Kiss & Hell (37 page)

“So you like the demon?”

Delaney wasn’t sure when she’d begun to breathe again, but she must have been capable of it if she could spit out, “He’s not a
demon
, Marcella. Or he’s not supposed to be, anyway,” and be able to pull it off with such defensive venom in her voice.

Marcella held her palms up like two white flags in a gesture of acquiescence. “Easy there, honey. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

But Delaney teetered between hysteria and fear, with a healthy dose of fury to keep her warm. She was at a loss for words, but at the same time, full of a jumble of angry, hateful thoughts she wanted to scream while she threw around the toiletries the hotel offered. Instead, she fought for clarity. In that clarity, one thing was sure—Marcella couldn’t get in any deeper. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of this. I swear to God, I never thought doing what I did all those years ago would come to this. But you can’t be involved, Marcella. You need to go. You’re already in deep with all of your poking around, any further and you’re in way over your head, and the devil’ll want payback. You don’t want him coming after you with revenge on his mind. You do see where that got me, don’t you?”

But Marcella was staunch, shaking her dark head. “Nope—not going, and forget the apologies. What I really want to know is this—and I’m only asking because it has to be asked. When the time comes, will you be able to cross Clyde over? Can you say good-bye?”

No.

No.

No.

No.

But alas . . . “I don’t have a choice. It’s what I do.”

“No, you don’t have a choice. I wish I could change that, Delaney. I don’t have the power to do it, but if I did, I would.” Marcella had always been about getting to the point, and Delaney admired that in their relationship—in Marcella. Yet tonight, she didn’t want harsh realisms. She didn’t need to hear what would happen next out loud. She wanted “Poor baby,” and forbidden food filled with artificial dyes, or ice cream like Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, a Butterfinger—hell, a whole pound of sugar she could suck on and wash down with a six-pack of Pepsi. She wanted something that would ease this inconsolable ache.

And then it hit her.

In the gut.

She swallowed hard when more of the information Marcella’d relayed sank further into her murky brain. “I’ll never see Clyde in this life again. Ever.” The whisper of that word swirled in ominous echoes.

Marcella’s angular, perfectly structured face was the most somber Delaney’d ever seen it. “No, honey. No, you won’t.”

“Will you hang around . . . after we ...”Delaney heard the desperation in her voice, she tasted it on her tongue, but she had no desire to hide it or the weakness it revealed.

“Of course I will, silly. Not even that arrogant, pigheaded brother of yours could keep me away from you. And he’s fine, by the way. I peeked in on him when he wasn’t looking because I figured you’d worry about him and he’d only freak if he knew I was watching his cranky ass.” She held out a hand to Delaney, taking her trembling, cold fingers between hers and rubbing them with a brisk motion.

“As long as I still have you . . .”

“Oh, D. You’ll always have me. Maybe even longer than you planned if I’m stuck like this for eternity. Demons are forever, right?” she teased, chucking Delaney under the chin. “So Clyde . . .”

“What about him?”

“You like him,” she said again, as if reminding her wasn’t like rubbing salt in a million open wounds.

Delaney’s throat grew tight once more. “It’ll be okay. He’ll hit the great beyond and find some hot chick with big, honkin’ wings who knows all about how to make a bomb from dental floss and nail polish remover or something.”

Yet Marcella’s face didn’t crack the smile Delaney’d hoped for. “Don’t make jokes. This hurts you. I hate that. In all the years I’ve known you, nothing would’ve pleased me more than for you to find your Prince Charming. Have kids so I could be Auntie Marcella to human beings instead of dogs. If this could be any other way, if I had the power . . . but just so you know, I’m here. When this is over, I’m here.”

Delaney let her head fall to her chest. There was no way to hide the tears that fell in fat droplets to the bathroom floor she and Marcella stood on. She needed to gather herself together so she could give Clyde the send-off he deserved. With a smile—with the kind of joy one should have for finding peace on the other side.

For eternity.

But it hurt far worse than any other pain she’d ever experienced. It was different from the pain of losing her parents—different from the pain she’d suffered losing Gary.

Yet it was as raw, as real, as undeniably agonizing as any kind of torture could be. Counting the minutes until they had to take Clyde off life support in the hope that it would free his soul and she could cross him over was like playing Russian roulette—just waiting for the bullet to explode from the barrel of the gun.

Marcella put her arms around Delaney, pulling her into them to offer her ever-strong support. She surprised Delaney often, but her offer of physical comfort shocked her even more. Marcella hated crying; she said it was messy and did horrible things to your complexion.

The stream of tears she shed flooded Marcella’s leather jacket, but she managed to choke out an admission that out loud cut far deeper than keeping it inside. “Jesus Christ.
Yes
. Yes, I like him. Damn it. I like him. The dogs like him. And I don’t want him to go. I want to—”

Marcella squeezed harder. “Get to know him better. I know. But maybe—and I’m just throwing this out there—maybe this attraction is based solely on the fact that he’s the first man who’s been in your life in almost fifteen years.”

That assumption, though she’d made it herself, made her angry again. “Would you say that about someone else? Say I met some guy online and he got the whole medium thing—totally accepted it—was wonking me until my eyeballs wobbled—wanted to marry me—give me a houseful of babies—would you say the same thing? No. You’d be thrilled Delaney was finally spending a Saturday night with something other than her battery-operated boyfriend and a bag of trail mix, wouldn’t you? Just because I met Clyde under extreme circumstances, that doesn’t mean I like him less. I like Clyde. I like him beyond the fact that he gets my ghost friends. I like his smile. I like the fact that he wears those glasses when he surely must know that he now has twenty-twenty vision. I like the dumb-ass crap he knows about the stupidest things like earthworms and ’80s music. I like that he eats cheeseburgers like he’s dining at some fancy restaurant. I like that he has no clue how fucking hot he is. I even like that we have almost nothing in common because you know what? I learn things from him because of it. The differences between us makes him that much hotter. I just like Clyde. The way I feel now, I figure given a couple of more months the
l
word I’m feeling now might have had a different spelling—but I’ll never get the chance to fucking find out.” She sobbed the words out, stuffing a knuckle in her eye to plug the wet tears that refused to stop falling.

Marcella held her away from her, gripping her shoulders. Her eyes held compassion. “And you’re fucking angry about it! Good on you—you should be,
muchacha
. Wanna throw shit together? I’m all in for some glass breaking.”

“I like you, too, Delaney,” Clyde said from the bathroom door, his forearms braced on the frame, his face contorted in flashes of emotion. “And if things were different, I’d hunt your ass down, throw you over my shoulder, and
make
you eat cheeseburgers with me. I’d do all the things a man who wants to get to know a woman better does. I’d text-message stupid notes to you just because. I’d buy you flowers, even though they end up dead. I’d even put them in water with a smile on my damned face. I’d take you to the movies. I’d call you just to say hello. I’d even listen to Michael Bublé with you. I’d wear your ass down until you decided to consider a future with me and as many stray, helpless dogs as you could adopt and as many babies as we could make to fill a household. If this were different, if I had a choice in any of this fucked-up mess, I’d stay with you—and this time, I’d
pay attention
. I’d pay much closer attention to what was going on with the people in my life.” Clyde’s eyes clung to Delaney’s face when he finished, blazing with conviction and all that passion she’d taunted him about not having.

And it left her breathless.

Wordless.

And so filled with anguish, it made it impossible to express it.

No one spoke—the tight confines of the bathroom suddenly became almost too much to bear.

Marcella grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the long vanity, handing them to Clyde. “You two let me know when you’re ready.” She slipped under Clyde’s arms and out of the bathroom.

Clyde cupped Delaney’s cheeks with both hands. “I’d choose to stay with you if I could. I’d choose to
stay
. . .”

Her arms went around his waist, inhaling the clean scent that was Clyde, memorizing each ripple in his abdomen, each hard plane of his arms.

She had nothing left. For fifteen years she’d used words to help others, cajole, soothe, comfort. Tonight, she had nothing.

There really was nothing left to say.

They didn’t have a choice.

Satan had made the choice for them.

Clyde’s body was indeed at Lang Memorial Hospital—a trauma center for burn victims, the brain injured, and those with a host of other life-threatening issues. It hadn’t been easy to get past the brigade of nurses, but Marcella and her charm should never be underestimated. In a matter of moments, Delaney’d slipped passed the trauma nurses’ station unnoticed, with Clyde right behind her. Marcella slipped back out of the room after squeezing Clyde’s hand, then hugging her friend. “Safe journey, Clyde,” she offered with a gentle smile. “I’ll be right outside, D. Right there.” She pointed to the long, sterile hallway. “Waiting.”

So here they were.

Her, Clyde’s soul, and Clyde . . . er, Clyde’s body.

One big, fat, supernatural hoedown.

They stood by his bed. Parts of his body were wrapped in gauze, and he was hooked up to a ventilator and a heart monitor and some feeding tubes. According to the file Marcella had stolen, he had burns on only twenty percent of his body, yet another Clyde miracle, but that was only part of the problem.

He’d suffered severe head trauma in the explosion. The file was filled with complicated medical terms Delaney was only half sure of—the only thing she was sure of was that Clyde really was terminal. Essentially, this vital, smart, overly logical, fantastic man was brain-dead, and had been for almost three months now. Clyde had been right—there were no wills, and no living relatives to sign a DNR.

Every fiber of her being had hoped against hope that Clyde would have even a small chance of survival, despite what Marcella’d told them. She’d prayed Marcella was wrong. Seeing him this way, his strong frame helpless and pale with tubes and monitors, left Delaney barren of any optimism.

Clyde took in his lifeless form with grave silence. He neither moved toward the bed, nor away from it.

Hopefully, when they pulled the plug Clyde’s soul would go where it’d always belonged, and this would all be over.

So. Over.

“So you have to go.”

“It looks like it.”

Puffing her cheeks out, Delaney fought to keep her focus on the task at hand. “Hookay, I say we don’t linger because that’ll just be bad for my already burning eyeballs.” And her heart. Her aching, clenching, pounding, anguish-riddled heart. “So here’s where we say good-bye. I ship you off to the big, white light and you walk into it, okay? No looking back—no waffling. Absolutely none or you’ll be in some big pile of stank. So . . . okay?” Delaney finally looked up at him, clenching her jaw to keep tears from seeping out of her eyes.

“Not so much.” He hauled her to him, pulling her close.

Delaney nestled her head against his chest and gripped the edges of his shirt with fingers that she feared might not let go. “It has to be okay, Clyde. It has to. We have no choice. You have no choice. For all intents and purposes, when I pull the plug—it’s over. Really, really over,” she whispered against his shirt.

“Understood. Doesn’t mean it’s okay.” Clyde’s hands kneaded her spine, gentle and reassuring.

Delaney rolled her head against his chest at the irony of this. “Crap. Only I could fall for a demon that isn’t a demon but should really be upstairs, who’s half dead on life support and
I
have to shut him down. Only me. Some might say that was pretty jacked up. Almost all my adult life I spent without so much as a goddamned date, and then you show up. Ya think maybe I could’ve gotten a break here?”

Clyde chuckled. “So you fell for me, is what you’re saying?”

She clenched her eyes tight, knowing this was her last chance. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re going to make me, aren’t you? Fine. Cue weepy Lifetime-movie moment. I like you, Clyde. I like you a whole lot more than I ever thought I’d like a guy who thinks the way you do, lives the way you lived. Eats the crap you eat. All those things you said back in the bathroom—the flowers, the text messages—would have had my thong all up in a wad. Given a little longer, I might have considered stalking you if you didn’t man up and beat me into submission. Okay? Are we good?” Her eyes ached, grainy and she was sure red from fighting off spending their last moments with her crying like a big, stupid girl.

But her big-girl panties just kept slipping and she couldn’t seem to hike them up.

Clyde’s fingers lifted her chin. In the dim light of his hospital room, he smiled—it held myriad emotions. “And all my life I was so self-absorbed . . . I would have had no one to help me figure this mess out because of it—until you. I want you to always remember how grateful I am for that, and that all the things I said back in the hotel bathroom were true.”

Delaney snorted, thumbing tears from her cheeks. “Yeah, suuure. You can hand me a line like that now because you’re hitting greener pastures and you won’t be here to break up with me when I’ve driven you crazy with my herbs and self-help books—”