The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson #12)(35)

“I get it, Osh. I have a history. I used to apparently devour other gods.”

“You ate them like cotton candy at a carnival.”

I sat back and crossed my arms. “I can’t do that to my husband.”

“He’s not your husband,” he said softly.

I refused to listen. I knew Osh would take this course of action. He didn’t have much of a choice, but that didn’t stop me from resenting the implication.

“I’m not going there, Osh. Not yet.”

“Just keep it in the back of your mind. The time may come when you’ll need to cowboy up.”

When I didn’t respond, Osh sat back down, and both he and Garrett went back to nursing their drinks.

“Also,” Osh said, unable to help himself, “I wanted to address the fact that you give new meaning to the term smoking hot.”

Reluctantly, Garrett laughed, and the tension in the air evaporated. I was beginning to wonder if that wasn’t Osh’s superpower.

“Are we ready?” I asked them. We did have a job to do.

They both offered hesitant nods, before Garrett asked, his mouth half full of carne adovada, “What are we doing again?”

Osh took one last bite of his burrito and nodded his approval of Garrett’s question.

“We aren’t doing anything. You two are flirting.”

“Sweet,” Osh said.

It amazed me how he could look like a high school student one second and, well, an older high school student the next. Kid looked like a kid. I almost felt bad about pimping him out, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

I texted Cookie, and she met us in the parking lot, her all-black attire and black ski cap not at all suspicious considering she normally looked like a Jackson Pollock.

“Great choice,” I said. All that was missing was black face paint.

“You think?” Her nervousness was charming. She gave Garrett and Osh a quick hug. “I’ve never pulled off a heist before. Oh, and I have black face paint if we need some.”

Every ounce of strength. That’s what it took not to giggle. “Well, it’s not really a heist, and we haven’t actually pulled anything off, yet.”

“Right, right.” She drew in a deep, calming breath.

We started toward Misery while Osh and Garrett climbed into Garrett’s truck.

“And just so you know, I’ll have your six through this whole thing.”

“Good to know, Cook.”

“Or, say, your seven thirty. Whatever you need.”

Every ounce of strength. “So, what did you tell Uncle Bob?” I asked, unlocking Misery’s secrets. And her doors.

“That we were going to a movie.”

I bit my lip, then asked, “And he bought that?”

“Of course, only his exact words were, ‘Tell that niece of mine if she gets you arrested, I’ll make sure she never sees the light of day.’”

“So, he totally bought it. Awesome.”

We hopped in Misery and headed to a little place I liked to call Pari’s Plausible Deniability.

“Want to tell me what happened tonight?” she asked.

“Oh, right, well, I had green chile chicken enchiladas, and Garrett—”

“Okay, fine. You don’t want to talk about it, you don’t want to talk about it. But just so you know, when my best friend comes back from a mission to capture a god naked with her hair on fire—”

“My hair was on fire?”

“—I’m going to ask questions.”

After a quick hair check, I took a left on San Mateo and headed north. “I’m sorry, Cook. I was going to tell you. It didn’t go as planned.”

“I assumed that. Did you learn anything, at least?”

“I learned that Rey’azikeen is just as good at coitus as his alter ego.”

Cookie gasped, then her eyes glazed over and a tiny corner of her mouth twitched. I let her stew in her own thoughts.

About thirty seconds later, she leaned close and said, “Tell me everything.”

I laughed and, well, told her everything, enjoying every sharp intake of breath, every sigh of pleasure, every “Oh, my God” and “Oh, no, he didn’t.” I knew I could count on the Cook to make me feel better.

Speaking of which, while Cookie was in the throes of amazement, I asked her if I could call her Walter. As in Walter White. As in the Cook.

She didn’t answer. I took that as a yes.

As we got closer to our destination, Walter sat stewing again, only this time she stewed in a stock made of sautéed astonishment, pureed bewilderment, and raw, undiluted desire. After all we’d been through, I loved that I could still dazzle her. I was worried she’d grow tired of my tales and my life would become mundane in her eyes. But so far, so good.

“I know it’s here somewhere,” I said, trying to find the place.

Garrett was following me, and I couldn’t help but find it reminiscent of the blind leading the sexy-but-also-blind. Which would explain the phone call I received from that very man.

“Do you know where you’re going?”

“Duh.”

“We’ve made three U-turns.”

“I’m getting a lay of the land. You know, memorizing our escape route should we need to haul ass.”