A broad shadow appeared over my shoulder and a deep, charismatic voice said, “I’ll drink to that.”
I turned with a smile and was immediately dazzled when he swooped his golden blonde hair to the side.
“Nice shirt,” Tiffany said with a wink.
”What, this old thing?” He pulled the front out to display the worn out Nirvana logo with a wry smile. I couldn’t help stealing a glance at the V of his hips peeking out from the band of his white-washed jeans.
“Dany loves Nirvana.” Becca sipped from her beer, raising a suggestive eyebrow at me after a subtle nod.
“Does she now?”
The mystery man turned those baby blue eyes on me and all I could offer was an embarrassingly hot blush and awkward laugh.
“She’s free tomorrow night if you wanted to talk in length about Kurt Cobain.” Tiffany and Becca sniggered. I glared.
“Is that true, Dany?”
I tipped my beer back and, when only a single drop hit my tongue, I held up the empty bottle and said, “Maybe we can start with a beer, mister…?”
He huffed a laugh, threw out a Prince Charming smile and grabbed the bottle. “Andrew.”
I blinked away the memory of Judd Nelson and cheap beer, clutching my wrist and demanding the tears rimming my eyes go back to the hell from which they came.
The Luscious vanity mirror was a traitor. No amount of moisturizer or eye cream was going to fix the fucking disaster that was my face. Skin wrinkled over my tanned forehead each time I tried to poke it back to life, and the bags under my shit-brown eyes were big enough to be check luggage. The freckles running the bridge of my nose that followed me into the afterlife were more pronounced, and I didn’t know how to feel about it.
“Your hair is looking a little wonky too, homegirl. Just limp dick strands of razored brown everywhere. Good thing you don’t work at Luscious for money,” I grumbled. And it was true. Luscious was a cover for my real job as Lucifer’s pet hellhound.
The mirror betraying me clouded as I sighed, and the edges of it frosted into delicate shards of winter.
Cold pebbled my skin. Almost as if my thought summoned him, Luci’s voice purred in my ear. “Tick-tock, dearest Dany.”
“Get fucked, Lucifer,” I grumbled.
Though he wasn’t there physically, he’d never let me forget that he could be there mentally whenever he pleased. Thank fuck it was less like the NSA listening all the time and more like being on a phone call. He could hear my thoughts in person when he listened in, but he didn’t have constant access whileaway.
Thank Judas himself because I’d be fucked otherwise.
When he called, however, I didn’t have a choice as to whether or not I wanted to answer. There was no amount of time I owned that was sacred. Or private. Not even silent. When the devil owns your soul, he holds the very fabric of your being in an iron grip.
A grip that, sometimes, I think I wouldn’t mind around my throat before he—-
“Nope!” I pushed away from the vanity shaking my head. “Stop it right there, Dany, you stupid harlot. He already owns your soul, don’t let him own your mind and pussy too.” Hand on hips, I looked down at the innocent looking body part clad in cotton dotted with bunnies, gave her a pointed glare, and said, “Stay in your lane. We have a job to do tonight.”
Once a year, on the night I died, the ledger opens for twenty-four hours. I can hunt whomever whenever I like; it only counts when I deliver. The magic number was three, and those three souls bought me one more year topside.
Except every eleven years.
The sharp bite of gravel ghosted along my palms, accompanied by shallow breaths that dizzied my head.
On the eleven year marks, a name appears at the top marked in red. A name that must be crossed out, or my deal with Lucifer was null and void and some fresh hell of his making would be imposed upon my eternity. At least, I assumed. And assuming always felt worse than actually knowing, because if I could think of ways to torture me, I had no doubt they were child’s play to the biblical Devil.
Unlike the other demons I’d met– and there weren’t many. Only the few I met at the mailbox in my building or dragging a dead body around to the garbage–I was the only one who cared about the quality of soul I was delivering. I couldn’t steal a grandfather away from his precious new littles, or look into the dying eyes of a husband knowing I was the reason his wife would never see him again.
Unless, of course, their night mission was fucking unwilling women or living in the general trashcan labeled ‘men.’
What can I say? I’m a romantic.
“Twenty-four hours,” I exhaled while pushing my tits up into position and fluffing my hair. “Do what you need to do, and it’s another year living carefree.”
