Текст книги "Sixth Grave on the Edge"
Автор книги: Даринда Джонс
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
“No,” I argued. “Marcus, you were only nine.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat and reached up to cradle the back of his head.
“I finally found my way back to my aunt’s house the next day. Mom didn’t even ask where we were.” He cast me an astonished glare. “She didn’t even ask about Miranda. Not once. Days passed, and we just never talked about her.”
I bit my bottom lip, wondered what my chances were of getting the rest of the pills away from him. He tipped the bottle again, and I realized he had no intention of leaving that bathroom. Ever.
“And then a neighbor asked about Miranda?” I said, inching closer.
“Yeah. She figured she couldn’t hide her disappearance much longer. She had to report her missing. That’s when she told me to lie. To say Miranda was in her bed the night before and then was just gone the next morning.”
I didn’t dare blame him for lying. He was living with a monster. He clearly feared for his own life. But at the moment, I was more afraid for his life than he was. The drugs were taking the desired effect. He leaned his head back and let them swallow him whole.
I took advantage of the situation and reached for the bottle.
“Please, don’t,” he said. He seemed tired. Spent. “You won’t succeed.” A sadness settled over him as he picked up the bottle again. “It’s okay. No one will miss me.”
“You’re wrong.”
His laughter felt hopeless in the tiny room. Humorless. “Don’t worry. This isn’t some pathetic attempt to pretend to try to commit suicide only to make sure someone is close enough to call an ambulance in the nick of time.” He held up the bottle, shook it to prove to me there was still one left. “This is my own version of Russian roulette.”
“I don’t understand.”
“In the center of one of these pills, and I have no idea which one, is a lethal dose of cyanide. So I take one every so often.”
I gasped and ripped the bottle out of his hand to check the label. Oxycodone. But I had no idea if that was what was really in there or not. I looked back up, gaping. He wasn’t lying.
“The way I see it, if I’m worthy of living, I won’t get the lethal one. If not…” He shrugged and leaned his head back again.
I patted my pants, but my phone was in my bag in the living room.
“You should leave,” he said, the sad smile back on his face. “This is long overdue.”
23
Bad decisions make good stories.
—T-SHIRT
Cookie and I stood along the outer edges of a small funeral procession clad in its best mourning attire. I was glad she’d come with me. The thickness of grief that surrounded us, the oppressive weight of it, made it difficult to breathe. And my ankle hurt.
Normally, I could shut down the part of myself that absorbed emotion, that siphoned it off the people around me like others siphoned vitamin D from the sun. Otherwise, I would be bombarded with the drama of everyday life nonstop. It took energy, but raising the wall was almost automatic now. I did it quite often before I even left my apartment in the mornings.
But here at the funeral of a beautiful three-year-old girl whose love for her two fathers lingered on the air still, my defense mechanism didn’t work. I could only hope Jessica’s funeral would not be as painful, as I had that one to look forward to.
Thankfully, I wouldn’t have to attend the funeral of Marcus Nelms that week. I’d called 911, told them about the cyanide. They pumped his stomach, but according to the doctor on staff, even though they’d gotten there in time to prevent an oxycodone overdose, the cyanide would have killed him almost instantly regardless. The authorities checked, and the one laced with the lethal poison was the only one left in the bottle. And I suddenly believed in miracles.
Marcus would need a lot of help, and I planned to make sure he got it. I’d already talked to my friend Noni Bachicha. Noni offered to not only hire Marcus at the body shop but also to keep a very close eye on him and let me know how he was faring. Noni’s support, along with the free counseling I’d talked my sister into providing, gave me hope that we could get Marcus out of the lifestyle he’d been living and into bigger and better things. He clearly had a huge heart. He so very much deserved another chance at life. Clearly someone else agreed.
Sadly, not everyone was granted a miracle. I had to focus on making it through the funeral without breaking down. The emotion radiating out of the friends and family of Isabel Joyce was strong. It came at me from all directions. I felt dizzy as we stepped forward in line to offer our condolences to the two grieving men. Isabel’s fathers loved her so deeply, walking toward them through their grief was like pushing against a brick wall.
Seeming to sense my distress, Cookie took my arm in hers and inched forward. Attendants hugged the men, their sympathy sincere, their loss like gaping holes in their chests. Cookie sniffed and took the hand of Mr. Joyce’s husband, Paul. He was a big man with a warm face and firm handshake, as I found out when it was my turn. Fortunately, he didn’t ask how we knew his beautiful daughter. Cookie and I had come up with a cover story, but so far, we hadn’t had to use it.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, his red-rimmed eyes watering in the process. I could feel the suffocating agony he held at bay. Forcing the words out, any words out, was torture for him. He just wanted to go home and mourn, and my heart ached in response. I wanted to tell him that all the ceremonial stuff would be over soon, and he and his husband could grieve, and heal, together, but it was not the time or the place. Isabel’s friends and family had come to pay their respects. To diminish that would be doing her an injustice.
Cookie squeezed my arm, and I realized I was still holding on to the man’s hand. He didn’t seem to notice. He was fighting tooth and nail to stay vertical. To keep from crumbling to the ground. Mr. Joyce’s arm tightened around his husband’s shoulders as they took a moment to let the sobs overtake them.
It was then that Mr. Joyce realized who stood in front of them. He glanced at his partner, worry flashing in his expression before settling his own red-rimmed gaze on me. I took his hand, leaned in, and whispered to him, “You’ll be with her again. Your soul is all yours. Don’t lose it again.”
When I tried to pull back, he held me to him, buried his face in my shoulder as a fresh round of sobs engulfed him. I wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and fought for control over my own emotions. I hated funerals. I hated any rite of passage that emphasized how fleeting and fragile our physical lives were. I hated that children died. Even knowing what I knew about life and the afterlife and the momentary condition of our existence on earth, I hated it. It was better on the other side. I knew that. I’d been told by countless departed, but I hated this part nonetheless.
And just for the record, telling the living how their loved ones were in a better place rarely helped. Nothing helped apart from time, and even then, the long-term prognosis was sketchy. Most recovered. Many did not. Not really. Not fully.
* * *
After the funeral, I had one more errand to run before I could take the evening off to elevate my throbbing ankle. I felt a scalding hot bubble bath was long overdue. Combine that with a little candlelight, a glass of sparkling wine, and a real-life fiancé named Reyes, and I might have a wonderful evening. Only the fiancé named Reyes was still recovering from his fall. I had no idea how extensive the damage was as I’d fallen asleep the moment we got home, but having him so close to me, his heat permeating the sheets, enveloping me in a heavenly and healing warmth, sent me into a deep slumber. He was gone when I woke up that morning, his freshly showered scent bathing the area, making me crave at least a glimpse of him, but I’d been running late for the funeral, so I didn’t get a chance to go to the bar before I left.
And seeing him would have to wait a little while longer. I pulled Misery to a stop in front of Rocket’s place. The abandoned mental asylum had been cleaned, the grounds cleared, and a sparkling new chain-link fence bordered the entire area. I took out my key and glanced over at Cookie.
“Are you ready for this?” I asked her. She’d never met Rocket or his sister, Blue. Nor had she been introduced to Officer Taft’s sister, Rebecca—or Strawberry Shortcake, as I liked to call her, mostly because she’d died in Strawberry Shortcake pajamas, but partly because calling her Strawberry was safer than calling her the plethora of other names that surfaced every time I saw her. She was a handful. And she had issues.
Cookie was gazing wide-eyed at the building. She nodded, then turned toward me, biting her lower lip, her nerves getting the better of her. “You’ll have to interpret.”
“I promise,” I said.
After managing our way through the locked gate and the locks on the main entrance, we stepped inside cautiously. Cookie was cautious because she wasn’t super fond of abandoned mental asylums. Especially haunted ones. I was cautious because the last time I’d seen Rocket, I wasn’t very nice to him. He’d told me Reyes was going to die. I didn’t take it well. In fact, it was a fairly low point in my life, if one could measure low points by how many times one threatened to rip five-year-old girls—namely, Rocket’s sister, Blue—to shreds.
I cringed when I thought of it. Cookie noticed as I hobbled along beside her. While the outside had been cleared and maintained to perfection, the inside was still in a state of chaotic ruin. Bits of the crumbling plaster cluttered the floor, along with trash and other paraphernalia that had been left throughout the years. Many a partier had celebrated life here. Along with Rocket’s scribbling and scratches was all kinds of evidence of how many times the place had been broken into. Spray paint on the walls. Empty beer bottles and soda cans. The occasional used condom, which evoked a gag reflex every time I saw one. This place needed a good scrubbing.
“Has he ever been angry with you?” Cookie asked, referring to how I’d left things with Rocket.
“No, but he should be now. If he’s not, I’ll feel worse than I already do.”
“So, you deserve his wrath, is that what you’re saying?”
“Yep.”
Before she could argue, a young, high-pitched voice echoed throughout the halls. I winced at the sound of it. It had a certain je ne sais quoi nails-on-chalkboard quality that one didn’t find every day.
“Just where on God’s green earth have you been?” Strawberry appeared before me, her long hair hanging in tangles around her pretty face. Her pajamas had gotten soiled when she drowned, but they were still pink and cute and sweet. Unlike, say, Strawberry.
I hesitated. She’d been there during my lesser moment, and I didn’t know if she was still mad at me or not. The departed could hold a grudge like nobody’s business.
“Hey, kid,” I said at last.
In my periphery, Cookie was looking where I was, even though I knew she couldn’t see the beautiful girl standing in our path. She was such a good egg, and way more handy than a crutch. This way I could lean my weight on her and not have to worry about dragging around a huge piece of metal. And Cookie finally got to see Rocket’s place. It was a win–win.
“Well?” Strawberry asked. “Where have you been? He’s very upset.”
“Is he mad at me?”
She crossed her tiny arms over her chest. “He won’t stop, and he has work to do. He’s very behind.”
Rocket’s work, if one could call it that, was carving into the plastered walls of the asylum the names of all those who pass, which contributed greatly to their crumbling and dilapidation. Thousands upon thousands of names lined almost every inch of the interior of the asylum, a fact that Cookie was just noticing. She made a slow circle, taking in the décor. I had to reposition my hand over her arms and shoulders to keep my footing as she circled. It was quite awkward when I grabbed hold of one of her girls, but she didn’t seem to mind.
“This place is incredible,” she said.
“Isn’t it?”
“It’s just so creepy and yet cool at the same time.”
“Right?”
Strawberry jammed her fists onto her slim hips. “Well?” she repeated.
When Cookie took my arm into hers again, I refocused on Strawberry. “He won’t stop what, honey?”
Her chin raised a notch. “I can’t tell you.”
I was getting used to this beguiling creature, much as I hated to admit it, and I asked, “Can you show me, then?”
One shoulder lifted and her attention flitted to Cookie as though just noticing her. “Who is that?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. This is Cookie. Cookie, this is—”
“Her name is Cookie?”
“Yes, and it’s not nice to interrupt.”
The corners of her eyes crinkled as she studied my BFF. “I like her.”
“I like her, too. Can you show me what Rocket has been up to?”
After another one-shouldered shrug, Strawberry led the way, asking Cookie question after question. I held a flashlight and interpreted as we made our way through the perilous halls. By the time we found Rocket, Strawberry knew just about everything there was to know about Cookie, including the fact that she had a daughter. Strawberry wanted to meet her immediately and made me promise to bring her to see them.
We rounded yet another corner, which led to the infirmary, and found Rocket standing against a wall, scribbling another name into it. Rocket was like a human version of the Pillsbury Doughboy. He towered a solid foot over my head when we stood toe to toe, and he had kind, inquisitive eyes that never quite registered what was going on around him.
“He’s very behind,” Strawberry repeated, pointing to the wall he’d been carving up. But I wasn’t concerned about the names on his list. I was concerned about him. About how I’d left things between us. I wouldn’t blame him if he never spoke to me again. At least Reyes had bought this place for me, so I could keep Rocket and his sister safe here. While he was incorporeal, the property damage he did was quite corporeal. If this place was ever torn down, I didn’t know where he would go.
“Rocket?” I said, inching toward him. He paused and glanced at the floor before continuing with what he was doing. He held a piece of broken glass in his left hand, scoring the wall with it until his scratching resembled a letter of the alphabet, only not ours, not English. I didn’t pay much attention as I glanced around for a sign of his sister. It had taken me years to get a glimpse of her, and I’d scared the life out of her—so to speak—during my last visit. I would probably never see her again.
Though he was very aware of my presence, he continued working.
I let go of Cookie’s arm and stepped closer. “Rocket, I’m so sorry about how I behaved. I had no right to get mad at you or to threaten your sister. I have no excuse.”
“That’s okay, Miss Charlotte,” he said, keeping his gaze averted. “But he shouldn’t be here.”
He was talking about Reyes. “He died yesterday,” I said. “And he came back. Was that why you wrote his name on the wall?”
“He’s very behind. People are crossing over to the other side, and he’s not writing their names down.”
“Strawberry, he’s working like crazy. See all those names?” I asked, pointing to Rocket’s artwork.
“No,” she said, growing frustrated. “Those aren’t people who have died. Those are people who are going to die.”
I blinked in realization. We were in the room he was saving. The only room that, until recently, had pristine walls. Not a scratch on them. Not a single name had marred their surfaces. He’d told me once that he was saving these walls for the end of the world. For when Reyes was going to end the world if I kept him here on earth with us. He’d told me his being here was breaking the rules. It went against the natural order of things.
Rocket spoke over his shoulder. “I told you not to bring him back, Miss Charlotte.”
I stepped away from him for a better view. Strawberry was right. These were all new names, all new carvings. “I don’t understand,” I said to him.
He stopped scribbling at last and turned toward me. When he spoke, his words were a mere whisper echoing in the large chamber. “I told you, he’s not supposed to be here. He’s breaking the rules.” He put an index finger to his mouth as though to shush me. “No breaking rules, Miss Charlotte.”
“Who are these people, Rocket?” I asked, stepping forward to run my fingers along the jagged lines.
“They are the people who are going away soon.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
“You didn’t kill him. You were supposed to kill him. It wasn’t your fault, but you were supposed to. Now they’re all going away.”
“How many people are going away?”
His mouth thinned as he scanned his work. “All of them.”
“This can’t happen, Rocket.”
“You broke the rules, Miss Charlotte. You brought him back.”
“Bullshit,” I said, getting angry with Rocket again.
He took a wary step back as I drew in a deep breath, tried to keep hold of every ounce of calm I could muster. “I’m sorry, hon. I just don’t understand. How is Reyes supposed to cause the deaths of all these people?”
“Not how,” he said, reverting back to his old standby. “Not when, only who.”
He could only tell me who died. Not how or when or why. Only who.
“No breaking rules,” he said, his voice now shaky.
I narrowed my lids, the shards of anger that nipped along the edges of my psyche slicing through the barrier I’d put up and slid silently inside. “I make the rules, Rocket. How is Reyes supposed to cause the deaths of—” I glanced around. “—thousands of people?”
“Not thousands, Miss Charlotte. Seven billion two hundred forty-eight million six hundred twenty thousand one hundred thirteen.”
Stunned, I shook my head. “How?” I repeated through teeth that were now welded together. “That’s everyone on Earth, and that’s not possible. How?”
He frowned and glanced down in thought. “Or one.”
“What?” I said, blinking back to him.
“Or one. If one dies, everyone lives.”
“Who, Rocket? Reyes?”
“No, Miss Charlotte. Not this time.”
“Wait, I changed destiny, right? I brought Reyes back. But now someone else has to die?” When he nodded, I asked, “Who?”
We’d been here before, and it did not end well. Rocket didn’t want to tell me, but he’d lost some of his innocence since our last encounter. He now knew better than to hold back.
He swallowed hard and whispered, the word like brittle paper in the air, thin and so fragile, I was afraid it would crumble before it got to me. But it didn’t. It reverberated in my mind like a crash of thunder.
He looked at me, his eyes round, and said again, “You, Miss Charlotte.”
And there it was.
24
More caffeine!
I’ve got lives to ruin!
—T-SHIRT
Reyes and I lay in our respective beds, our faces centimeters apart, our breaths meeting in the middle, caressing. Though it was past midnight, he’d just showered and smelled clean, his earthy scent rich beneath the sandalwood soap he’d used. His hair, still slightly damp, curled at his cheek and around his ear.
I didn’t get much more out of Rocket, but if I had to die to save the world, so be it. Timing would be an issue, but I planned on enjoying every second I had left with my fiancé.
“Want to come over to my place?” I asked him.
The sparkle in his eyes danced in humor. “I don’t know,” he said. “You live so far away.”
I squeaked as he reached up and slid me down the length of him, caressing my stomach with his mouth as I passed, searing my skin with each kiss. I kissed his stomach back before turning over and curling into his side.
We settled onto his side of the beds. His was much more comfortable than mine anyway. I had no idea how different I’d feel after sleeping on a good mattress. I could totally get used to it.
I had this amazing gift for living in denial. Until I died, I was going to live each day like I had a million more after that one. And that started here and now.
“If we ever get divorced,” I said into his neck as I trailed kisses over his pulse points, “I’m taking you for every mattress you have. Fair warning. You might want to consider a prenup.”
“Are you planning on divorcing me?”
“Not at the moment, but I have a few movie-star crushes I’m still holding out hope for. If any of them call, you will be so yesterday.”
“You know, it’s sad how many movie stars die unexpectedly.”
I gasped and rose so I could gape at him. “You’d kill my crushes?”
“Only the ones that hit on you.”
“Fine.” I rolled my eyes. “I’ll tell Brad to stop calling. He’s married, for God’s sake.”
“That would be wise.” He nipped at my earlobe, causing a tingle to bolt through me.
I pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. “You bought me a new Jeep,” I said, noting that she’d been doing much better than before my run-in with Mr. Raving Lunatic two weeks prior.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
“I figured.”
“Noni did the best he could, but to drive her without completely replacing the frame would have been dangerous. It would have cost more, and you would’ve still had problems in the long run.”
I understood. “Thank you. It’s still Misery. I can feel her in spirit.”
He patted my head like one would when consoling a child. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Dutch.”
He made me giggle, but he still needed to be punished for his insolence, so I bit his shoulder. Hard. He sucked in a lungful of air and rolled on top of me. Brushing the hair out of my eyes, he said, “You know, they say that those who know the real name of the grim reaper hold power over him. Or, in this case, her.”
I sobered, suddenly more interested in the conversation than in his delicious shoulders. “They say that?” I asked, wondering what
real
name he would be referring to.
“Yes.”
“And do you know my real name?”
He propped his head on an elbow and stared down at me. “I do, in fact. I heard it whispered on the voice of every angel in heaven when they sent you.”
“And?” I asked, hopeful. I knew so little about that part of myself.
“You aren’t supposed to hear it until you pass.”
“Pass? Like, away?” I asked, surprised. That could be much sooner than either of us had expected.
“Yes. When you fully become the grim reaper.”
“But you know it now, right? You could tell me.”
He lowered his head. “I’m not sure what knowing it would do. Like I said, there is a power behind it.”
“How can something as arbitrary as a name have power?”
“Your real name is anything but arbitrary. Just remember something, Dutch. You are not of this world. You never will be. Your human existence is just a microsecond in your life. A necessary state of being to ground you on this plane. At first, I thought that was why my father wanted me to wait for you. You can’t just capture a reaper unless you can catch one in human form. There is simply no way to catch a portal otherwise. It’s like trying to grab hold of smoke.”
“You said, at first.”
“Yes. I’m with Swopes. I think Lucifer lied to me and to him. I think there’s more to it; I just don’t know what. Either way, you still have a job waiting for you after your corporeal being ceases to exist. A job that will last centuries.”
“And knowing my name will make me more powerful?” I asked, perplexed.
“Yes. It is part of your transformation. And since your family is so powerful, you even more so, I can’t imagine what knowing it would do.”
“So why are you telling me this now?” I asked. I’d been begging for information like this from him for months.
“I owe you,” he said, matter-of-fact.
“You do? Cool. And just what do you owe me for?”
The seriousness in his eyes hit me hard. “Because you said yes.”
I blinked in surprise. “You think because I agreed to marry you, you owe me?”
“You don’t realize what that means. You are literally royalty, born to the king and queen of your kind. Your marrying me will be like a beloved princess marrying a street urchin.”
I snickered, but his expression remained severe.
“But again, you are more special than any of your kind. More powerful. I’m beginning to understand you have a much higher purpose than I’d ever realized. For us to marry … let’s just say your celestial, for lack of a better word, family would not approve.”
“I would love to know more about them,” I coaxed. When it became clear I wasn’t getting any more out of him where that was concerned, I pressed him about his own. “What about your family? Are you ever going to try to contact them? I still believe they would want to know you are alive and well.”
“Perhaps. Just as your parents would you.”
I rose onto my elbows. “What do you mean?”
“Their sacrifice was a great one. Once one of their kind is sent, they lose all contact until the reaper’s physical form passes. They have no idea how you are doing, what your life has been like.”
“Wow. Our parents are more similar than I thought. Do you remember being born?” I asked him out of the blue. I’d always wondered about how he came into the world, both in the supernatural realm, when created by his outcast father, and here on earth.
“The memory of my human existence isn’t like yours. I remember bits and pieces.”
“What about your creation? What about when Lucifer created you?”
He lay back and rested an arm on his forehead. “
That
I remember well.”
“Can you tell me about it?” I asked, resting my chin on his shoulder. He pulled me closer against his side.
“I remember the pain of creation,” he said, his thoughts far away. “The heat of the fire. The color of my skin as it smoldered, as the muscle and tendon beneath it formed and solidified. I remember the being that created me—my father, as it were—and from the moment I took my first breath, I knew he had no love for what he’d created. He had dark machinations. He had a plan and I was a big part of it. But first I had to prove myself. And so the tests began.” He came back to me and kissed the tip of my nose. “My childhood was not the stuff of fairy tales.”
“I would love to hear about it.”
“Then you’re going to be disappointed. I can’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“Any love that you have in your heart for me would vanish.”
“Reyes—”
“Dutch,” he said, cutting me off. “Please do not ask that of me. It is a darkness I cannot share. I would lose you forever, and I’ve only ever wanted you. You are literally the light in my darkness, the redemption of my past. I waited centuries for you to be born on earth, for me to be able to bask in your glow. You are like a gravitational force that lures me closer with each breath you take.”
I lay rather stunned.
“Imagine a canvas bathed completely in black. Only black. There is no shape. No purpose other than to bring darkness. Then splash on a brilliant white. Add some reds and blues, some yellows and greens. Suddenly it has meaning. It has a reason to exist. That is what you have done to my world. You brought me purpose. Light and color to fill the void of oblivion. Without you, there is only the darkness.”
I pulled him closer and kissed his neck. He ran his fingers through my hair.
“That will be my gift to you on our wedding day.”
I rose and regarded him with a questioning expression.
“The name I caught on the air as you were being brought into this world. The angels all whispered it, each and every one, but only once. They are forbidden to mention it again until your passing. Then one angel will have the honor of telling you and only you. I’ve kept it safe, locked away. It will be my gift to you on our wedding day. The power behind it is immense. The light it holds.”
“I– I don’t know what to say.”
“I think we should work together.”
“What?”
His eyes glistened in amusement. “With the Twelve coming, I’ve decided to hire a manager for the bar and work with you full-time.”
“Um.”
“I know,” he said, ruffling my hair. “Your gratitude is all I need.”
“Reyes—”
“No arguments. It’s not safe to leave you alone anymore. If we work together, who will question it?”
Wow, my partnerships were multiplying like bunnies on Viagra. I guess I could take on three partners: Aunt Lil, Garrett, and Reyes.
We could be the Fearsome Foursome!
Or not.
“But I do have one question,” he said, patting my head to his chest to let me know he understood how grateful I was that he would deign to work with me. Such a nice, humble guy.
I giggled under his playful arm and said, “Just one?”
“For now. Why a spork?”
It took me a moment to remember my response to the utensil question I’d asked him earlier. “Because!” I said, shocked he’d even ask. “Sporks multitask. They look unassuming, but pack a powerful purpose. Like a Swiss Army knife, only not quite that useful.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding in understanding.
“And it’s such a cool word. Who can resist a good sporking?”
He laughed and was just about to kiss me when someone pounded on the door. Someone insane, apparently. Who would dare interrupt the son of Satan?
Well, besides me.
I tossed on Reyes’s robe and rushed to his door. Once there, I found a harried Garrett Swopes, but he was knocking on my door.
The minute he saw me, he barreled forward, pushing past me to get inside. “I was wrong,” he said, handing me a stack of papers. “Sorry about the hour, but I was wrong about everything.”
Cleary, he needed consoling. And I was just the woman for the job. “Swopes. We’re all wrong at some point in our lives. Can you say tie-dyed leg warmers? I used to live for those things. It was a dark time for me.”
His pounding had awakened Cookie. I gestured her inside as well, trying not to giggle at her hair. Or the fact that she had on a green mineral mud mask. I was pretty sure she’d forgotten that fact.
She shuffled inside sleepily, her bright pink bottoms gathered between her butt cheeks. I’d skip that enlightenment as well.
When Garrett turned around, he took in her appearance and decided not to react. I knew I liked him for a reason. But only that one. No need to get crazy.
Reyes came out then, but didn’t react as he took in his guests before heading to the kitchen. He put on a pot of coffee, knowing the late hour wouldn’t matter to Cookie and me, and took out two beers as I glanced over the papers Garrett had handed me. Reyes had caught on to the routine and took it like a man. God, I loved him.
“You were wrong?” he asked Garrett.
Garrett nodded, his expression grave as he glanced between the two of us.
