Chapter Twenty-one A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory. —STEVEN WRIGHT
“You obviously had waaaaay too much fun last night.” I tried to pry open my lids and orient myself to the environment at the same time, but I couldn’t quite manage either. “Am I still naked on my living room floor?” Cookie whistled. “Wow, you had more fun than I thought.” She sat on the edge of the bed, bounced a little to irk me, then said, “I made coffee.” Ah, the three magic words. My lashes fluttered open to the blessed image of a coffee cup hovering in front of my face. I squirmed and shimmied into an upright position, then took the cup from her. “And I brought you a breakfast burrito,” she added. “Sweet.” After a long, rich draw, I asked, “What time is it?” “That’s how I know you had fun last night,” she said with a chuckle. “You rarely sleep this late. Well, that and your pajamas were all over the living room floor. I picked up most of your things, but your bottoms are in Mr. Wong’s corner. No way am I venturing into Mr. Wong’s corner. So, are you going to spill now or later?” With a shrug, I said, “Now, I guess, but I’ll have to give you the Reader’s Digest version.” “Deal,” she said, sipping her own coffee and gazing over the rim expectantly. “Well, I found out it takes a lot more to kill me than it does the average human.” An astonished frown commandeered her features. “I found out Rosie Herschel never made it out of the country. Her husband killed her before he came after me.” Her frown turned to alarm. “I found out that Reyes is a god of sex and all things orgasmic.” Now confusion. “And I found out that he is, in fact, the son of Satan and that if they, meaning the beings from the underworld, find me, he will be forced to kill me.” Back to alarm. “Yep,” I said, thinking back, “that’s pretty much last night in a nutshell. Do you think I’m psychotic?”