rolled into one, isn’t it? Wait. Do I want to know why you started scrying for demons?”
“Probably not, hon. Luckily, I’ve only found three since I’ve been trying.” Ce Ce gathered up the potions that she’d rummaged through. She and Bobbie Faye were in Ce Ce’s storage room while Riles terrorized the customers.
“Yeah, but she’s found seven zombies,” Monique said, tagging along behind Ce Ce, catching vials as they fell fromthe crooks of Ce Ce’s arms. Monique was Ce Ce’s best friend, a pudgy, redheaded, freckled mom of four who had a wobbly sense of morality and a firm belief that mimosas were not just for breakfast anymore.
Bobbie Faye glanced from Monique, who always seemed earnest, even when she was trying to convince Ce Ce that she should add a stripper club to the store, back to Ce Ce, who carefully placed vials back in their unlabeled boxes. Only Ce Ce knew which vial contained what potion—a little anti-theft plan she’d devised because people were too afraid to experiment.
“Seven zombies? Seriously?”
“Only six.” Ce Ce pursed her lips together, her black braids shimmying as she shook her head.
“I still think the governor cheated somehow,” Monique added, pouting. “One little zap. Wouldn’t have hurt much.”
Bobbie Faye wasn’t about to ask how they’d gotten in to see the governor, or why they weren’t already sitting in jail. Some things were just better left vague.
“Here,” Ce Ce said, holding a measuring cup to Bobbie Faye’s lips, “spit in this.”
There was something . . . gangrenous . . . about the inch-thick icky gel hunched in the bottom of that container. “You’re kidding, right?” And when Ce Ce pressed the cup forward, Bobbie Faye leaned away a little and asked, “I’m not going to have to smear this on anyplace embarrassing, am I?”
“Trust me,” Ce Ce said.
Bobbie Faye scowled, suspicious. The last time she’d trusted Ce Ce, she’d wound up painted
blue
.
“Hey, it protected you, don’t argue with the juju.”
Bobbie Faye spit into the cup, wherein the gel turned a nasty shade of orange. “Is that a bad sign?”
“Oh, hush. I’ll be out there in a minute. I think you need to rescue Riles.”
Bobbie Faye glanced back out at the gun counter, where the Ladies Auxiliary had just shown up in full force—thirtymore women, all ranging from the ages of twenty-three to ninety-six—vying for Riles to frisk them.
It was the only thing getting Bobbie Faye through the worry about Trevor.
“Hon,” Ce Ce said, waddling over to the gun counter, “wear this.” Ce Ce snapped a stretchy bracelet around Bobbie Faye’s wrist faster than she could say “ewwww” and Bobbie Faye gaped—there was a chicken foot attached. It was light yellow with an orangey tinge and smelled like the awful gel. “This is a bad juju detector,” Ce Ce explained, showing her the match to it on her own wrist. “It’ll turn black when you’re in deep trouble.”
“So, it’s like a mood ring for the Criminally Stupid?” Riles asked, and Bobbie Faye zinged a gun safety pamphlet at his head. He ducked and she missed. Damned asshole had great reflexes.
Ce Ce frowned. “I know Trevor meant well, keeping you all protected with Riles, but this is going to work
much
better.” She glared at Riles, who pretended to be mortally wounded and staggered around, clutching at his heart.
“I’ll be fine. In fact,” she nodded toward Riles, “he’s probably the only one here who’d really like to see me dead or maimed.”
“
Here
being the operative word in that sentence.”
Monique plopped a bunch of fabric sample cases on the glass gun countertop and made flirty googly eyes at Riles. Of course, Monique was probably four flasks to the wind at that point, so no accounting for taste. “Can you wait to maim her ’til after the wedding?”
Ce Ce immediately shushed her best friend, scooped up the sample cases, and led Monique away with, “So, how are we on
“Probably not, hon. Luckily, I’ve only found three since I’ve been trying.” Ce Ce gathered up the potions that she’d rummaged through. She and Bobbie Faye were in Ce Ce’s storage room while Riles terrorized the customers.
“Yeah, but she’s found seven zombies,” Monique said, tagging along behind Ce Ce, catching vials as they fell fromthe crooks of Ce Ce’s arms. Monique was Ce Ce’s best friend, a pudgy, redheaded, freckled mom of four who had a wobbly sense of morality and a firm belief that mimosas were not just for breakfast anymore.
Bobbie Faye glanced from Monique, who always seemed earnest, even when she was trying to convince Ce Ce that she should add a stripper club to the store, back to Ce Ce, who carefully placed vials back in their unlabeled boxes. Only Ce Ce knew which vial contained what potion—a little anti-theft plan she’d devised because people were too afraid to experiment.
“Seven zombies? Seriously?”
“Only six.” Ce Ce pursed her lips together, her black braids shimmying as she shook her head.
“I still think the governor cheated somehow,” Monique added, pouting. “One little zap. Wouldn’t have hurt much.”
Bobbie Faye wasn’t about to ask how they’d gotten in to see the governor, or why they weren’t already sitting in jail. Some things were just better left vague.
“Here,” Ce Ce said, holding a measuring cup to Bobbie Faye’s lips, “spit in this.”
There was something . . . gangrenous . . . about the inch-thick icky gel hunched in the bottom of that container. “You’re kidding, right?” And when Ce Ce pressed the cup forward, Bobbie Faye leaned away a little and asked, “I’m not going to have to smear this on anyplace embarrassing, am I?”
“Trust me,” Ce Ce said.
Bobbie Faye scowled, suspicious. The last time she’d trusted Ce Ce, she’d wound up painted
blue
.
“Hey, it protected you, don’t argue with the juju.”
Bobbie Faye spit into the cup, wherein the gel turned a nasty shade of orange. “Is that a bad sign?”
“Oh, hush. I’ll be out there in a minute. I think you need to rescue Riles.”
Bobbie Faye glanced back out at the gun counter, where the Ladies Auxiliary had just shown up in full force—thirtymore women, all ranging from the ages of twenty-three to ninety-six—vying for Riles to frisk them.
It was the only thing getting Bobbie Faye through the worry about Trevor.
“Hon,” Ce Ce said, waddling over to the gun counter, “wear this.” Ce Ce snapped a stretchy bracelet around Bobbie Faye’s wrist faster than she could say “ewwww” and Bobbie Faye gaped—there was a chicken foot attached. It was light yellow with an orangey tinge and smelled like the awful gel. “This is a bad juju detector,” Ce Ce explained, showing her the match to it on her own wrist. “It’ll turn black when you’re in deep trouble.”
“So, it’s like a mood ring for the Criminally Stupid?” Riles asked, and Bobbie Faye zinged a gun safety pamphlet at his head. He ducked and she missed. Damned asshole had great reflexes.
Ce Ce frowned. “I know Trevor meant well, keeping you all protected with Riles, but this is going to work
much
better.” She glared at Riles, who pretended to be mortally wounded and staggered around, clutching at his heart.
“I’ll be fine. In fact,” she nodded toward Riles, “he’s probably the only one here who’d really like to see me dead or maimed.”
“
Here
being the operative word in that sentence.”
Monique plopped a bunch of fabric sample cases on the glass gun countertop and made flirty googly eyes at Riles. Of course, Monique was probably four flasks to the wind at that point, so no accounting for taste. “Can you wait to maim her ’til after the wedding?”
Ce Ce immediately shushed her best friend, scooped up the sample cases, and led Monique away with, “So, how are we on
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