The Devil Wears Tank Tops

by Destiny Ford

  I sat where he’d patted. He handed me a folder with lab test results. Geez, he was efficient! “How did you get this so fast?”

  He smiled. “You said you wanted it right away, and I know people.”

  “Who own drug testing labs?”

  “It’s useful in my business.”

  I lifted a brow, wondering what other totally insane professional services he found useful in his job.

  “When Colorado legalized marijuana, they created a food safety system to regulate food products infused with THC,” he explained. “Colorado can actually trace pot sold in the state back to the bud.”

  “So people can’t just go and buy the legal pot, put it in their brownies, and eat up?” I asked. That’s how I’d always thought it worked.

  “They can, but just like the FDA regulates foods to make sure they’re safe, Colorado is attempting to regulate food being sold with pot in it from actual edible pot distributors like pot bakeries. They’re doing an extremely thorough job so far. They could track an outbreak of salmonella in a batch of pot brownies better than the FDA can track disease outbreaks in food from grocery stores.”

  I raised a brow. “I had no idea it was that controlled.”

  “Not everywhere, but as marijuana is being legalized in more and more states, Colorado is setting a good example for the rest of the nation to follow.”

  I flipped through the pages of test results. “So you used one of Colorado’s labs to get the Saints and Sinners Cookies tested?”

  “Yes. I overnighted a sample. The lab I use is fast, and excellent. I like to work with the best.”

  “Me too. That’s why I asked you.”

  He grinned.

  “What did they find?” I asked, trying to decipher the results and having little success.

  Hawke took the folder and pointed to some numbers. “The cookies had a very high concentration of THC. Three times what would normally be used for making baked goods.”

  My eyes widened. “Three times? So someone had no clue what they were doing?”

  “Maybe,” Hawke said, pausing. “Or it could be they knew exactly what they were doing.”

  I pushed my brows together, confused.

  Hawke saw the look and went into more detail. “Consuming edible marijuana can have different effects than smoking it. It’s important for a person to know their proper dose going in. Otherwise, it can make people sick. People who eat too much have a substantially increased heart rate, they sweat profusely, are often fatigued, and they can even vomit.”

  I nodded. I’d read about that while doing my research. “Those are the some of the same symptoms people have been complaining about at the hospital during the last few weeks.”

  Hawke thought about it for a second. “Makes sense. The more potent the strength of the marijuana plant used, the bigger the high. And if you ate too much of it, there’s a good chance you’d think you were dying.”

  I shook my head, still not understanding. I’d had one experience with marijuana—well, now two—and had decided I never wanted another. “I can’t imagine someone wanting to feel that way on purpose. So it seems like it would have to be someone who had no clue what they were doing or how to mix pot with food, don’t you think?”

  “That’s one option, but infusing food with THC is a lot harder than it seems.”

  I snorted. “How hard can it be? You buy some pot, dump it in your cookie batter. Poof! You get a sugar and pot high.”

  Hawke shook his head. “That’s what most people think, but the high is more potent—and less noticeable in the food—if the weed is prepared properly.”

  I lifted a brow, totally amused. “You’re teasing me.”

  His lips lifted in a seductive smile. “If I was teasing you, it wouldn’t be with words.”

  Heat rose in my cheeks. “Okay, then,” I said, changing the subject, “tell me about the preparation.”

  “If weed is prepped correctly before being added to food, the body can absorb the THC into the blood stream faster. If you just throw a bunch of pot in a recipe, it will look like your food has some weird spice in it, you’ll end up eating stems and leaves, and the experience will be unpleasant. There’s also some debate about how high you can actually get by mixing a bag of pot into a bowl of food, so there’s a chance you’ll waste a lot of pot.”

  My lips lifted in amusement as I nodded. “I bet that mistake has disappointed a lot of people.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “So, how do you prepare it?”

  “There are two ways commonly used. The first, and less popular way, is to make cannabis flour. The stems and leaves are removed, and the remaining powder is ground to a flour-like consistency before being added to recipes. THC is fat soluble, not water soluble, so it’s important to use a recipe that has a fat, like oil or butter. The other, more popular preparation method is to make cannabis butter. You put the pot and butter in a sauce pan, and heat it on low for almost an hour, then strain the pot out, leaving only the bud butter.”

  “Bud butter,” I started to giggle.

  Hawke smiled. “That’s really what it’s called,” he said. “The heating process infuses the butter with THC. You put it back in your fridge and then use it in your cooking just like you’d use normal butter.”

  “How did you become a pot preparation expert?”

  He gave me a side-long look. “I have an eclectic line of work.”

  That he did. “Seriously, though” I said, totally surprised. “I thought I had a pretty liberal college experience, but I had no idea pot needed special preparation to be used in food.”

  Hawke stretched out his legs under my coffee table, and crossed his feet over each other. “Most people don’t, which is why I’d be surprised if the Saints and Sinners Cookies are an amateur organization. They’re producing too fast, and too well, for this to be some college kids in their frat house kitchen.”

  “Plus, they’re making mass quantities of it,” I said, “which means they have to be getting their supply from somewhere.”

  “Or growing their own,” Hawke suggested.

  I nodded, thinking.

  Hawke got up. “I need to check some things out, but I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Until I figure out where your email threat came from, you need to be careful, and I’m not comfortable leaving you alone all night.”

  I gave him a strange look. “How did you know about that?”

  “Because I know everything, Kitty Kate.”

  I didn’t even try to argue. I nodded, and watched him lock the door and leave, silently wondering how much he knew about what had happened between me and Drake. I hoped it wasn’t much.

  I opened my laptop and added Hawke’s lab test information to my article before sending it to Spence. He edited it and sent me back changes with a note that he was rearranging the paper layout to get the story in this week. It was a fast turnaround. Our deadline was tomorrow, but I already had most of the article written before I’d talked to Hawke. After a few hasty emails back and forth, and some phone calls, it was all settled. The pot cookies would be revealed to Branson residents tomorrow night. I sprawled out on the couch and fell fast asleep.

  I woke up in my bed, and couldn’t remember how I got there. Which wasn’t comforting considering the last time that had happened, I thought sexy times had gone down and couldn’t remember who they’d gone down with. This time, however, I’d had no cookies or baked goods, and was pretty sure I hadn’t been drugged. I’d just been really tired.

  I threw my robe on and shuffled down the hallway, bleary-eyed. I needed coffee to remedy this situation, immediately. I sniffed and every one of my senses perked up. It smelled like coffee was already brewing! Holy snipes! I had a coffee fairy!

  I moved a little faster to the kitchen—I didn’t want to miss the magical coffee making being—and found Hawke, dressed in jeans and a red t-shirt, different clothes than he’d been wearing last night, sitting at my kitchen table. So, it wasn’t a coffee fairy
, but it was just as good. He was eating an apple—one he must have brought from home because the produce I owned was currently colonizing something in my refrigerator’s crisper—some toast, and drinking coffee out of my favorite blue mug with a flower on it that I’d painted at a ceramics class.

  “Morning, Kitty Kate,” he said with a smile.

  He licked some butter off his lips, leaving them wet and shiny. I had a hard time convincing myself to look away. Breakfast had never looked so delicious. His lips slid up in a confident grin like he knew exactly what I’d been thinking, and his eyes sparkled with amusement.

  “Morning, yourself.” I poured myself a cup of coffee, and some cereal. “Interesting mug choice.” I nodded toward the flower mug.

  “I think it’s cute.”

  “It was a failed attempt at arts and crafts.”

  He looked at the design I’d attempted to freehand. “I like it.”

  “I like it too because its ginormous and I can drink an entire barrel of coffee from it.” I sat down at the table and mixed creamer and milk into my much smaller mug. Hawke seemed to be drinking his black—like a boss. “I sent the cookie article to Spence. It’s coming out tonight.”

  Hawke looked at me over his coffee mug. “It will be interesting to see what everyone’s reaction is.”

  I nodded as I swallowed a sip of my steaming caramel and cream flavored drink. “I don’t think it will be pleasant.”

  He made a mmm sound in agreement.

  “Where did you sleep?” I asked.

  “I took you to your room, and then I slept on the couch.”

  “Well,” I took another sip of my delicious coffee, “that’s disappointing.”

  “I agree. But you were so out of it that I figured not even Chris Hemsworth could wake you.”

  Since Hawke looked quite a bit like Chris Hemsworth himself, I begged to differ on that point. “Lost opportunities,” I said over the rim of my cup.

  “I’m keeping a tab.”

  Now it was my turn to look amused. “Where did you go last night?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “To see if I could figure out who was sending your emails.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  He cocked a brow. “I think we had this discussion already.”

  “We did, but you didn’t answer. Are you spying on me or something?”

  “I don’t have to. The whole town is doing it for me.”

  I frowned and he laughed.

  “Well, did you find out anything about the emails?”

  “Not yet.”

  I shrugged. “I’m sure it’s fine. I’m working today, so I’ll be at work or in public.”

  “Try not to go anywhere alone. And if you think you might be in danger, call me immediately.”

  I nodded. “I’ll do that.”

  My phone buzzed with a text from Ella.

  Facebook update about a motorcycle in your driveway. Amber suggested it belongs to the devil. Jackie thinks you’re trying to set a record for doing it with a whole motorcycle gang at once.

  I sighed, and closed my eyes.

  “What is it?” Hawke asked.

  “The Ladies. They’re stalking me and posting information in a Facebook group. Maybe you should start parking in the garage when you come over so they can’t see your bike or car.”

  He winged a brow. “Garage space? That’s a serious commitment.”

  “So is staying off the Ladies’ radar.”

  “That’s never going to happen, Kitty Kate. Even if you died, they’d probably have someone watching for your ghost.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  He grinned.

  “They’re stalking me!” I said, exasperated. “And making it easy for other stalkers! I tried to access the group but I have to be invited, so I can’t. It’s private, and no one will let me in. Ella’s keeping me informed, though. She’s the only friend I have there.”

  Hawke’s lips slid into the slow, secret smile I loved so much. “Not the only one.”

  My eyes went wide. “Ella said none of my friends have been approved to join.”

  “They haven’t.”

  “Then how did you get in?” If he had access to the group, he definitely knew about me spending time with Drake. I guess it said something about his confidence that he hadn’t quizzed me on it. Or maybe he just trusted me. I immediately felt guilty over the cookie blackout…and my conflicted feelings for Drake.

  He shook his head. “Nothing is private anymore, Kate. I have my ways.” He got up and put his dishes in the sink, then threw his apple core away. “I’ll check in with you tonight.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  He grinned. “Maybe we’ll start taking advantage of some of those lost opportunities.”

  I smiled back and locked the door behind him, then went to my room to get ready for work.

  I’d been at the office a total of two hours before I got a text from my mom.

  EMERGENCY! COME TO THE HOUSE! FAST!

  Huh. She’d figured out how to use the caps lock on her phone keyboard. Considering her lack of technological talent, this called for a celebration of some kind. Then again, all of the words were capitalized, so maybe she’d turned it on by accident and it had just gotten stuck. That was a far more likely scenario.

  Most children would probably be concerned at a text like that from their parents. But with my mom, the situation could be something as simple as she ran out of flour and didn’t have access to a car. A distinct possibility after the mouse-tie incident. I didn’t want to know what she’d had to do to get back in my dad’s good graces—or if she had yet. As far as I knew, the Mustang was still being aired out.

  My mom was waiting on the porch when I arrived. She looked frazzled. “My computer is possessed!”

  I revoked my previous call for a celebration of her technological prowess.

  “Did it start speaking in tongues?”

  “Yes!”

  “I was joking.”

  “I’m not!”

  “Well, then the first thing we need to do is get the demon’s name.” She was watching me with rapt attention. I was surprised she hadn’t grabbed a notebook to write down instructions in case it happened again. “Because the only way to perform a proper exorcism is with the evil spirit’s true name.”

  She nodded, eyes wide.

  “Then we have to do a ceremonial dance.”

  She frowned. “I’m not a very good dancer.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to do your best. If you half-ass it, the demon won’t go away.”

  She nodded, and I knew she must be really worried because she didn’t even react to my swear. I tried to keep myself from laughing.

  We walked into their home office and her desktop computer was sitting on one desk, the laptop on another. I flipped them both on, but the desktop took forever to start. When it finally did, I realized my mom wasn’t lying, there really were strange characters all over the screen and the mouse was a jagged blinking arrow as it moved instead of a solid, smooth glide. “How long has this been going on?” I asked, gesturing toward the foreign language and slowness.

  She tilted her head, her eyes going up toward the ceiling while she thought. “A few months, I guess. But it got a lot worse this morning. Today it won’t even speak English.”

  “And you haven’t taken it somewhere to have it repaired?”

  “Where would I take it? I’d have to go to Salt Lake to get decent computer help. That’s why I just decided to move all the files.” I remembered the file moving from a couple of months ago. She had enough flash drives to form an army.

  I wondered if a cord was loose and maybe that was causing the problem. “Have you checked all the plugs and connections?”

  “I bent over and looked at them,” she said with a shrug. “They seemed fine.”

  Coming from my mom, that wasn’t much reassurance. I knelt down on the floor and climbed under the desk that smelled like oak and always had. Ev
en when I used to hide under there as a kid, it had smelled like I was sitting in a tree instead of on the floor. My dad had built it after my mom’s truck had shifted into gear while she was talking to a friend, and crashed through the plate glass window of a ceramics shop. Most people categorized life events by age; I organized mine by my mom’s disasters. And her computer seemed to be another one.

  I heard a loud thump and saw my mom stomping her foot on the ground, swinging her hips, and raising her arms in the air. “Are you doing Zumba?” I asked, dumbfounded.

  “Yes! It’s the only dancing I know. I need my computer to work again.”

  As amused as I was that she’d listened to my demon exorcism instructions, the thumping was distracting. “I think that should be enough,” I said. She stopped, but looked ready to wiggle again at any moment.

  I checked the plugs first—they were all fine—then I moved out from under the desk to check the tower of the computer. The tower was sitting on a stand next to the desk. I leaned it toward me to look at the connections on the back of the computer when I felt my hand hit something hard stuck to the side of the computer tower. I looked at what I had just hit and pulled it off—with effort. It was a magnet the size of a candy bar and attached to the massive clothespin I’d had to make in junior high wood shop. It was holding up a bunch of coupons and papers. “Mom!” I yelled, waving the clothespin at her in one hand and the papers in another. “Why in the world did you mount this on your computer?”

  Mom smiled and took it from me, her fingers running over the wood. “Isn’t it nice? You did such a wonderful job staining it. I wanted it somewhere I could see it.”

  “It was meant to go on a fridge, not a computer!”

  She frowned. “It fits perfect on the computer, though. And I hang coupons and notes on it. Look at that nice one from your dad telling me he loves me.” She pointed to a neon pink sticky note. I glanced at it. He’d have to love her to put up with the chaos she caused.

  “Mom! Magnets are death for computers. You stuck this on the same side as your motherboard. No wonder it stopped working! You’re lucky you got any files off of it at all. I don’t think even the smartest computer technician in the world could fix this! You can take it to a repair shop to get it looked at, but I’m pretty sure the computer is trash. You’ll have to buy a new one, or just use your laptop.”