Delaney bolted to an upright position, pushing away the hair stuck in her mouth, her eyes widening when she found not only Clyde beside her, but her dogs, all crammed up against him, snoring peacefully. Her mouth fell open, yet no words came out. His chest rose and fell in slumber, revealing a bit of patchy hair through the fabric of her bathrobe while one hand curled possessively around dog number one’s overly rounded belly.
Marcella smiled her sly, sensual brand of grin. “Oh, D. You don’t have to be coy with me. I say hoorah to getting a freak on. The only thing I’m a teensy bit worried about is what your boss upstairs might have to say about this little meeting of the bump and grind. Oh, and I have another question—whenever you’re ready to stop pretending you’re all horrified and when you close your mouth, that is. I can smell your morning breath from here.” She wrinkled her pert nose in distaste.
Delaney let her eyes stray back to Clyde. In her bed. Like he’d always been there.
In her bathrobe.
With her fucking dogs.
Blasphemers.
Marcella waited, and when she garnered no answer from Delaney, she plowed onward. “Seeing as you’re all stupefied, gnaw on this. You said we couldn’t keep the demon. You were adamant. I was okay with that. Actually, after thought, while I was having a pedi and a vanilla latte, I supported it one million percent. But what I wonder is this. Why is it that you get to keep him and I can’t? You called me a tart for even suggesting it. And doesn’t this mean you’ve broken a commandment? Isn’t there one about sleeping with the enemy?”
Clyde’s eyes had popped open, and so had his ever informative mouth. “I think that’s your neighbor’s wife.”
Marcella crossed her arms over her tight red T-shirt, shooting Clyde an icy look. “Right. Neighbor’s wife, Satan’s spawn—technicalities. Whatever. I just want to clear this up so I know what we’re in for. So again, Delaney, while I’m all for you finding your inner hootch and letting her run rampant, madre santa—could you have picked a worse candidate? Isn’t he the bad guy? Or has something happened to change our minds about the dorky demon? Because while I applaud your freak being satisfied, I worry for your soul. So please—puh-lleease—tell me what gives here. Did you do some crazy herb last night and tie one on? Are there pharmaceuticals involved I’m unaware of? Wait . . . did he force you to do this? Now if that’s the case, then Clyde”—she shot him a glacial stare—“I have to tell you—it ees on. See thees shoe?” Marcella pulled off her black shoe with the red, pointy heel and waved it at him. “I’ll shove thees so far up jour ass, jou’ll blow stiletto chunks for a week! Comprende?”
Hoo boy. When Marcella’s accent slipped—it meant she was cranked.
Delaney propped a hand between the pair, the only thing she seemed capable of doing at this point. She looked from Marcella to Clyde, mute. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to offer an explanation, and she knew it better be a good one, she just couldn’t remember any words.
Clyde pulled himself to an upright position, disturbing the dogs who’d nestled closer to his side. His eyes took them both in, as serious as any impending heart attack. “I think this demon thing is way out of control. Last night, Delaney agreed I could stay here to figure out what’s going on. I was on that little couch last night when I went to bed. I swear to you, I have no idea how I ended up in your bed.”
Marcella licked her full lips, her eyes hard pinpoints of glittering green light. Her laugh, deep and throaty, was totally tinged with her skepticism. “I know exactly how you ended up here, Clyde.” She swept her hand along the bed like she was a Price Is Right girl showing off a brand-new refrigerator. “We’re demons, we sometimes have needs,” she drawled, throwing him a team spirit look. “But if you used some kind of demon magic to coerce my friend into—into whatever happened here—”
“No,” Delaney finally managed.
Marcella puffed her cheeks out, her patience evaporating in a flash. “Yes, darling. Oh, I think, yes. And I’ll say it again—booyah for you. And now that we’ve dispensed with the ‘you go, girl’ pats on the back, what—the—hell—were—you—thinking?” she screeched.
Clyde leaned in to her ear, making her heart race stupidly when his lips momentarily brushed her flesh. “Are all your friends this dramatic? You’re all so loud and always threatening anything that moves. It’s a little jarring this early in the morning.”
Marcella’s breathing hissed from her nostrils in angry puffs.
Delaney leaned back in to Clyde, working to ignore the warm wall his chest made, and finally found her voice. For his sake, and the sake of a pending fireball war her bedspread would never survive, it was a good thing she was able to pony up. “Clyde?”
“Yes?”
“If I were you, I’d put a sock in it, and let me do the talking.”
Thankfully, he heeded her warning. “Shutting up,” he replied, plumping a pillow behind him and latching his fingers together behind his head.