Kiss & Hell

by Cassidy, Dakota

  Whirling around, Delaney poked a finger at his shoulder. “Are you fucking nuts? You can’t do stuff like that, Clyde—not in public. What if you get caught?”

  Clyde pulled his foot up to knee level, rubbing the toe he’d apparently stubbed. “By a bunch of teenagers? Who’d believe them, anyway?”

  “No, what if someone else saw that, like the bus driver? It’s bad enough you’re in a pink bathrobe, barefoot, wandering around New York like some homeless-shelter reject, but shooting fireballs from your fingers just might be the noose for your thick neck. You don’t need to draw any more attention to yourself—so knock it the hell off and quit showing off your demonic prowess.” She pivoted on her heel, marching toward the deli where she picked up her and Kellen’s lunch every Sunday.

  Clyde’s footsteps slapped against the pavement as he followed behind with big, klunky feet. At the deli’s door, she faced him, caring little that people milled about the sidewalk, casting confused glances their way. “Now, I’m going in to grab a fried tofu and watercress salad. You want one, too?”

  He made a face at her, clearly not at all bothered by the fact that people were eyeing him like he was a sociopath loose on a day pass from the funny farm with his nurse. “A fried tofu salad? I can’t think of anything less appealing. But if you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate a pastrami on rye, extra brown mustard. I only like the brown mustard.”

  “All that fat and protein will clog up your arteries, Clyde Atwell.”

  His expression was deadpan. “I have no arteries, Delaney Markham.”

  Oh. Yeah. Dead. “Fine. Eat dead animal. Now, here’s the score. Don’t move from this spot,” she ordered, pointing to the cracked, lumpy pavement. “In fact, stand over there by the side of the building and hold on tight so the next time I turn around you’re not up my ass. Feel me? We don’t need the Sunday lunch crowd mocking and pointing.”

  But Clyde wasn’t looking at her, his eyes, sharp and clear behind his glasses, were focused on the interior of the deli.

  “Yooo-hooo, demon light? Pay attention.” When he didn’t stop gawking, Delaney turned to see what he was so enraptured with. The fingerprint-smudged glass gave her a direct view to the deli counter, where a long line had formed. “Clyde? What’s wrong?”

  He pointed a finger at the glass, right between the O and the L in O’Leary’s. “Tia.”

  “Who-a?”

  “Tia.”

  “And Tia is . . . ?”

  “My girlfriend.”

  nine

  Enter Tia.

  The ridiculously, sickly hawt Tia. Just what they freakin’ needed to make this day perfection. “Where?” she asked dumbly, hoping against hope it wasn’t the hot broad with the bod of steel.

  “Right there.” He pointed over her head.

  Her stomach sank in defeat. “Who is she again?”

  “She’s my girlfriend, er, ex-girlfriend, er, whatever she is to me now that I’m dead.”

  Right. He’d mentioned a Tia in one of their conversations. Delaney turned fully, gazing into the packed deli. “Which one?”

  “There. The one with the short, platinum blonde hair, the clingy, light blue dress, and white heels.”

  The one with the ass so pert and tight you could crack hard-shelled nuts on it by dropping them from above her prone body? Well, of course she was Tia.

  Tia, Tia, Tia.

  Neener, neener, neener.

  Whooooah, sistah.

  Where’d that come from?

  Delaney looked up at him, setting aside her sudden stab of jealousy. “She’s damned fine, Clyde. Überhot.” Good on you. Clyde’d hit it big with Tia. She was Hawaiian Tropic model hot. Long lean legs, toned calves, a belly so flat it was almost concave, wide blue eyes, and pouty lips. Definitely fantastical. But then, so was Clyde, in his own college professor way. The only person who didn’t seem to know that was Clyde. He’d made mention several times of his lack of finesse with the ladies—which made her wonder why someone like Tia had hooked up with him, and if he’d looked like he did now before his death. She definitely didn’t look like she’d spent more time in a classroom than she had being spray tanned in some pricey salon.

  Ooooh, Delaney—judgmental much? Looks were sometimes deceiving, and maybe Tia had an IQ to rival a Mensa member.

  Maybe. Or maybe it was only her bowling scores that could rival a genius IQ.

  Me-ow.

  “Yeaaaah,” Clyde agreed on a sigh that, to her ears, sounded wistful and faraway, thus jabbing the tip of the jealousy stick right in her left eyeball.

  “Okay, so established. Tia’s sickly hot,” she acknowledged.

  Good gravy. So Tia was spectacular on the eye. There were lots of women in the world who could hold that title. Marcella was one of them, and Delaney wasn’t jealous of her at all. Well, okay, so she did feel some envy when Marcella wore all those tight jeans. But that was it. Really . . .

  What Tia looked like shouldn’t make a difference to her. What should was grilling the shit out of her bleached blondeness until she got some answers about Clyde and his life and now death. “Hey, stud muffin, want some advice? You’d better hit the bricks. I think she’d shit the aerobics instructor she got that rockin’ ass from if she saw you. You’re dead, remember? For three months now. If that won’t freak her out, she’s got bigger balls than most, but I get the feeling that’s not the case.”

  Her words snapped him back to attention. “Damn. You’re right.” He instantly ducked down, hanging his dark head to his chest to push his way through the crowd, then latched onto the side of the brick building.

  Delaney followed right behind. Tia might be the key to what had happened to Clyde the day he died. Maybe they shouldn’t let this chance meeting pass them by. “Do you think Tia knows what happened the day you died, Clyde? Maybe I could talk to her.”

  His face went blank in thought. “Couldn’t say for sure. I imagine she got the gory details from the coroners. I’m sure there had to have been at least an investigation into my death because the chemicals I was working with were my demise, but she wasn’t there, if that’s what you mean. I sent her home hours before it happened. I’m grateful for at least that much. And even if she did, what would you say to her anyway, Delaney? Hey, I talk to dead people—got a minute for your iced squeeze Clyde?”

  Yeah, early on, when this thing had been thrust upon her, she’d innocently enough believed she could approach people and just tell them what their loved one wanted to share from the great beyond. But she kept running into roadblocks like, “You’re nuttier than squirrel shit, hack,” and her all-time favorite, “freak,” no matter how much proof she had that she really could talk to ghosts.

  She’d learned a few hard lessons that way. That no matter how dead-on you were, no matter how secretive the information was that you shared with a grieving relative, the skeptical, the fearful, just weren’t going to buy it. She only shared with those who were open to the possibility of the other side, and those who weren’t, she tread ever so lightly with.

  So he had a point. Which brought up another point. “You know, I did a Google search on your name the other day and found next to nothing. I searched obituaries for the last three months all over the country for a dead Clyde Atwell and came up dry—why is that?” There was no keeping the suspicion out of her question. “It’s like you said, wouldn’t there be a coroner’s report? Unless they haven’t released your body because the circumstances surrounding your death were suspicious . . .”

  “I have no answers for you. I’ve already told you what I know—what I remember. I screwed up. It was late, I was tired, and what I was working on exploded. I only remember seeing the flames and hearing the explosion for a split second—after that, I was in Hell.”

  She ran her tongue over her lips. “What chemicals did you mix and is it likely that whatever you mixed and blew yourself to smithereens with was so stupid the police might find it suspicious that a smart guy like you would do something like that?”<
br />
  Clyde became clearly chagrined. “I cut myself on some metal, so I cleaned the wound with some H2O2, more commonly known as hydrogen peroxide. But it wasn’t the kind you buy over the counter. It was highly concentrated—sort of like the kind hairdressers use to bleach hair. Like an ass, because I was, as usual, absorbed in my work, and me, me, me, as Tia used to say, I was trying to dilute it when I knocked the entire bottle over. It collided with some sulfuric acid I was using to clean metal, fell into the Bunsen burner I could have sworn I’d turned off, and exploded. And yes, I can see the police finding it pretty ironic that someone like me with a degree and a rather above-average IQ would do something so goddamned dumb. So sure, they could find it suspicious that I mixed those two chemicals together, because it was damned careless, but I don’t think they’d get very far.”

  “Why’s that?”

  His impatience became crystal clear in not just his face, but the agitated tension in his stance. “I’ve said this a thousand times, Delaney. What I was researching was absolutely harmless. I wasn’t on to the next cure for cancer, or even the common cold. I was researching a new hypoallergenic coating for jewelry—pretty innocuous. I don’t have a lot of money—or didn’t. I made a decent living, but not sizable enough to kill me over. I have some stocks and bonds, but nothing substantial. No valuable property or jewelry. No inheritance. So if the coroner is holding my body for investigation, there won’t be much to find and certainly nothing suspicious.”

  If that was true, Clyde was a strange, strange bird, and she said as much. “You’re a strange bird, Clyde. I don’t get it. I don’t get how you ended up in Hell, but the more you show up in your pink bathrobe in places like the bus and my shower, the more I want to figure out why you did. And don’t think I’m going to take everything you say at face value. We’re going to start picking apart your life like meat off a chicken carcass.”

  “Could I have clothes before we do? This whole half-naked and exposed thing has become a lot. Not to mention, my feet are freezing,” he said on a grin, the serious, staid attitude replaced by a boyish smile.

  “You wait here. I’ll go get lunch, and then we’ll get those clothes. Do. Not. Move.”

  “Roger that.”

  “No matter how tempting it might be to approach Miss Hawaiian Tropic,” she warned before heading back to the front of the deli.

  Just as Delaney reached for the door, Tia skipped out on her heeled feet, clinging to a man’s arm.

  A damned good-looking one. All sleek and wearing a designer suit she was sure was a big-name label.

  Hoo boy. Poor Clyde.

  As Delaney slid past the couple, she gave a quick peek over her shoulder, hoping Clyde wouldn’t see the pair when they sauntered out of O’Leary’s. The look on his face when he’d seen Tia had been a little too lovesick for Delaney. It had almost made her heart clench. She could only hope, when she had more time to examine it, that clench had everything to do with her sentimentality for love lost and nothing to do with the color green.

  Twenty minutes later, lunch in hand, she breathed a sigh of relief. They’d managed to be apart for twenty whole minutes without him attaching his big self to her.

  And that’s when she began to panic.

  Christ, if he’d disappeared without warning, she’d kick his ass for all the trouble he’d been. Her stride was quick, her heart hammering while she threaded her way through the Sunday lunch crowd, pushing her way to the door.

  Flying out the deli door, Delaney made a direct left and went straight for the corner she’d left him in.

  Lo and behold.

  No Clyde.

  The spot she’d left him in was empty. Her heart began to pump irregularly; her legs became the equivalent of lead poles. If the motherfucker’d jacked her up, and she found his brainiac ass, she’d dump a whole case of Morton on his head.

  Goddamn it, goddamn it, goddamn it.

  Shoving the bag from the deli under her arm, she stomped down the street toward her brother’s, where a crowd had begun to form in front of the 7-Eleven.

  And whose head stood out in that crowd?

  Delaney gritted her teeth and made a beeline for Clyde, who stood front and center, staring at something inside the store. Had Tia’d gone into the 7-Eleven with Mr. Fine, and Clyde was preparing to throw down in a fit of jealous rage?

  She discarded that thought. Clyde just didn’t seem like he got het up over a whole lot—even if his girlfriend was prancing about with a good-looking guy. Delaney grabbed his upper arm and hissed, “What are you doing? Either I can’t get rid of you or you’re off attracting a crowd like you’re the new orca whale at Sea World. Did I tell you to stay put?”

  “I forgot the 7-Eleven was here.”

  It struck her at that moment—she had no idea where Clyde came from. She was so slacking when it came to her medium duties these days. “You’ve been here before?”

  “Once or twice,” he replied, the fog he was in refusing to lift.

  Delaney tweaked his arm. “Hello in there. Just a reminder. You’re a fully grown man in a pink bathrobe out in broad daylight. All you need is a shopping cart full of soda cans to complete your crazy portrait.”

  He looked down at her, the glazed-over look in his eyes clearing. “They have Slurpees . . . 7-Eleven has Slurpees. I love Slurpees.”

  “Do you think you might love the nuthouse?”

  “What?”

  “The nuthouse. Because if you keep wandering off in your bathrobe and bare feet, I can almost guarantee you, they’re going to drag you off to the place called crazy. Now come on. I’m late as it is.” She grabbed his hand, dragging him close to her side so he couldn’t escape while everyone they passed stared at them. “Move, people! Crazy guy in a bathrobe here,” she said to them by way of explanation. “Totally harmless unless he misses his meds. Then shit gets ugly. We only have about ten minutes before everything goes south. So excuse us, because when he realizes he has the color pink on, I make no promises he won’t react. Violently,” she added with a shiver of horror for the gawkers, giving them all a furtive glance.

  The ten or twelve people who’d gathered around Clyde parted, allowing her to drag a reluctant, heavy-footed Clyde behind her. “Do you think on the way back to your place we could get a Slurpee? I haven’t had one in a while. They used to be my mainstay. I hope they have banana. I love banana Slurpees. Helped me get through many a long night while I studied. But I’d settle for a Full Throttle Frozen Blue Demon.”

  “Throttle and demon. How ironic those words being in the same phrase,” she commented.

  “So would you mind?”

  “Mind what?”

  “If we stopped on the way back so I can get a banana Slurpee.”

  The mention of banana Slurpees made her stop almost cold. The memory of why something as ridiculous as a banana Slurpee was relevant slipped away like a cube of melting ice in her grasp. She shook off the faint recollection and plodded ahead. “I can’t think of anything worse for your innards than a Slurpee. The sugar alone is enough to leave you snockered.”

  “I think I’m beyond worrying about my cholesterol levels and blood pressure and pretty much anything that has to do with my health. Again, I remind you, I’m dead. If I drank a hundred Slurpees consecutively, I wouldn’t stop ticking because I no longer tick. And don’t you ever live a little? Like have a cheeseburger or some greasy fries? Or do you always eat food fit only for gerbils and goats?”

  “I try to maintain a nontoxic existence. I’ve gone green, I avoid preservatives, additives, dairy, and most bread, and I believe for every bottle of aspirin out there, there’s a form of meditation or a root extract that’d be just as helpful.”

  His chuckle was deep. “Are you one of those people who hums while you’re in downward dog position in search of your happy place?”

  She made a face at him, giving him a jab in his ribs. “It’s downward facing dog. Don’t make it sound so crazy. I’m not the fruitcake in this deal, bathrobe
man. Yoga’s good for you. It not only increases your flexibility, but releases energy blocks, and with the lot of you bunch running around, always jumping into the middle of my life, I could use less in the way of energy blocks. Christ knows I need more energy to keep up with all these ghosts. You’d be surprised how calming yoga can be.”

  “Doesn’t change the fact that I’d like a banana Slurpee on the way home.”

  “We’ll see. Right now, I’m almost forty-five minutes late with lunch. Now step on the gas.” She let go of his arm and hurried up the steps of her brother’s apartment building, punching the buzzer for his apartment.

  “Christ, D. Where you been?” Kellen barked out of the intercom. “I only called you five times. That’s what the cell phone is for—so I can call you. Then you answer. It’s called keeping in touch.”

  She cast a gaze of admonishment in Clyde’s direction when Kellen hit the buzzer, opening the door. They climbed the stairs together in silence. It was just now occurring to her that she was going to have to explain Clyde to her brother. As they stood at Kellen’s door, she looked up at him. “Just let me do the talking. Don’t say a single word or I’ll superglue your lips together.”

  Clyde leaned his bulk against the black enamel door frame, tightening the robe around his waist until it almost met. “So this is the Kellen whose name I heard in Hell. Your brother, right?”

  “The one and only, and though he knows about the dead people thing, and he knows about you, too—he’s not much of a demon lover.”

  “Really, Delaney, who is?”

  “It’s not something you’d understand. Believe me when I tell you, if you thought I was a hard sell, with Kellen it’ll be like trying to sell rhythm to J-Lo. Now seeing as you’re in the habit of jamming feet in your mouth on a regular basis, and you have all the sensitivity of an earthworm—just be quiet. Okay?”

  The lone bulb hanging above his head highlighted the sharp planes of his face while the wheels of his fact-loving mind visibly turned. “Interesting fact, earthworms are hermaphrodites. They can have relations with either male or female worms and still reproduce. I’m unsure whether they have emotions, though.”