Eleventh Grave in Moonlight (Charley Davidson #11)(33)

He had both hands braced against the door. My phone was in one of them.

“We need to talk.”

“We tried that, remember? You don’t seem to understand the difference between a conversation and an order. And you’re rubbing off on Uncle Bob.”

His brows slid together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean men. Thinking they can order me around. Thinking they have a say in anything that I do.” I leaned closer. “Anything.”

He paused to think about what I’d said, then leaned closer, too, his warmth wafting toward me. “Your flat-out refusal is not exactly civilized conversation, either.”

“I … you…” I bit down and tried again. “I seem to remember a very recent civilized conversation we had in which we agreed we’d no longer keep secrets from one another.” I studied his face. Watched how the water pooled in his lashes and above his mouth.

He worked his jaw and turned away. “It’s not that simple.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

He glanced down at his feet.

“Reyes, just tell me why you don’t want me on this case. What are you afraid of?”

And that did it. The manly part of him—no, the Neanderthal part—became incensed. Reyes wasn’t the insecure type in most every aspect of his life save one: his darkness. And I was slowly realizing that the Fosters, one of them at the very least, had some kind of perception that pierced the veil of this plane.

But still! He was dark. No shit. It wasn’t like that was a big secret. I could shift onto the celestial plane anytime I chose and see that darkness for myself.

“You think I’m afraid? Of the Fosters?”

“What? No.” That was an odd thing to say. “Of course not.”

“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do what you want. You always do.”

His frustration knew no bounds. Nor did it know his own strength. He pushed off the door, but in his anger, he literally toppled Misery onto two wheels. She came back down hard as Reyes walked away.

It was my turn to be angry. I jumped out of Misery to inspect the damage. He’d caved in the side of the door. I should have been thankful I could still open it, but I wasn’t. I bent to pick up the phone he’d dropped. My phone. He’d shattered her screen, but she still came on.

By the time I turned back, he was just going inside the building. “You’re buying me a new phone!”

*

Having had about enough of men and their appalling sense of entitlement, I decided to pay a visit to another male who was on my shit list: Mr. Abraham Foster. I found his office despite my phone’s shattered screen. She’d had worse. I could barely think of the tequila incident without cringing.

A bell rang out when I walked in, and I was greeted by a receptionist who’d clearly been hoping for a few moments’ respite before being bombarded with customers. I felt her pain.

She put down her coffee cup, forced a silicone smile, and said, “Hello, how can I help you?”

I walked up to the tall desk. “Hi. Yeah, I need insurance?”

She replaced her smile with one more genuine. “You don’t sound very convinced.”

“Right, sorry.” I was still seething, so I took a deep breath and started again. “Do you offer life insurance?”

“We do. Would you like to speak to an agent?”

I needed to make sure the agent I spoke with was of medium height and build, with dark hair and a penchant for child abduction. “Well, a friend recommended I speak to Mr. Foster? Does he work here?”

She quirked a humorous brow. “He owns the agency, so, yes. But he’s not in at the moment.”

“Oh, darn.”

“Would you care to see another agent?”

Before she’d finished, I noticed a man who fit Mr. Foster’s description walking across the parking lot to a coffee shop next door.

“No, thanks. I’ll just come back.”

“I can have him call you.” She grabbed a pen. “What’s your name?”

“Um, Cordelia Chase.”

I tensed the moment I said it, wondering if this receptionist was as savvy as the last one. She wrote it on a message pad while simultaneously nursing her coffee, and I tried not to drool. I’d only had the one cup that morning, and in my fury-driven haste, I hadn’t thought to pick up a mocha grande with extra whipped cream on the way.

I thought about asking her for a quick sip when she asked for my number.

“You know what? I’ll just come back. Thanks, though.” I hurried out and wandered as nonchalantly as I could in the direction of the coffee shop, praying the receptionist didn’t notice me stalking her boss.

I spotted Mr. F the moment I walked inside the retro diner and sat in a booth across from him.

A menu landed in front of me, and an older lady with hair teased just enough to hold the three pens sticking out of it asked, “Would you like some coffee, hon?”

“Would I?”

She offered me a knowing grin and, carafe already in hand, poured me a cup. I fought back the moan that threatened to erupt from the back of my throat when the rich scent hit me and graced her with my most appreciative smile. It wasn’t until she winked and spun away that I realized Mr. Foster had taken note of my presence.