Clyde looked doubtful. “What kind of kid eats sugarless wheat cookies and soy milk and actually likes it?”
All right, so the sugarless cookies weren’t always a score with the kids. Point. “The kind who have parents who’re trying to keep toxic chemicals out of their offspring’s bodies. Preservatives and additives and all the junk that clogs your pipes up. What difference does it make now? I have no chair to read to them from. That means you’ve not only ruined my cherished memory, but crapped on a bunch of kids who’ll be very sad they can’t sit by this very chair and hear the story of how Mr. Herb goes to Washington.”
“Mr. Herb? Whatever happened to some good old-fashioned Dr. Seuss?”
“Well, we’ll never know, now, will we? Even if I could have read Dr. Seuss to the little beasts, I can’t do it now because you burned the goddamned chair!”
Clyde’s he-man, take-no-prisoners posture slumped; his expression grew somber. “I had no idea. I think we should just have a running apology from here on out in our relationship. I’ll always just be sorry and you can always be angry that I had to be sorry for whatever reason I’m sorry. Deal?”
Delaney threw the lumpy towel right at his not so lumpy abs, winking decadently at her from beneath the blanket. “No deal, Howie. We don’t have a relationship, you inheritance wrecker.”
Clyde caught it with a grunt and a sidelong glance. “We will. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, but you keep ignoring me—brushing me off.”
Duh. “In the hopes that you’ll fade to black. Yes, I’m ignoring you—or at least I was trying to. Nobody threatens me, you Purgatory pimp. Especially not a pathetic demon like you.”
Clyde planted a big hand on the back of the chair. “I had to find a way to make you listen and I’m not done yet. There’s still more.”
Delaney sucked her cheeks in, assessing the singed chair. “If you thought this was the way to get a woman to pay attention to you, a playa you ain’t.”
Nodding an agreement, he flexed his fingers. “Established—and not just by you. I’m not here to play you. I just want your cooperation. I just want you to relax and listen to me.”
Her wide eyes and raised eyebrows said it all. “By setting fire to my stuff? I don’t think I’m being too ballsy when I say you’re not endearing yourself to me, Clyde the demon.”
“I don’t want to endear myself to you, Delaney the ghost lady. I want to find out why I’m in Hell and, if you’ll let me, help you in the process.”
Her hands went to her hips as she took in his tall form. She let her head tilt back on her shoulders to gaze up at him. Way up at him. Delaney was short by today’s standards at five foot one, but right now she felt dwarfed, eaten up by his looming, darkly handsome bulk. “Oh, I’m all atwitter. Help me? How do you suppose you can help me?”
Mirroring her stance, he placed his hands on his own lean hips.
“Because I have information about you.” He returned her shocked gaze with a cocky, all-knowing one.
“Reaaaallly?”
“Reaaaallly,” he drawled, dropping his head to his chest to roll it on his shoulders.
The problem was, would that information be true? But she’d play, because she had some doubts she had to address about Clyde. Delaney sensed she was giving poor old Clyde a run for his money by the set of his tense shoulders and the way he twisted his neck back and forth. “Okay. Hit me with your best shot.” Whiner.
“Pat Benatar, 1980, off the Crimes of Passion album.” Clyde’s lean fingers began to massage his temples in absent circles.
And now we had the crazy. Maybe he was more confused about how he’d landed here than he was letting on. “Uh, you just crossed the threshold from creepy and annoying to crazy. Repeat?”
His head popped up, and he gave a push with two fingers to settle his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. “Forget it. It’s just a habit. I have a lot of useless trivia in my head. Sometimes words—songs trigger it. It just flies out of my mouth before I can stop it. Especially when I’m stressed, and getting you to give me your ear for more than the time it takes you to make my eyeballs feel like they’re being grilled on hot coals is damned stressful, lady.”
Delaney forced away the smile she almost let happen from hitting her face. “Okay, so how about we leave the era of leg warmers and Madonna, and you tell me what information you have about me from, of all places, Hell.”
Clyde scowled. “Madonna didn’t happen until more like ’82.”
“Right. Like a—a—”
“Virgin. From her Like a Virgin album, circa 1984, if I remember correctly.”
“I’ll be sure to make a mental note. Now spew, demon.”