Page 7 of Another Underworld

“Waiting sucks,” I muttered, resting my head on Abaddon’s broad shoulder.

“The waiting is the hardest part,” he replied.

“Tom Petty much?” I asked with a grin.

“Who?” Abaddon asked.

“Never mind.” My man was a gazillion years old. Pop culture and modern song lyrics weren’t in his wheelhouse. A change of subject was in order. Pity parties would send me down into a spiral that was not helpful. “Has anyone heard from Dagon?”

Abaddon shook his head. “Not yet. But no news is good news as far as the Darkness is concerned.”

“About that,” I said, sliding off his lap and grabbing the full-sugared Coke on the coffee table. “How much time do I have to spend there—in a literal sense?”

“As much or as little as you want or see the need to,” he replied. “Why?”

I crinkled my nose and laughed. It was a weak laugh, but my question was incredibly selfish considering the job I’d acquired. Granted it was a job I hadn’t auditioned for or truly wanted but it was mine due to the wonders of nepotism. “Umm… I was wondering if I could still do the TV show—Ass the Underworld Turns.”

It was Abaddon’s turn to wrinkle his nose. “Depends.”

“On?” I pressed.

“On how long it takes the Higher Power to show Its ass. It’s one thing to deal with It in the Immortal world. It’s another entirely to expose the human world to the danger It could bring with It.”

I ran my hands through my wild dark hair and sighed dramatically. “There are three places I’d wish It would stay—inIts own lane, nowhere near me and out of my damned business. Is that too much to ask?”

“No,” Abaddon conceded. “But wishes and reality don’t often intersect.”

Twisting my hair in my fingers, I started to think that having a panic attack and hallucinating alien cockroaches in the drywall wasn’t sounding half bad.

“I have an idea,” Uncle Joe announced, doing a downward dog on my coffee table. It was bizarre, but better than him doing jumping jacks and having to see his bouncing junk. “Exercise takes the edge off almost everything.”

“Not really feeling that,” I told him, glad I’d grabbed my Coke off the table before his wrinkly gray crotch straddled it. It would have been undrinkable. Yes, he was a ghost but balls were still balls.

“I’m not talking about yoga, per se,” he announced with a naughty twinkle in his eyes. “I was thinking more about doing squat thrusts in the cucumber patch.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I asked, thinking he’d lost his mind.

The ghost giggled. “Oh, my dear child! Let me rephrase a bit. Let’s try… harpooning the salty longshoreman.”

I squinted at him. “Are you drunk?”

“Impossible. I’m dead,” he assured me right before he let it rip. “To be clearer, I meant I think it would be beneficial if you two kids did the horizontal bop or a little knocking boots or better yet, do the wild thing!”

I was stunned speechless. Abaddon was staring at the ceiling again. Granted, he had a wide grin on his lips…

“Oh you know,” Uncle Joe continued, “two-person pushups, batter dipping the corn dog, bedroom rodeo, bow chick a wow wow!”

Sadly, he punctuated his last euphemism with a visual shake of his hips and tallywhacker.

“Shall I go on?” he asked.

The heat started at my chest and moved quickly to my face. I was certain I looked like a human tomato. “I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“Then my work here is done!” he exclaimed, doing a quick ode to John Travolta inSaturday Night Fever. “I’ll just pay a visit to the charming Candy Vargo and Pandora. Both of those gals could use a good yoga session. Toodaloo!”

“Uncle Joe, wait,” I said before he disappeared.

“Yes, my darling?”

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