Page 59 of Dead Set on You
I groan at his smug grin. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Remarkable, you mean?”
“No. I mean ridiculous. Absurd. Ludicrous.”
The grin doesn’t slip. “Since you’re the word expert, why don’t you name it?”
“It doesn’t need a name!”
“Every great mission needs a name, E.” His eyes slide to mine. It takes willpower (and mostly pride) not to squeal at him to look at the road. Because spirit me may survive a crash, but flesh-and-bone Rafael? He wouldn’t make it, and despite my best efforts, I need him.
“One-letter nicknames work only for really close friends.” I gesture to the road. “Who keep their eyes on the road.”
He glances at me a second too long for comfort, and the queasiness I’ve attempted to keep at bay spreads into my chest and throat.
Can ghosts puke?
I imagine Rafael’s reaction to me throwing up all over his shiny truck. Some of the queasiness eases at the thought of him having to clean the leather and chrome. Tears would be involved for certain. How’s that for a mission?
“I’m keeping them.” Rafael returns his focus to the road. “Both names.”
“Of course you are,” I mutter. If this all falls apart and I don’t make it back, I make a mental note to extend my haunting to at least three Vela generations, because that’s exactly what he deserves.
Only I reallyneedthis to work, for us to be on the same page and try whatever idea we come across, however kooky.
It’s what I tell myself when I say, “What about a medium? What if we tried that?” The words tumble out in a strangledrush because I’m embarrassed to suggest it. “If I’m a spirit or ghost or whatever, then a medium would be able to help. Or so I’ve heard.” The moment the words are out, I want to shove them back in.Bad idea.
“Not a bad idea,” Rafael says. His phone dings, lighting up, but he doesn’t even glance at it. “I’m surprised I didn’t think of it.”
I scan his face for a smirk or a hint he’s joking. I detect nothing. “You’re … being serious?”
He flicks a gaze my way. “Yeah, I said we’d try everything—and that’s a good idea.”
“Oh,” I say, trying not let on that I’m stupidly relieved that he didn’t tell me it’s a dumb idea. Because I would tell me it’s a dumb idea. Because I don’t actually thinksanepeople can speak to ghosts.
I keep my reservations to myself, turning my attention to our surroundings, deciding it’s easier to focus on anything but the fact that Rafael Vela, of all people, is taking this more seriously than I am. That he may actually be sticking to a plan.
We’re on the outskirts of downtown, where the buildings aren’t so tightly packed together. Several restaurants here. A few bars there. A smattering of coffee shops. We turn down an alley, garden lights strung along the length of it. He pulls the truck to a stop right beside a back-alley door.
A massive, leather-clad man, looking like the love child of Sasquatch and Tony Soprano, leans against it, cigarette between his lips. His dark gaze cuts to us and creases into a menacing scowl.
“Where are we?” I mask the swell of uneasiness with a glare.
“Our pit stop.” Rafael reaches for the leftovers, then grabs the envelope.
“Which is what? An underground fighting ring?”
Rafael chuckles. “Only on weekends.” He opens the door and slides out of the truck.
“Hang on … you expect me to wait here? Withhim?” I gesture to the behemoth of a man.
Rafael doesn’t seem fazed. “I won’t be long. And if anyone bothers you …” He leans in, his smile positively wicked. “Just say boo.” He winks and closes the door before I can curse him with a lifetime of incontinence and unsatisfied lovers.
CHAPTER FIFTEENNINE DAYS (AND AN ALMOST RUINED PARTNERSHIP) AFTER
He left me here.
I squint, watching as Rafael approaches the man, who tosses his cigarette so they can shake hands and pat each other on the back. I don’t know why I’m surprised that Rafael’s friendly with shady types. I should be surprised they’re not sharing a smoke.
