The Unlikeable Demon Hunter (Nava Katz #1)(11)

He’d never carry anything again.

I pressed my fist to my mouth. I’d killed a man. Demon. Barkeep. Panic flared hot and bright. I jammed my feet into my shoes then raced for the front door. Fleeing the scene of the crime while cradling one arm against my chest to keep my poor burned babies from jiggling.

As I reached for the lock, my hip bumped the small white plastic table next to the door. The green sides from yesterday’s shoot–the small, color-coded script pages for that day–fell to the ground and I bent to pick them up, not wanting to leave his place in worse shape than I found it. Other than its loss of occupant.

Josh had been cast as the happy-go-lucky playboy of the group. In this scene at least, no woman could resist his charm. That was one word for it. I shivered, remembering the unsettling tugging right before Josh had orgasmed. In retrospect, his “let go” was probably a command, not a suggestion. Had I not been Rasha, they would have been last words I ever heard.

I dropped the paper like it was a hot coal, fumbling in my pocket for my phone and punching in Ari’s speed dial number. The call went straight to voice mail.

“Ari,” I mewled. I slid down the wall, hugging my arms to my chest, paralyzed between fright and flight.

Shortly after, there was a frantic pounding on the door. “Nava!” The cavalry had come. I scrambled to my feet, unlocked the bolt, and flung open the door, launching myself into my brother’s arms.

He patted me awkwardly. “Nee, what’s wrong?”

The story poured out of me. Ari let me ramble, leading me to the sofa in Josh’s cramped IKEA-themed living room and listening in silence as I described killing my hook-up.

“Say something,” I begged, clutching the leg of his blue plaid pajama pants.

Ari hadn’t even gotten dressed. Just stuffed his feet into slippers and thrown on a sweatshirt in his haste to save me.

“You washed your hands, right?” he asked.

I punched him in the arm. “That’s the sum total of what you have to say?”

He punched me back. His was harder than mine and I pouted as I rubbed the sore spot. “You,” he mimed giving a hand job, “a demon to death. I think I need therapy.” He shuddered.

“You think you need therapy?” I screeched. “How do you think I feel? You know what my big plan for today was? A nap! Instead I’ve made you hate me and my hand is a red light district instrument of destruction.”

I paused for him to interject that of course he didn’t hate me, but he didn’t. So I babbled the rest of my story, punctuating my words with flailing gestures. That just sent a fresh shaft of pain through my boobs.

“I mean, what happens when I meet a nice guy that I like and things start to get intimate?” I said. “Will my hand know the difference? Because I’m not sure there is an appropriate greeting card to apologize for penile third degree burns!”

“I’d say it with flowers,” he pronounced.

The clock on the wall ticked once. Twice.

We burst out laughing. A brittle manic laughter that morphed into way-over-the-top snorting guffaws complete with shaking body and streaming tears. Cathartically spent, I sagged back against the couch.

Ari stood up, rolling out his shoulders. “You ready to quit running away from home now and go deal with this?”

I scrunched up my face. “How’d you know I’d run away?”

“I always know.”

A wistful pang hit me square in the chest. I rubbed my hand over the back of my neck. “Right.”

“Dumbass.” He boffed me across the head. “I don’t hate you.”

My relief swam clear down to my toes. “That’s because I’m Twin Amazing and I brighten up your life,” I said.

He shot me a look of fond exasperation.

I could have kissed him in a sister-appropriate way for it–e.g. raspberried his cheek. “Think you can help me not get killed?” I asked.

“Up to a point. But we’re going to have to call Rabbi Abrams.”

“And get our heavily edited stories straight,” I added.

Ari pulled me up. “That’s your area of expertise.”

My right hand gave an aftershocky jerk. I placed my other one on top of it to stop the shaking. “You may need to carry me.”

“You need electrolytes.” Ari went into the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards. “He doesn’t have any salt,” he said, coming back and finding me slumped over the top of the sofa. “Come on, I’ll buy you a Gatorade.”

I threw my arm over my brother’s shoulder, letting him support me. He grabbed my backpack and helped me out the door. Any comfort I took in having Ari’s forgiveness disappeared when we hit the front sidewalk outside Josh’s three-story stucco apartment building and saw the hot platinum blonde leaning against the glass front door, all long limbs and porn star mouth in this slinky gold halter dress I coveted.

“Hey, lover,” she said to Ari, ignoring my existence.

I was so not in the mood to deal with some west side chick on the pointless make for my brother.

He gave her a polite smile, maneuvering us past both her and the broken furniture someone had left out for garbage pick up.

“You think you could help me?” she asked, catching up to us and waving her cell. “My friend stood me up and my phone is dead.”