and his water cooler confessions, now Marcella and rumblings of demonic glee at her downfall.

  Waiting for the blow—wondering what she was in store for—was like watching toxic ketchup drip.

  Marcella was wrong on so many counts, she’d lost count. Her assumption that Delaney’d been connected to the supernatural all her life was wrong. She hadn’t been born with the gift—she’d acquired it.

  After Vincent.

  Hands, big and all encompassing, lay with flat palms on her shoulders. “So how’d it go?”

  “Well, I still have curtains and I don’t think I learned any new cusswords in Spanish—so not too shabby, I guess,” she joked, though she didn’t lift her head. She let Clyde’s soothing hands melt into her, reveling in the calm they attempted to bring.

  “So here’s my question. What is it that you’re not telling me about this beef Lucifer has with you? There’s more. I want to know what.”

  “Just because you got into my knickers doesn’t mean you’re entitled to know everything, demon.” The effort to keep her voice even and light was monumental. Clyde had to leave and do it before he found anything else out about her torrid past with Satan. If she could get him gone before Lucifer found out Clyde had switched assignments, she’d breathe so much easier. If he got wind of the fact that Clyde wasn’t doing as ordered, and he came calling, Christ only knew what would happen to not just her, but Clyde’s soul.

  “Remember when I told you, you were funny?”

  “Yep.”

  “It would seem that’s not always the case. Stop making light and tell me what’s going on.”

  The more concern he showed, the more Delaney believed Clyde was totally capable of sticking around in his noble efforts to help her, and she refused to jeopardize his crossing. “I don’t know, and right now, I’m too tired to care.”

  “You do know, and before you ship me off, I’ll find out.”

  If the gods were kind, he’d ship off long before he had the chance to find anything out. If the gods were kinder still, they’d make his exit as painless as possible for her. “I got nuthin’, Clyde Atwell. What we do have to do is investigate your death. Today. It’s almost five thirty and I’ll never get back to sleep now. So go find your brainiac tools and meet me back here in the kitchen so we can call Tia.”

  Clyde’s hands gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze before he left her alone in the kitchen.

  Alone to ponder Lucifer’s next move and batten down the hatches.

  Now, to find something to batten with.

  fourteen

  By late afternoon, they were no closer to finding out what had happened to Clyde than they were to finding the exact location of the Bermuda Triangle. Tia’s cell phone number had apparently been disconnected, Clyde couldn’t remember exactly where her brother lived, and he was unlisted. The North Dakota newspapers had not a single obituary listed for a Clyde Atwell in the last three months, and absolutely no mention of a police investigation involving his accident.

  They sat together at her kitchen table with her laptop popped open, heads pressed together deep in thought. The dogs scattered at their feet sighed contentedly on occasion, stirring if Clyde made like he might move out of their direct line of vision.

  Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hand, Delaney asked, “How about a neighbor? Did you have a neighbor you were friendly with who might be able to tell us what the frig’s going on? Because this makes no sense, Clyde. It’s like you never existed.”

  Clyde rolled his head from side to side, massaging the muscles of his neck with the palm of his hand. “I didn’t talk to my neighbors much.”

  Delaney slapped her palm against her thigh. “How silly of me to think you might have actually been sociable. So backyard barbecues and block parties weren’t your thing?”

  “Nope.”

  “A friend? Got any? Even just one? Maybe someone you worked out with? You didn’t get that Body by Jake from sitting on your ass all day.”

  He smiled, clearly pleased by her assessment. “Actually, it was Body by Chuck Norris and I jogged. No workout buddies.”

  Te-rrific. He had to be the most isolated person she’d ever met. Aside from maybe her and she at least had a friend. Maybe it was only one, but one was more than none. “Oh, wait, I know! What about the freelance work you did? Couldn’t we call one of the companies you did work for and see if they know what happened?”

  “Now there’s an idea . . .” Clyde’s posture changed from slumped in defeat to upright and ready to attack.

  She reached for her cell phone. “Number?”

  He slumped again. “Shit. I can’t remember it.”

  “Name of the company?”

  His face was completely blank.

  “Clyde?”

  Shock was an absolute in Clyde’s expression. “I can’t remember. Holy shit. I can’t remember.”

  Convenient? Maybe. “You do realize how suspicious this looks, don’t you? You have no friends back home. There’s no obituary for you—no police reports. Tia’s number is disconnected and you can’t remember the company you were freelancing for. Crazy that.” Her response to his sudden blank spot was dry with sarcasm.

  His fingers flitted across his temple as though he were searching for his memory. “I swear to you, Delaney, I don’t know why I can’t remember—I just can’t.”

  “But you had no trouble remembering tons of other stuff about what your life was like, where all this work that blew you up took place, where your lab was . . .”

  “I hear the suspicious tone in your voice, Delaney, and I’m not liking it. I can’t remember, and I’m not lying. Don’t go there.”

  God, even if he was lying—it was hot when he did. Extra hot because Clyde didn’t strike her as the kind of guy who liked to throw down unless he had to. Conviction suited him—but he’d remembered plenty about his life before today, and that bothered her. “Well, where the fuck am I supposed to go, Clyde? You knew plenty of details a few days ago, and now you expect me to believe you can’t remember who y
ou were doing work for?”

  His blue eyes narrowed to slits. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Why’s that? Because you got in my drawers?” Oh. Low, Delaney. Way. Even as the words slipped from her fresh mouth, she knew it was low. And so uncalled for. Weariness and frustration were always an ugly combo for her.

  Clearly Clyde was preparing his windup, but they were interrupted by the tinkle of the chimes on the door of the store.

  “Meees Delaney! I am here. Ju are better, jes?”

  Crap on a stick.

  Clyde looked at her with a question.

  “Mrs. Ramirez—short, chubby Puerto Rican lady, remember?” she whispered, jumping up from the chair. “She helps me in the store. I’ve got to get rid of her before—”

  “There ju are! Oh, Mees Delaney—” Mrs. Ramirez’s words stopped short when she came around the corner. The dogs jumped at her ankles, but she paid no mind. Her mouth fell open in the shape of a perfect O.

  Clyde rose from his chair, sticking his hand out to her. “Clyde Atwell. Pleasure.” He grinned all pearly white and gentlemanly.

  Wherein, the romantic in Mrs. Ramirez appropriately melted. That perfect O her lips had created turned into a grin that spanned her entire face. Her head bobbed with understanding, her heavy floral perfume wafting to Delaney’s nose. She nudged Delaney with a secretive glance. “Now I know why ju are seeck. Ju are loveseeck. Ees soooo nice.” She nodded her approval while her eyes roamed the length of Clyde.

  Hoo boy. She had some splainin’ to do. “No, Mrs. Ramirez—this isn’t what you think—”

  “Ju no be chy, Delaney. Ees won’erful!” She clapped her hands together with a girlish giggle of pure delight.

  “Chy?” Clyde asked.

  “Shy,” Delaney translated. “Just hush,” she said out of the corner of her mouth.

  Mrs. Ramirez made a circle around Clyde’s body, lingering momentarily on his backend. “Ees about ti’, too, jung ladee. Ju is always talkeeng to de dead persons dat nobody see but ju. Thass no good for de soul. Ju is alone too much. Now ju ees not alone. Ees soooo good!”