By Britney’s “Slave to You,” he was snapping his hips in time to the music, his erection in my mouth impossibly hard. He strained to stay in control enough to do as I’d asked and keep singing. Keep his hands curled in tight fists so he wouldn’t touch me, his voice wavering as he tried to follow my dictate.
With a word I could unleash it all, let the storm of his passions devour me. The knowledge was heady to the point that my wanton moans threatened to drown him out. I rocked Snake inside me in rhythmic pulses; my fingers and toes tingled from the fat coils of pleasure rippling through me. I vibrated, strung taut.
We didn’t even make through the first chorus of “Wicked Games” by The Weeknd. Ro sang these filthy lyrics in a ringing voice and I came hard. It sent Ro over the edge, his body bucking, all pretense of singing abandoned.
He mumbled a string of Hindi curses, sprawled against the pillows.
I rode the aftershocks coursing through my body, then mustered up the energy to turn Snake off. The room smelled of sex, drenched in musky good times.
“Your blow jobs are the fucking bomb,” he said. I laughed and he nudged my shoulder with his knee. “Happy birthday, Sparky.”
I crawled up the length of his body, sliding blankets over us both. The incandescent glow of the firefly lights tapped up around my ceiling made the room softer, warmer. Rohan’s chest pressed against my back and my breathing came easier, my heartbeat slowing to match his. “Thanks for making it happy.”
He tucked a kiss into the nape of my neck, stretched to switch off the light, and then settled back against me with one arm holding me close. “Always,” he said.
And right before I fell asleep, I thought that sounded pretty good.
10
Tuesday morning I ambushed Kane and Ari at the front door, forcing them both to hug me at the same time. “Be careful.”
They were headed into the interior of the province which had been affected by extremely bad flooding. Natural disasters: demon’s crack.
Twin sets of elbows jabbed me to get free. “We will,” they chorused.
“Take care of each other. I refuse to be down a sibling or a friend.”
Kane hefted up his duffel bag. “It’s always about you.” He winked and strode out to his Porsche.
Ari slung his backpack over one shoulder. “Promise you’ll talk to Mom. Apologize even.”
“I promise that at some point in my life I will once again speak to her.”
“Nava.”
“Ariiiiii.” I squirmed, miserable. “Fine. I promise.” I gave him one more hug for the road, waving until he and Kane had driven off.
Drio and Rohan were in the library. Drio, in sweats, was typing on Rohan’s laptop, while Ro stood in the corner on the phone in board shorts and another faded T-shirt. He waved hello at me.
I set a foil-wrapped plate down in front of Drio.
He pulled up one edge and peeked in. “This is cake.”
“Actually it’s cakes plural, but solid attempt on the identification.” I tossed a fork at him, hitting him square in the chest. “Next time, come to my damn party.”
He glared at me but tore the foil off and dug in, so I figured my point had been ceded.
I sniffed the air. “Wearing Sexy Ruby now, are we?”
He smelled his wrist, his eyes going soft and dreamy for a moment.
I smirked.
“It’s on her sheets. Shut up.” He dug into the cake with ferocity.
Well, well. I refrained from poking the beast further, especially the beast with a fork and über-speed. I filled him in on what Leo had told me about the oshk’s bogeyman status, omitting the part where she’d learned it directly from her goblin father, and letting him think she’d discovered it from the demon clientele she worked with as a part-time Private Investigator. I shuddered to think how the Rasha with the biggest hard-on for killing demons would react when he learned he was sleeping with a half-goblin.
Drio entered the keywords “bogeyman” and “urban legend” into a new search in the Brotherhood’s database but it still didn’t yield any results for the oshk.
Rohan sat down next to me. “That was Zahir.”
“Learn anything useful about Ferdinand?” I said.
“Not exactly. Drio, I need you to go to Palm Springs.”
I didn’t understand Ro’s request, but Drio gave two slow blinks before replying. “You are without scruples.”
Rohan wagged a finger at him. “You’ll make an old lady very happy.”
“Phrasing and huh?” I said.
Drio licked frosting off the fork. “He wants me to visit the widow of the rabbi who ran the Los Angeles chapter.”
Rohan spread his hands wide. “Rabbi Soriano has been gone a couple of years and Golda must be lonely. Besides, she loves Drio. It would be such a mitzvah.”
Drio kicked his chair. “Golda has early stage dementia and I’m not going to harass her. She can barely remember–” He snapped his mouth shut.
“Aha! I knew you still visited her.” He patted Drio’s cheek. “Such a mensch.”
Drio knocked Ro’s hand away, then smacked me with the fork. “Quit gaping. They are pity visits.”
I tossed the fork on the table, wetting my finger and rubbing the front of my purple sundress to clean the smudge of frosting. “Sure, softie.”
I took his growl for the assent that it was, smothering my fond smile at how much the big meanie was going out of his way to help me. Drio’s loyalty to Ro was absolute; having even the tiniest sliver of his support made me more certain that we could pull this off.
“Golda befriended everyone who ever came through the place and Zahir said Ferdinand was based out of there for about a decade, starting in the late 80s,” Rohan said. “Not sure why the Brotherhood doctored his record to show Ferdinand was there this past year, but chances are Golda stayed in touch. She might be able to tell us more about his death.”
“I understand you don’t want to ask the current rabbi in case he’s involved, but why don’t you visit Golda yourself?” I said. “Los Angeles is your home chapter.”
Drio barked his laughter and finished his last bit of cake off with his fingers. “She’s never forgiven him for ruining her Passover dinner one year.” He nudged Rohan. “Go on. Share.”
Rohan stood up abruptly. “Not worth retelling.”
“I beg to differ,” I said.
“Ro got hold of this–umph!”
Rohan grabbed Drio in a headlock, muffling his mouth. I was totally getting that story out of him one day. Still holding Drio by the head, he dragged his friend out of the room, saying they’d be back in a bit because he was going to buy Drio a cash ticket to Palm Springs.
“Make it one way!” I called out.
Mahmud had texted my burner phone to confirm that other than the possible deaths themselves, there was nothing suspicious about the four Rasha who’d died in Askuchar. Nothing on their records had been redacted and no one was hiding anything about their lives or covering anything up. I thanked him and reminded him to stay in touch on this phone only.
I prepared a few things for the drop later this afternoon. The sooner we nailed Candyman, the better.
My Brotherhood-issued phone beeped madly. I’d never heard that particular sound before and was shocked to see that Orwell had sent me a text with no one else on the chain.
There’d been another Sweet Tooth incident. I called Ro. “We’ve got a death.”