me. “There's nothing to be ashamed of Wendy. There are a
lot of nerve endings in the anus, or so I've heard. If that's what you like, I
say more power to you. Let ’em fuck that ass. If anything, it ups your sexy
quotient.”
Wendy sneered. “It's an exit,” she
hissed.
“Whatever!” Gil said and then coughed. “Booty
Love.”
Wendy spun, her index finger rigid,
twitching. “Don't you ever call me that again.”
Gil's hands shot up protectively. “Fine.
I'm just repeating what I've heard.”
“Seriously, though,” I said. “You have to
be careful with butt sex, Wendy. Your pooper isn't getting any more flexible
post death; you might prolapse. Even the finest Natori lingerie can't make that
look cute.”
Wendy huffed, turned away and Gil had the
good sense to shut his mouth. For once.
Chapter 4
Back
on the road, I called my ex-assistant, Marithé—she’s not required to do
anything for me, but we have some perceived blackmail thing going on that I
don’t quite understand but take advantage of, of course. I’ve only ever nodded
coyly when she suggested that I knew some damning information. Truth is, over
the course of three years in my employ, I didn’t really know anything about her
or her personal life. She could be a vampire hunter or an accountant, hooker or
nun—though, I probably would have noticed a drab habit and sent her home
for a more appropriate office outfit. And while we’re on the subject, why are
those outfits floor length? A husband likes to see a little leg, even if he is
an omnipresent being. Now, other than a brief stint as Ricardo’s girlfriend, Marithé
seemed to be largely sexless. But whatever it was weighing heavy on her mind
must have been atrocious. And in our world—one with a set of morals you
could count on a single hand—that was really saying something.
“Did you make the arrangements with the
hotel?” I asked, flicking the turn signal and pointing Wendy to the glove
compartment.
“They couldn’t accommodate you, so I had
to make alternate arrangements. But…”
“But?”
Wendy popped open the hidden bar in my
dash and squealed with delight. “Hooch!” she cried and desperately began her
shotgun mixology duties.
“You’re not going to like it,” Marithé
went on.
“Oh Goddamn it. Not a B and B is it? Tell
me it’s not a bed and breakfast.”
“It’s the only thing I could come up with
on such short notice.”
“No!” Wendy and Gil shouted in unison.
Marithé babbled on hurriedly about the
establishments’ stellar attributes, one of which was a basement where Gil could
hide out during the day. What didn’t occur to her was that bed and breakfasts
were the most risky of accommodations for supernaturals, particularly ones with
certain needs. The innkeepers were often overly involved, interested, nosy
motherfuckers who like to watch guests eat their damn muffins and probably not
a rack of human ribs.
I nodded, horrified, myself. “Just text
me the address. And if I need something else, I can count on you, right,
Marithé? I can count on you…can’t I?”
“Y-yes.” The phone clicked off. Still
terrified of me.
Good.
Wendy heaved a sulking sigh into the air,
while Gil’s glare reflected his despair at sub-par accommodations all over the
side window. Only Abuelita seemed unaffected by the news, grinning as she was
into the glare of her phone, watching telenovellas on Youtube and snorting with
laughter.
It occurred to me that over the years,
the three of us had actually become more similar rather than keeping our own
unique character traits that drew us to one another—and by that, I mean
Wendy and Gil were acting exactly like me, and I wasn’t loving it. It was
probably one of the reasons we weren’t getting along.
Time for a big fat come-to-Jesus.
“How about this?” I stabbed my hand inside
my Birkin and dug for my secret Wendy weapon, tossing the king-size Twix bar
into her lap. “Chew on that while I take
lot of nerve endings in the anus, or so I've heard. If that's what you like, I
say more power to you. Let ’em fuck that ass. If anything, it ups your sexy
quotient.”
Wendy sneered. “It's an exit,” she
hissed.
“Whatever!” Gil said and then coughed. “Booty
Love.”
Wendy spun, her index finger rigid,
twitching. “Don't you ever call me that again.”
Gil's hands shot up protectively. “Fine.
I'm just repeating what I've heard.”
“Seriously, though,” I said. “You have to
be careful with butt sex, Wendy. Your pooper isn't getting any more flexible
post death; you might prolapse. Even the finest Natori lingerie can't make that
look cute.”
Wendy huffed, turned away and Gil had the
good sense to shut his mouth. For once.
Chapter 4
Back
on the road, I called my ex-assistant, Marithé—she’s not required to do
anything for me, but we have some perceived blackmail thing going on that I
don’t quite understand but take advantage of, of course. I’ve only ever nodded
coyly when she suggested that I knew some damning information. Truth is, over
the course of three years in my employ, I didn’t really know anything about her
or her personal life. She could be a vampire hunter or an accountant, hooker or
nun—though, I probably would have noticed a drab habit and sent her home
for a more appropriate office outfit. And while we’re on the subject, why are
those outfits floor length? A husband likes to see a little leg, even if he is
an omnipresent being. Now, other than a brief stint as Ricardo’s girlfriend, Marithé
seemed to be largely sexless. But whatever it was weighing heavy on her mind
must have been atrocious. And in our world—one with a set of morals you
could count on a single hand—that was really saying something.
“Did you make the arrangements with the
hotel?” I asked, flicking the turn signal and pointing Wendy to the glove
compartment.
“They couldn’t accommodate you, so I had
to make alternate arrangements. But…”
“But?”
Wendy popped open the hidden bar in my
dash and squealed with delight. “Hooch!” she cried and desperately began her
shotgun mixology duties.
“You’re not going to like it,” Marithé
went on.
“Oh Goddamn it. Not a B and B is it? Tell
me it’s not a bed and breakfast.”
“It’s the only thing I could come up with
on such short notice.”
“No!” Wendy and Gil shouted in unison.
Marithé babbled on hurriedly about the
establishments’ stellar attributes, one of which was a basement where Gil could
hide out during the day. What didn’t occur to her was that bed and breakfasts
were the most risky of accommodations for supernaturals, particularly ones with
certain needs. The innkeepers were often overly involved, interested, nosy
motherfuckers who like to watch guests eat their damn muffins and probably not
a rack of human ribs.
I nodded, horrified, myself. “Just text
me the address. And if I need something else, I can count on you, right,
Marithé? I can count on you…can’t I?”
“Y-yes.” The phone clicked off. Still
terrified of me.
Good.
Wendy heaved a sulking sigh into the air,
while Gil’s glare reflected his despair at sub-par accommodations all over the
side window. Only Abuelita seemed unaffected by the news, grinning as she was
into the glare of her phone, watching telenovellas on Youtube and snorting with
laughter.
It occurred to me that over the years,
the three of us had actually become more similar rather than keeping our own
unique character traits that drew us to one another—and by that, I mean
Wendy and Gil were acting exactly like me, and I wasn’t loving it. It was
probably one of the reasons we weren’t getting along.
Time for a big fat come-to-Jesus.
“How about this?” I stabbed my hand inside
my Birkin and dug for my secret Wendy weapon, tossing the king-size Twix bar
into her lap. “Chew on that while I take
Similar Books
