“You all suck!” she yelled out the door, slamming it with a satisfying thunk.
Clyde’s laughter trickled to her ears, amused and just a little neener, neener, neener thrown in to prove his “I’m not supposed to be in Hell” point.
Fine.
He’d find out what Hell was all about tomorrow in the morning when he had to keep all six dogs from eating each other’s poop.
eight
“Dellllaaaney?” someone singsonged her name while trailing a finger over the shell of her ear.
She waved a hand in the air to ward off whomever was ruining the bliss she’d finally found once she’d gotten over the epic betrayal her dogs had doled out last night. “Go away.”
“But I made tea. I’m not sure if all the stuff floating around in it is supposed to be floating because I don’t remember floaties when you make it, but it smells like the stuff you make. And it’s the effort that counts, right?”
Marcella. It was Marcella and she’d made tea.
Wait, she needed to run that past her demon-fried brain again. Marcella had made tea. Like, touched the stove. Omigod, that meant the world was coming to an end or her kitchen was torched. “It’s the thought that counts and you made tea? For me?” To hide her surprise would be a feat likened to the second coming.
“Who else would I make this stuff for?”
“You touched the stove? Oh, shit. I’m afraid to open my eyes. So which is it? Is my kitchen blackened Cajun style or did the world as we know it end last night?”
She clucked her tongue. “You’re such a pessimist. No, the world didn’t end, and yes, I touched the stove. Why can’t a BFF make tea for her BFF?”
Delaney pried her eyes open to find Marcella sitting beside her on the bed, her long legs crossed as she examined her fingernails, her glossy black hair sleeked back behind her ears. “Why would you?”
“Because I figured you needed it.”
Yeah. Yesterday had been a butt licker. She could definitely use some tea to soothe her weary soul. But Marcella had no idea yesterday had sucked big, fat hooters after she’d gone home. None. Marcella had no idea that Clyde had worn her to a frazzle until she’d finally given in and agreed to try to help him. She had no idea that Satan wanted to ruin her, and she wouldn’t if Delaney could keep her out of it. And as a final act of utter humiliation, Marcella had no idea her dogs had gone to the demon side, either. “Marcella?” She spoke her name with the greatest of hesitance.
“Sí, mi amiga?”
“Why do I need tea?”
“Well, after last night, I figure refreshment is in order. To replenish and all.”
“Replenish what?”
“Your strength.”
“For?”
She sighed, so obviously impatient from the roll of her eyes to the flick of her fingers on Delaney’s arm. “For another round, I suppose, and I say good for you. It’s about time you took charge of your life and your needs as a woman. Congratulations are in order. In fact, I think we should shop or something—maybe have a facial so you can maintain that healthy glow you have now.”
Delaney grabbed her friend’s wrist. “What in all of hell are you talking about?”
Marcella curled her hand around Delaney’s and entwined their fingers, giving her a catlike smile. “Dunking the demon, sweetie.”
Delaney rolled her head on the pillow. “Dunking the demon . . .”
“Slamming the succubus, hooking up with the hellhound, boffing the—”
Delaney put a hand to Marcella’s mouth. Everything was instantly clear. Not only because of what Marcella was implying, but because her words dredged up those forbidden, naughty thoughts she’d had last night about the demon. But she figured protesting was a necessity because Marcella’d probably seen Clyde on the couch. “He’s not a succubus, and if he were any bus at all, he’d be an incubus. You know, a man-demon. And I did not either dunk, slam, or boff. Not a single, solitary thrust of my anything. The demon slept on the couch.”
Marcella’s lips pursed in obvious doubt, taking Delaney’s hand back in hers. “Then I have a question.”
“Go.”
“Why is he in your bed in your pink Friday night, eyeball-bleeding fashion faux pas?”