Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54626 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54626 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
At the moment, he was too livid and focused on the clown show in his house.
He went downstairs, following the noises in the kitchen. With the exception of his carpeted closet and the natural stone in the bathrooms, the entire home had blond bamboo floors. Most of his furniture was what he would call classic modern—clean lines, neutral colors, minimal decorations. Mostly because the look went with the modern house, but also because he was a very private person—for obvious reasons—and had to do the cleaning himself. The less stuff to dust, the better.
He entered his immaculate, all white kitchen—white marble counters, white cupboards, white appliances. White was more efficient to spot clean.
Pet and the little brown demon sat at the breakfast bar, talking to an empty chair.
“Ah. Here he is.” Pet fluttered over to the cupboard, grabbed a white ceramic mug, and set it on the counter. She then went to the coffee maker and picked up the carafe.
How did she fly carrying so much weight? Who gives a crap? Get her out of here, he thought.
“We were talking while you were having your man-tantrum upstairs,” said Pet. “If we’re going to be living together, Damien, there have to be rules.”
Damien snarled as she poured an entire cup of sugar into the mug. “What are you talking about?”
Pet nudged the mug toward him. “Remember? You said I could stay until I found a new home.”
Little flying nut! “I never said—”
“And Sky here is anchored to you,” Pet added, “so she can’t go anywhere. Not really. She also said you probably wouldn’t remember her telling you that after you died in the explosion and were sent to the Underworld.”
He’d died?
Pet continued, “Then there’s Gorgonzolina, here. She has nowhere to go. Right, Gorgonzolina?”
The Chihuahua-looking brown furball stared at the floor, avoiding eye contact.
“She doesn’t speak much,” Pet said. “I think they did bad things to her. But I told her you’re a good man—when you’re not running people over with your car—and you’d let her stay, too.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Damien walked over to the counter, grabbed a fresh mug and poured some coffee. He took a sip. Wasn’t half bad. Just missing the scotch. Which he would absolutely need today.
He turned, leaning his body against the counter. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you fine women, but you cannot live here. This is my home, and—”
“Is that how you thank me?” Pet said. “Oh. I’m interpreting for Sky now.”
“Thank her? For what?” he asked.
“She says it wasn’t easy getting you home yesterday so you wouldn’t end up arrested for blowing up that house.”
“I didn’t blow it up,” he protested.
“The cops don’t know that,” Pet argued. “Also, you had no pants on. Also, they found two dead bodies in the garage. The Browns. Also—”
“Back up. The Browns were in there? So who lit the place up?” He’d figured the Browns had done it, attempting to cover their tracks. “Wait. How the hell did you get me home?”
“Sky drove.”
Damien blinked. A ghost drove my vintage Porsche? “I don’t even want to know how you pulled that off, but I’m certainly not thanking you. And, no, I’m not changing my mind. You cannot stay here. Not even you, Sky. So find someone else to anchor to.”
The little brown Chihuahua whimpered, still staring at the floor.
He couldn’t deal with this right now. He had to report to the gods today, and he had nothing solid to bring them.
His mind quickly shuffled through the moments before the explosion. The cruelty, the torture, the horror those living beings went through. The only thing he came away with was a headache and leg burns.
And me. Don’t forget me, tailor.
Oh yes. Lucky, lucky me. His dark friend was back, thirsty for blood and violence.
Damien set his mug in the sink. “I need to go to my shop and check on things. Gorgonzolina, I will introduce you to Bonbon tonight. You may leave with him in the morning and go do whatever love-sucking demons do.”
He went to the door leading to the garage and flipped on the lights. His red Porsche was covered in dents, scratches, and a black tarry substance.
“Sonofabitch.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “These motherfucking…” He couldn’t wait to be rid of them all.
Suddenly, the words “Fuck U” appeared on the dusty car window in front of him.
Sky was sending a message.
Well, he had one of his own, too. He took his finger and wrote: Get out.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Damien pulled into his spot behind the shop, driving his black Jaguar F-Type convertible. Absolutely the wrong car for today. This was the one he drove on days when he needed a kick in the pants to stay in line. Something about the sleek lines of the car made him feel more gentlemanly.
Hell, maybe I do need this today. A reminder of who he needed to be. Yesterday had opened a giant fissure in his armor, and now he would have to find a way to put the bad genie back in the bottle. But how? Last time, it had nearly cost him his sanity.