Smitten With Death

by Sharon Saracino

  Shaking my head, I dug in my purse for my credit card and then stood by patiently while Lucky Larry rang up my purchases. He hit the final key and I wondered if that jacket really did come with its own motorcycle. Perhaps I should have checked the price tags. The grand total exceeded what I earned in a month working at my dad’s hardware store. The room began to swim, and I swayed on my feet. Denise simply plucked the plastic from my numb fingers and handed it over.

  “Sign here.” She pushed the receipt in front of me, sighed, and wrapped her fingers around mine, pushing the pen along the line until the dirty deed was done. Then she shoved the bags into my arms, picked up her own, and grabbed my sleeve, marching me out of the mall to her car.

  “Feel better?” Denise asked once we’d loaded our purchases into her sparkling blue BMW X5 luxury SUV and buckled ourselves into our heated seats with lumbar support.

  “I just dropped a month’s salary because a pair of pants made my ass look great. Of course, I don’t feel better!” I snapped.

  “You can easily afford it, Max.”

  “No, I can’t. My paycheck doesn’t stretch…”

  “Roger is gone, Max.”

  “Well, duh. No shit, Sherlock. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “You’ve been scrimping by on what you make for the last year, exactly the way you did before he died. You refuse to touch the damn money.”

  “I certainly do not.” I lifted my nose in the air with a sniff of superiority. “I take money out every month.”

  “How much?” Denise demanded.

  “What?”

  “How much? How much do you take out every month?”

  “Twelve hundred dollars,” I announced haughtily. I didn’t even understand why we were having this conversation. Denise and Brad had more money than God. Why was she suddenly so concerned about my financial affairs?

  “Okay, so let’s see.” She tapped a petal pink nail on the steering wheel as though she was deep in thought. “Twelve hundred dollars a month is probably less than the interest the account generates but coincidentally, it’s the exact amount you received in alimony. So every month, a check arrives in the mail from Roger’s bank in the exact amount of your alimony, just as it did every month when Roger was still alive.”

  “Shut up, Denise.” I didn’t like where this conversation was going. Every time my sister assumed that particular tone of voice and began to point out things that should have been obvious to me, and weren’t, she usually ended up being right.

  Need I tell you how annoying that can be?

  “You’ve created a bubble of make-believe where you can pretend nothing’s changed. You can’t bring yourself to access a penny over your regular alimony from that account because you feel guilty using it. It would be akin to acknowledging his absence wasn’t temporary.”

  Had I been living in a bubble? Well, if I was, obviously it was working for me. So, big deal. I have a bubble. I like it in my bubble. It’s my freakin’ bubble.

  “Why couldn’t you just leave my bubble alone?” All I’d wanted was a pair of leather pants that made my ass look great. What I’d gotten was an enormous balance on my credit card and an unasked for intervention from my sister, the Psychology Queen. Well, and I actually had gotten leather pants that made my ass look great.

  “Because I love you. I know you don’t do change, Max. Hell, everyone on the planet knows it, but you deserve better than half a life. I just want you to take a chance, embrace life, be happy.” Denise reached across the console and tentatively laid a hand on my thigh. After debating for a minute whether or not to simply cold-cock her, I gripped her fingers and squeezed. There’s no map for navigating the pothole-rutted road of loss—no street signs, no compass, no helpful stranger standing on the corner to point you in the right direction. Ultimately, you drive through the dark alone, gripping the wheel with nothing except guts and fear, until one day you blink and realize you’ve arrived at the intersection of I-Will-Never-Forget-You Street and Life-Goes-On Avenue. Now it was time to take a hard right and proceed onto Taking-the-Next-Step Boulevard.

  I wonder if they sell a GPS for that?

  “I know he’s gone, Denise. I was there. Remember? But while change and I have never been friends, I voluntarily kissed Morgan Kane, didn’t I?”

  “I thought that was strictly for my benefit?”

  “Well, yeah…it was. The first time, anyway,” I mumbled.

  “The first time?” Denise squealed. “And it didn’t make you feel guilty?”

  “Of course it made me feel guilty.”

  “I knew it,” she sighed. “You felt like you were being disloyal to Roger, right?”

  “Um, not exactly.” I hesitated. “Actually, I felt guilty that I didn’t feel very guilty. Do you think that’s normal?”

  “Really? That’s great.” Denise clapped her hands like a small child.

  “So I’m normal?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. But your reaction? Definitely normal. You, my dear sister, are ready to move on.”

  “Yeah, I guess maybe I am.” I took a deep breath and blew it out. Then I offered my sister a smile. “But, promise me there will be no more plaid polyester. Anyway, you were right about one thing. It was comfortable there in my bubble. At least it was until you went and stuck your pointy nose in my bubble and popped it. You seriously are a pain in the ass, sometimes.”

  “I’m sorry,” Denise sniffed. “It’s just that if you have trouble seeing the forest for the trees, I figure it’s my job to slam your head into a trunk now and then to wake you up if the occasion warrants. That’s what sisters do.”

  “You do know how much I hate it when you’re right, don’t you?”

  “It’s hard to forget since you’re always so happy to remind me.”

  “Hand over your phone.”

  “My phone? Why?”

  “Because I left mine on the table at Dad’s and I need to access my bank account. I’m going to increase my monthly allowance to fourteen hundred,” I suddenly decided.

  “Woo-hoo, a whole two hundred bucks. Don’t spend it all in one place,” Denise snarked as she dug in her purse before handing over the state-of-the-art device. Denise had an app for just about everything on the damn planet. She could remotely turn her house lights off and on, adjust the thermostats, lock the doors, and set the alarms at the touch of a button. The only thing she couldn’t do via phone was the laundry. If they ever come out with an app for that, I am all over it. Seriously.

  “Spendthrift is not my style. It’s not the amount that’s important anyway, it’s the symbolism, right?”

  “I guess so,” she agreed, inserting the key in the ignition and cranking over the motor. “And just for the record? You don’t have to prove anything to me, so I hope you aren’t just sitting there playing with apps to make me shut up.”

  “I’m not doing it to prove anything to you. Maybe I need to prove something to me.”

  I bit my lip and punched at the screen, feeling a burden lift that I hadn’t even realized was weighing me down. Honestly, one would think I’d know myself better by now. Let’s be clear, my insight is occasionally flawed. But this is the way it’s supposed to be, right? I mean, I am a self-proclaimed expert on Kubler-Ross, after all. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Kubler-Ross said the order of the stages may differ by individual, and not every person may experience every stage. I’d kind of skipped over denial and bargaining. I mean, I was there and everything seemed pretty black and white, so both seemed rather pointless. Anger and depression? Uh, check. But, I’d done it. I’d reached acceptance. So now what? Now I was going to cherish the past, be slightly less frugal, wear leather pants that made my ass look great, and acknowledge I was possibly, maybe, sort of attracted to the Grim Reaper.

  “There.” I handed the phone back to Denise. “And for the record? Let’s face it, Denise. There isn’t an app on the planet that’s capable of shutting you up.”

  Chap
ter 10

  “Holy Hell’s Angels,” my father exclaimed when I’d donned my newly tailored ass-enhancing leather pants along with the T-shirt, boots, and jacket Denise had chosen and wandered into his kitchen to await the arrival of the Grim Reaper. Not exactly the reaction I was going for, but I suppose it would have been kind of creepy if Dad had remarked instead on my shapely butt. My mother’s fugly necklace, a heavy and ornate baroque-styled pendant with a huge cabochon in the center ringed by smaller facet-cut stones was currently zipped securely in the inside pocket of my jacket, easily accessible but unable to spoil the perfection of my nifty new ensemble. Aside from the sentimental value, it could hardly be considered a fashionable accessory and was really a hot mess dangling from a thick, twisted chain. The pendant also served as my portal passkey to the other side and perhaps more importantly, my ticket home, so as much as I loathed its appearance, it was kind of a keeper. My remaining pockets were stuffed with healthy snacks as my previous excursion into the afterlife had proven it was better to be prepared than run the risk of being left with no alternative except the consumption of questionably monochromatic food products, assuming there were any to be found. I do not do my best work on an empty stomach.

  “Too much?” I bit my lip and glanced down worriedly at my kick-ass afterlife attire. I knew it looked good. On the other hand, it was also three hundred and sixty degrees away from what I normally wore, and I wouldn’t want the unexpected shock to cause anyone permanent damage. “Maybe I should stick with my jeans and tennis shoes and add a shiny cape and a nice tiara?”

  “Uh, no…no. You just look…different, that’s all,” my father replied. “You have a tiara?”

  “Life is all about change, Daddy,” I pronounced as though I was the first person on Earth who’d ever come to that profound conclusion.

  My Dad’s bushy salt and pepper eyebrows tangled together over the bridge of his nose. “Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter?”

  “It’s Denise’s fault,” I assured him.

  “Oh, well, that makes sense.” He grimaced.

  “You look very nice, dear,” Stepmother Gail added with a decisive nod. “That blue really makes your eyes pop.”

  Judging by the expression currently sported by my father, the Hardware King, something was making his eyes pop, too. Since his eyes were brown, I didn’t think it was the color of my shirt.

  “You look freakin’ hot!” Denise cried happily, clapping her hands together in glee, momentarily forgetting the impressionable young ears of my lovely twin nieces, Mick and Vick, were perked up like rabid elves as they devoted their undivided attention to the entire exchange. Suddenly cognizant of their identical blonde curiosity, she hurried to add. “I mean, the weather is so unpredictable in March. I hope you won’t be too warm in that jacket.”

  “Maybe I should just run home and put my jeans back on,” I decided, suddenly not quite as comfortable with the whole life-is-about-change thing as I’d been a few minutes ago. I mean, what if the Grim Reaper took my sudden interest in suburban biker chic as an indication I was trying to impress him or something? Because, I mean, I totally wasn’t. I had chosen this ensemble from a purely practical perspective.

  The pants practically, you know, made my butt look awesome.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Denise cried, jumping from her chair and flinging herself between me and the door. “You just plant your cowhide covered butt in a chair until Morgan gets here.”

  “Morgan,” shouted Vick.

  “Morgan!” echoed Mick.

  And before I could make an escape, as though conjured from the mists of time by the fervent shrieks of three natural blondes in rapid succession, there was a crunch of gravel, the slamming of a door, and Morgan Kane in all his Grim Reaper-ish glory filled the doorway. His massive form blocked the light, yet somehow he exuded a particularly attractive light of his own.

  “Wow! You do know you’re a Retriever and not a vampire, right? How many head of cattle you figure made the ultimate sacrifice for that outfit?” Kane arched a brow in my direction, crossed his arms over his massive flannel-covered chest, and looked me up and down slowly. Very slowly.

  “Why, thank you, Kane. You look very nice, too.” I sniffed. Killjoy. I wasn’t the least bit disappointed the first words out of his mouth weren’t Hell, Logan, you look positively ass-tastick in those pants. Really. On the other hand, my vulnerable pre-pubescent nieces were avidly observing our exchange, so perhaps he planned to share that particular observation with me later.

  Yeah, I was going with that.

  “Besides, there’s no such thing as vampires.”

  He raised one perfectly arched brow—his absolute perfection was starting to get on my last nerve—letting me know perhaps my supposition that vampires were creatures relegated solely to Hollywood horror flicks and libido-stimulating novels was an erroneous one.

  Well, isn’t that special?

  “Well, you’re apparently ready for anything including the potential threat of road rash, so let’s get going, shall we?”

  “You know Kane, anyone who wears fur as often as you do should definitely not be making fun of my leather.” I mean, the man spent half of his time as a big, black, wolf-like Hellhound. Who was he to ridicule my awesome, figure enhancing, supernatural, superhero gear?

  “Touché. Ready, Princess Sassy Pants?” The corners of his lips twitched, and my train of thought jumped the track and passed right by the station.

  Hey, it happens. And obviously, he’d noticed the pants and thus, by extension, my ass.

  “I suppose.” I sighed dramatically, turning my back to the Grim Reaper. Facing my family, I casually knocked one of Vick’s pink plastic ponies from the edge of the table. “Oops! My bad.”

  Carefully bending from the waist to retrieve it from the floor in one well-orchestrated snatch and grab, I presented Morgan Kane with a complete and unobstructed view of my cowhide enhanced derriere. Plopping the pony in front of my niece and ruffling her blonde hair affectionately, I darted a glance at Kane from the corner of my eye to gauge his reaction. He recovered his composure almost immediately, but I knew that look, and his train of thought took an unexpected side trip for a minute, too. Denise, who of course had perfected the very move I’d just made by her junior year in high school, quickly lifted her coffee cup to her lips to hide her grin.

  My father clasped and unclasped his hands, cleared his throat, and lowered his shaggy brows.

  “Explain to me again why Maxine should risk anything for this little shit. He got himself into this mess, and he managed to kill my daughter and negate the binding of her supernatural superpowers along the way.”

  Morgan Kane sucked in a deep breath that whistled through his perfectly white teeth, glanced in my direction, and blew it back out again before answering.

  “You know how this works. You also know supernatural screw-ups are few and far between and Max won’t be called upon all that often. I’d get him out myself if I could, but you know my powers only offer a one way ticket. That being said, I can tag along and do my best to mitigate any danger while Max retrieves the little shit in question. C’mon, he’s just a kid, Dan.”

  “Do you really have superpowers, Aunt Max?” The wide blue eyes of Mick fixed upon me with a gaze of reverent awe. Her identical golden sister Vick wore a similarly impressed expression.

  “Um…” Though I knew it was concern prompting his question, I frowned at my father for his indiscretion in mentioning the S-word in front of the girls.

  “Why, sure she does, honey,” Denise interjected with a smirk. “Aunt Max can eat six donuts in a single sitting and wash them down with a gallon of coffee.”

  “Oh, that,” scoffed Vick as their two cherubic faces fell. “Well, that’s nothing special.”

  “Yeah, well can you do it?” I retorted peevishly while pushing out my lower lip in a pout.

  Hey, some of us have limited talents and have to guard them rabidly from potential usurpers
.

  With a toss of her golden curls, Vick gathered up her toys and stomped off to the den closely followed by her partner in crime. As soon as they were out of earshot, my father turned to me with his brow puckered in worried creases.

  “I still don’t like this,” he muttered. I stretched up on my toes and planted a kiss on his cheek.

  “I’ll be fine, Daddy. Morgan said so, right, Morgan?”

  Kane’s grunt might have been one of assent, but frankly, I had the distinct impression it was simply a noncommittal acknowledgment of my question designed to reassure my parental unit. While it didn’t do much to assuage my own anxiety, it did clear the furrows from my father’s brow, and I was grateful.

  “You take care of my baby girl, Reaper,” Dad warned as I kissed both he and Gail good-bye.

  “To tell the truth, Dan, your girl is pretty damn good at taking care of herself.” I felt the color rush into my cheeks.

  “Since when?” my father and Denise exclaimed in unison. But even the obvious lack of confidence in my abilities expressed by my very own flesh and blood didn’t quench the warm glow suffusing my whole body at the Grim Reaper’s compliment. Then again, it could have been a leather-induced hot flash.

  “Well, if you’ve all finished stroking my ego, I think Morgan’s right. Time to go,” I said as I leaned over to hug my stepmother. “If I’m not back by tomorrow night, can someone please feed Caesar? You know how cranky he gets if he isn’t fed on time.”

  “Since he’s the least friendly animal I’ve ever encountered, I’m not sure how you can tell the difference, but yeah, I’ll feed him,” Dad groused. “Of course he could survive a week on the fat stored in his tail alone.”

  Caesar wasn’t even close to the least friendly animal I’d ever encountered, but since I was about to return to the place where I was most likely to run into those that were, I wisely refrained from mentioning it.

  See how thoughtful I’ve become?

  Kane opened the screen door and stepped out onto the back porch. He stood there holding it open for me, clearly indicating it was time to leave.