The Devil's in the Details

by Kimberly Raye

  I’d brought a dozen everything-but-the-kitchen-sink brownies tonight. Which had been a generous two dozen before three more cousins had stopped by to interrogate me about the upcoming wedding—I’d yet to use my demon dust. I’d been weak and hungry and, well, at least I’d made it here with something.

  “I’ve been riding the good-girl train for two years, four months, and twenty-two days,” I went on. And twelve hours and fourteen minutes, my deprived hormones added silently.

  Sherrie, a real-estate agent and mother of three who’d started the group several years ago, beamed at me and shifted her attention to the man seated to my right—a bald accountant with a pocket calculator and a Snickers bar. She motioned for him to keep the intros moving and he stood up. “My name is Alex. I’m a CPA and I’m a sex addict too.”

  The intros rolled on around the circle, one after the other.

  “My name is Trish LaFleur. I’m the head pastry chef at Belle Venue and I’m a sex addict.”

  “My name is Kevin Martinson. I own Perfectly Fit, a nearby fitness club. I can do five hundred sit-ups, four hundred chin-ups, and two hours straight of cardio without getting winded, and I’m a sex addict.” Kevin had all the muscles to back up his statement and a pair of dimples that made my stomach tremble when he smiled.

  My mouth watered, and I counted down the minutes until I could tackle the dessert table and the last of the brownies. Why, oh, why hadn’t I slipped one into my purse before sitting down?

  “…name is Frank and I’m a sex addict,” said the guy sitting to Kevin’s right. “I also sell car insurance on the side, so if anyone needs a quote just see me after the session.”

  Sherrie frowned, and middle-aged Frank slid back into his seat as if he’d been whacked with a ruler. She shifted her attention to the next person, and the introductions went on for the next few minutes until we reached the last person, the woman sitting just to my left.

  Her blonde highlights had been cut into a stylish bob. She wore a petal-pink tracksuit, white running shoes, and a massive handbag that actually wiggled as she shifted it to the side and stood. “My name is Tammie Mae Hutchinson. I don’t actually work, but I am president of the Kingwood Estates Home Owners Association.” When Sherrie gave her a look that said and?, she added, “Oh, I’m also vice president for the Fairchild Elementary School PTA and secretary for the Kingwood Little League Association.” She started to sit down, but Sherrie cleared her throat. “I’m also an s-e-x addict,” she added before sinking back to her chair.

  “It’s okay.” I smiled. “I was nervous my first time too.”

  “Oh, it’s not my first meeting.” She waved a hand. “I used to belong to the Kingwood chapter, but all of our members graduated, so I’ve merged with this group. I’ve been to fifty-nine meetings including this one. I’m just uncomfortable saying the word out loud.”

  “Religious issues?”

  “Toddlers.”

  “Now that everyone knows everyone,” Sherrie announced, “it’s time to share. Please remember. This is a safe place. No judgments. Just acceptance and understanding. And then refreshments.” Heads bobbed around the group, and she added, “Now would anyone like to tell us about any experiences since our last meeting that might have tested your progress in the program? Any instances where you wanted to slide back down the proverbial ladder? Or perhaps you slid and you’re ready to own up to your mistake so that you can shed the baggage and start climbing again?”

  Frank’s hand slid into the air. “I met this pretty hot waitress over at this diner out in Clear Lake last weekend. I was giving an insurance quote to the owner—I managed to save him fifty percent off what he was currently paying—and she smiled at me. That was all it took for things to go south. I started having thoughts…”

  Frank the insurance guy went on with several descriptive images before Sherrie cut him short, much to everyone’s dismay (hey, it’s the doing that’s off-limits, not the hearing about it).

  “So what did you do about those urges?” she asked. “Did you act on them?”

  “I almost propositioned her, but then I pictured my wife, Julie, and I ordered a slice of apple pie with two scoops of ice cream instead.”

  Go, Frank.

  “I’ve got something even more powerful that doesn’t pack on the pounds,” said the PTA mom next to me. “I’ve been on the wagon for over a year now and it’s all because of my poochies. See, my therapist suggested I try nurturing something instead of feeding my own desires and, what do you know? It worked. The only problem is, Candy and Molly—they’re my babies—turned out to be Candy and Mitch, so now I’ve got puppies.” She hefted the bag, which I then realized was one of those chic dog purses, and opened up the top to reveal a half dozen squirming balls of fluff. “They all need good homes if anyone is interested.”

  “Well, now, what a lovely offer,” Sherrie said. “I think we should break now and give everyone a chance to check out these adorable puppies.”

  The group crowded around Tammie Mae, but yours truly, being the typical dog-fearing demon, headed for the refreshment table.

  I was stuffing another brownie into my mouth and trying to ignore Kevin flexing in my peripheral when Tammie Mae came up behind me.

  “Rough night?”

  “Something like that,” I mumbled around a mouthful.

  “Well, I have just the thing to cheer you right up.” She reached into her massive handbag, which I’d thought was now empty. No such luck. She pulled out a miniature black Yorkie with loads of hair and a black-and-white polka-dot bow on top of its head.

  The canine version of Snooki took one look at me and started yapping frantically.

  “She’s my last one,” Tammie said.

  “I’ll have to pass.”

  “Come on. She’s a cutie, and if I come home with this dog, my husband will shoot me. He says our house is too full as it is, what with the kids and four dogs.”

  “I thought you had two dogs.”

  “I had to keep a few puppies for myself. Anyhow, she’s nine weeks old and guaranteed to keep you so busy you don’t have a second to think about all the nooky you’re giving up.”

  I had no doubt. She was sure to raise such a ruckus on account of my demon vibe that the only thing I would be thinking about was smothering myself with a pillow.

  I shrugged. “I’m not much of a dog person.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. Go on and hold her. She likes you.”

  “She’s growling at me.”

  “She just needs to warm up to you a little.”

  “My building has a no-pets policy, but thanks anyway. Have a brownie.” I shoved a piece into her mouth when it dropped open to argue and beat a hasty retreat to the other side of the room just as Sherrie called the meeting back to order.

  No way was I getting stuck with a dog. Even if it was the last one. And kind of cute.

  And sitting in a cardboard box on my front seat when I walked out of the building and opened the door of my Cube.

  She’ll be the best thing that ever happened to you.

  I read the note sitting on my dash before my head jerked around the parking lot, searching for Tammie. But I’d stayed a few extra minutes to gather up my brownie plate, so the parking lot was all but empty.

  Just yours truly and a yapping Snooki, who eyeballed me as if she fully expected my head to do a three-sixty.

  “You don’t want to go home with me, do you?”

  She growled and barked that much louder.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Which meant I had to call animal control.

  Problem solved, I told myself as I reached into my purse for my phone. I punched in the digits for information. The experts would come and pick her up.

  And possibly send her to a shelter where she would be the smallest and most vulnerable among a cage full of big, starving dogs who would rather eat her than look at her.

  “You have to come home with me,” I heard myself say as I killed the phone a
nd stuffed it back into my purse.

  I fought down a thousand years of instinct that told me this was a bad idea and pushed the box over onto the passenger’s seat.

  Demons and dogs were like water and oil. They just didn’t mix, and to even try would be a major catastrophe. Besides, I had stuff to do. I still had hours’ worth of venue details to work on before tomorrow. Add to that the demon-proofing job that lay ahead of me courtesy of Sassy and her magic powder, and the last thing I had enough time (or nerves) for was a yapping dog.

  But as busy as I was, and as loud as she was, I still couldn’t let her end up a midnight snack for some depraved Doberman. Talk about screwing up my searching-for-true-love mojo.

  It was one night.

  I could figure something else out tomorrow.

  Holding tight to the thought, I slid into the front seat, glared at Snooki until the yapping faded into a low growl, and headed for a nearby twenty-four-hour Walmart for doggie supplies, including a pink ceramic Diva Pooch bowl, a bag of high-protein dog food, a doggie gate, and the cutest rhinestone collar.

  What?

  She was destitute, and I wasn’t equipped to play hostess, even for one night.

  Or two.

  8

  I’d read a news poll once that claimed Monday was the most hated day of the week.

  The big M meant the tragic end of the weekend and the start of another grueling work fest. It marked the slowest and most painful eight hours of the proverbial forty plus. It was also the busiest day for suicide prevention hotlines, depression clinics, and Krispy Kreme bakeries.

  All right, so I’d added that last one based on the forty-five minutes I’d just wasted picking up a dozen glazed, but still.

  Bottom line—Mondays sucked, and no one in their right mind would think otherwise.

  I topped off my second cup of black coffee and stopped whistling the chorus of “We Found Love” (barely audible above the constant yapping coming from the bathroom) long enough to take a drink and snatch up my briefcase. A few seconds later, I skipped downstairs to my office, a smile on my face and Rihanna belting it out in my head.

  After the weekend I’d had—not one, but two visits from my madre, various demons popping in to poke their noses in my business (not to mention the one threatening my existence), and an entire night of high-pitched barking—even the most dreaded workday seemed like a dream come true.

  A chance to throw myself into a great big vat of normal for a few hours and forget the totally abnormal state of my crappy existence.

  That, and I was just this side of punchy after only forty-seven minutes of sleep. While Sassy’s powder had done the trick last night and I hadn’t entertained any unexpected visitors, I hadn’t known it would work. I’d found myself wide-awake most of the night (thank you, Snooki), either surfing the Internet for possible venues for my ma or scarfing cookies and staring in abstract paranoia at the windows and doors. The little bit of shut-eye I did manage had been riddled with superhot fantasies starring a certain demon hunter with amazing eyes and buns of steel.

  And a really big sword, I reminded myself, determined to keep my head and not let my hormones go gaga. Big, effing sword. And I wasn’t talking metaphor, though I’d be willing to bet his other, ahem, sword was pretty impressive as well.

  Solid silver. Sharp. Deadly.

  It wasn’t the Legion members themselves who were so deadly to a demon. It was the weapons they used. Magical weapons blessed by the head honcho, Gabriel, himself.

  One swift stab and—poof!—g’bye, demon.

  I tried to conjure several images of such a weapon pressed to my throat, but the only thing I could see was Cutter’s face and those green eyes and, well, have I mentioned that it’s been two long years since I’ve had sex with anyone other than a vibrator named Big Buck?

  I pushed open the door to Happily Ever After Events and walked into the modest but tastefully decorated interior. The living room served as the lobby, complete with framed issues of Southern Bride magazine lining the walls, two plush white sofas, and a glass coffee table stacked with more wedding mags, along with an eight-by-ten digital photo frame that flashed images of my work.

  The main room opened into another area set up with three small tables depicting the latest in tablescape and centerpiece trends. A small hallway led to another room that served as a work hub with two desks, a large bookcase, a ginormous filing cabinet, a small round table covered with invitation books, and an anxious Burke Carmichael.

  He looked as hot as ever in fitted jeans, a distressed black T-shirt that fit his P90X bod like a glove, and an expression that said It’s about freakin’ time.

  “I’ve got good news and not-so-good news.” He pushed up from his desk and handed me a stack of phone messages. “Pick your poison.”

  I set the box of doughnuts on a nearby desk and glanced through the slips of paper. Cousin Laura. Cousin Bernice. Cousin Hester. Cousin Mary. Cousin Susanna. Cousin Millicent. Cousin Andromeda. The list went on and on.

  With each name my stomach churned and the cryptic threat on my bathroom mirror flashed in my head. It could be any of them.

  All of them.

  Maybe I didn’t have to worry about just one bad guy. Maybe there was a bona fide conspiracy to kill the wedding planner and put a crimp in my mother’s plans to rule the Underworld.

  I clamped my fingers around the slips of paper, stuffed them into my pocket, and forced myself to relax. Conspiracy or not, it didn’t matter. It didn’t change my game plan. It was all about keeping my focus, watching my back, and planning the wedding of my career.

  Tamping down on the niggling doubt that told me it wasn’t going to be that easy, I tried to focus on the all-important fact that, as of this moment, I was alive and breathing and neck-deep in wedding nirvana. “I like to start the day off on a positive note,” I said to Burke. “Hit me with the good stuff first.”

  “You’ve got two new brides coming in later today. High profile. Three hundred plus guests for each. Impressive budgets.”

  Okay, so maybe my immortal life didn’t suck quite that much. I perked up and the smile turned genuine. “That’s awesome.”

  “Don’t get too excited. You’ll have to take the plunge into the depths of misery first. She’s here”—his voice dropped into the hushed register reserved for the biggest bridezilla in the Bayou City—“and she’s kicking ass and taking names. She even made Andrew cry.”

  As if on cue, a sobbing Andrew appeared in the doorway that led to the adjoining kitchen. “I offered her the usual latte and/or espresso,” he said in between sniffles, “and she told me to take a flying leap.” Andrew, waving his gay-pride banner in a pink polo shirt, white linen shorts, and boat shoes, bit back another sob and cut a path straight to the doughnut box.

  “Don’t do it,” Burke warned as his brother flipped open the lid and grabbed with both hands. “No woman is worth ruining a six-pack and some serious guns, bro.” He flexed for emphasis.

  “I don’t care.” Andrew devoured half a glazed from one hand, another doughnut poised and ready in hand number two. “I’m upset.” He gulped. “And I need a pick-me-up.”

  I knew the feeling.

  I debated wrestling the box out of his hands, but I suspected he needed the sugar more than I did. Besides, I’d already had two, and I was armed and ready with the usual roll of Life Savers tucked into my pocket.

  “I’ll talk with her, and whatever it is, we’ll work it out.”

  “This is Delaney,” Burke reminded me. “Houston Elite magazine’s Most Likely to Pitch a Fit and Pop an Aneurysm in Public.”

  “I thought she was voted Wealthiest Oil Brat.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Where is she?”

  He pointed to the closed door that led to the one and only bedroom, aka my private office. “I didn’t want to get any blood on the lobby couches. Especially since we’re still paying for them.”

  “Your faith in my negotiating skills is overwhelming.
” I popped a cherry-flavored Life Savers into my mouth and fought down the sudden urge to turn and run the other way. I wanted normal, and nothing could be more matter-of-fact than yet another catastrophe à la Delaney Farris.

  Delaney had hired me three years ago to plan a huge, extravagant affair befitting the daughter of one of Houston’s top oilmen. But three changes of venue, four different bands, and six wedding dresses later, she still hadn’t managed to get everything perfect enough to walk down the aisle.

  We were in the home stretch, however. The big day (rescheduled a record five times) was only three weeks away, which meant that whatever problem had brought her to my office before eight a.m. on a Monday morning had to be taken care of.

  And fast.

  Grabbing the doorknob, I pasted on a huge smile and walked into the room to find the tall, leggy blonde seated on a small settee, the latest issue of Houston Brides open on her lap.

  She wore a white poet’s blouse and a pair of Seven for All Mankind jeans stuffed into brown leather boots with three inch-heals. A six-carat emerald-cut diamond ring lined with side baguettes caught the morning sunlight streaming through the windows and temporarily blinded me.

  I blinked and held up a hand as I made my way to my desk. “How’s my favorite bride doing this morning?”

  “Terrible,” she declared, waving her hand and sending a shower of prismatic light across the soft pink walls. “We need bridesmaids’ dresses.”

  “We already have dresses.” I sank down into my chair and set my purse in the bottom drawer. “I was at the final fittings myself on Friday.”

  “The color is all wrong.” She shook her head. “They’re orchid and I distinctly requested grape.” She held up a sales slip from a local bridal salon. “See? It says right here. Orchid. I was so freaked when I saw them yesterday that I couldn’t even sleep last night. I had to take a Valium just to calm myself down.”

  Easy. Calm. Breathe.