Page 32 of Tips and Trysts

Become a customer. Fine. There are worse penances than watching a gorgeous woman take off her clothes. If I have to do it in the presence of a bunch of lonely creeps in a chatroom, I’m sure I can muddle through.

It’s the third one that gets me.

Never, ever tell a lie.…Well, if she means it, if she seriously believes I can win an election without telling a lie, I’m absolutely fucked. Or…I’m not fucked. I mean, I won’t be getting fucked.

Focus.

It’s the morning after the shooting, and she’s home from the hospital. I want to see her, but she hasn’t texted me. Sincethere’s nothing less appealing than desperation—except for fossil fuels—I’ve resolved to play it cool.

Really regretting it now.

Pierre hops off the bed and trots around until he’s next to me. Tail wagging, he does this little hopping thing, urging me to the door.

“Are you drunk? You want me to race over there and beg for her attention like some sort of…puppy?”

Pierre’s response is another little hop, which makes his golden tail shake loose hairs onto my friends’ hardwood floors.

“Fine,” I relent. “If you insist, I’ll check on her. But remember: I’m doing this for you, not me.”

It’s overkill to style my hair for a trip down the hallway. It’s also overkill to put on this button-down that made the Governor of Maryland’s wife eye fuck me at a holiday party last year.

It’s worth it though.

Cora’s eyebrows rise when she opens her door, and it takes her a grand total of three seconds to eye fuck the shit out of me in a way that would scandalize even the Governor of Maryland’s wife.

“Hey, how are…” I trail off.

I’ve seen salvage yards more orderly than Cora’s condo.

There’s discarded clothing draped over the couch, a spilled canister of coffee on the counter, and the smell of burnt food is bitter in the air. Even her sling is askew, leaving her arm hanging below her waist.

I reach out and adjust the sling. When I step back, her eyes have narrowed.

“Can you tone it down?” I request, meeting her glare. “At least wait until your stitches have dissolved before you curse me and my family line. Don’t want to expend the dark magic you should be reserving to heal yourself.”

“Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I’m on a sabbatical while I’m campaigning.”

“But you’re all dressed up,” she notes, pretending to appraise me, but she’s definitely eye fucking me again. “Going to the underworld to plead to get your job back? Don’t be discouraged, Everett. The economy is rough, but I’m sure there are plenty of hellscapes chock full of souls to torture and they would love your expertise.”

I cock my head at her kitchen. “Is this going to be a thing? You’re too prideful to ask me to help you?”

“Isthisgoing to be a thing? You’re going to infantilize me?”

“It’s impossible to infantilize someone who was never a baby and was instead spawned straight from the fires of Mordor.” I step into the havoc before I glance at my watch. “It’s not even noon. How did you cause this much destruction?”

“I’ve always been an overachiever,” is her response. She shuts the door.

Her decor is moody, like whoever was in charge of scheduling the coven’s weekly meetings accidentally sent a pin to Cora’s condo and she just rolled with it. The entire living room is mostly books—enough for me to wonder if the floor can support them all. They line every spare stretch of the dark gray walls, and amid the moodiness, colorful spines dot the shelves. There are romance novels and classics and reference books and matching sets of young adult trilogies. Some books are in French, others in Spanish, a few are in German, and colored tabs stick out of the tops of all of them—she has readall of them.

“So, you’re here to criticize me?” she asks before respiring heavily. “Lucky me.”

“I know you wouldn’t listen, and I don’t waste my time.” I hold out my hands. “Tell me how I can help.”

“I’m fine on my own.”

I glance at her injured arm. “I’ll give you five hundred dollars to brew a cup of coffee.”

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