The Sexorcist (4 page)

Then a flicker of red, just a scarlet shimmer off the sheen of the silver paint, caught his eye. Rodriguez squinted against the bright sunlight.

Demons could be hard to spot on sunny days. The red pulse of their energy was much more apparent on dark nights and in dingy basements. They could hide in plain sight on late spring afternoons like this one when the sun’s rays almost completely drowned their fiendish glow.

But now that he had seen that flash of red, Brittany’s cherry-tinted vision suddenly made sense. And so did the faulty brakes.

Hello, Christine.

Suspicion dug hard into his gut. Maybe she wasn’t so sweet and innocent after all.

There was nothing wrong with the silver sports car’s brakes a little exorcism wouldn’t fix. The only question was whether sweet little Brittany had put the demon into her car—and nearly gotten herself killed—on her own, or whether she’d had help.

Chapter Five—Putting the Sexy Back in Exorcisms

“Your car is possessed.”

“Really? A real demon?” Brittany couldn’t help the excitement that spilled into her voice at Rodriguez’s revelation. She spun and gazed at her Audi, trying to see the magic he saw, but all she saw was her Audi, glinting in the sunlight. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he grumbled. “You could at least pretend to be concerned.”

“Why would I do that? This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to my car.”

Or to her, but she was afraid she would sound irredeemably pathetic if she admitted the high point of her twenty-five years on this planet was a demon possessing her Audi. How many people could say their cars were possessed by demons? Did it get any better than that?

“Exciting? You’ve got the German version of Christine on your hands, you nearly got run out into traffic and
killed
and you think this is fun?”

“But I didn’t get killed. You saved me. And don’t you exorcise things? So can’t you exorcise my car?”

“Is this some kind of ploy? Are you doing this on purpose?” His black eyes narrowed suspiciously.

She gazed at him, unsure what he meant. He really was gorgeous. She hadn’t fully appreciated his skin before, the rich, tan hue of it. In the sunlight, the natural warmth and vibrancy of his complexion really shone. His skin clearly did not go straight from snow white to salmon red, like hers had the tendency to do. He was deliciously brown. If his eyes had been lighter, the contrast would have been utterly brilliant. Instead, the blackness of them added an unfortunate, sinister edge to his appearance.

“Brittany? Anybody home?”

“It’s really such a shame your eyes aren’t green.”

He muttered under his breath in a language that wasn’t English and turned away from her, studying her car instead. “You’ve got a screw loose,
chica
.”

Brittany sighed. She’d heard that before. Rather frequently, in fact. Though without the Spanish. That, at least, was new.

She had hoped the Karmic Consultants would be different. She’d hoped they would look past her rather uncommon world view and accept her.

She hadn’t given up that hope. Lucy, in particular, showed great promise. Jo and Rodriguez, less so, but Brittany wasn’t giving up just yet.

He examined the Audi, dismissing her and focusing on the demon at hand. Brittany couldn’t see anything odd. The car looked just as it always had to her, but the blaring radio, faulty brakes, and cherry cola windshield all made a lot more sense if she considered the possibility of demonic possession.

Rodriguez didn’t seem to be thinking of it as a possibility. He’d launched right into fact.

She liked that about him. He clearly believed. Maybe someday he could come to believe in her the same way he believed in demons.

He walked back to his car and pulled a beat-up bag out of the back seat. He yanked out a couple items and dropped the bag back into the Honda. Then he approached the Audi, chanting something that was definitely not English under his breath.

Brittany stretched her ears, trying to identify the language, but her background in Dutch and Norwegian was no help. He could have been speaking Spanish or Latin or Swahili for all she knew.

He circled the car, chanting in that low, melodic voice. Brittany licked her lips. Heat swirled through her, coaxed by his voice.

Was it wrong to get turned on by an exorcism? Because Rodriguez was one sexy exorcist when he was doing his thing. She could definitely see why lonely women would call him back to exorcise for them again and again. She could just hear the cries of “Yes, baby, exorcise me! Do it now!”

The aura of confidence he projected as he mastered the demon in the car seriously amped up his natural masculinity. His tattoos seemed to stand out in relief, his eyes blazed like black coals, and his muscular shoulders seemed broader and more imposing. Almost as if he himself were a supernatural creature—sexier than it was possible for a mere mortal man to be.

He flicked some clear liquid from a squeeze bottle onto the hood. The liquid bubbled, hissing and steaming—which would have been much more magical if the car hadn’t been sitting out in the sun all afternoon. The hood was probably pretty darn hot.

There was more chanting, more liquid flicking, and then he tapped the driver’s door with the item he held in his other hand—was that a crucifix? Brittany held herself very still, focused intensely on the subtle eroticism of the exorcism.

He stopped chanting suddenly, shoved his props into the front pockets of his jeans and turned to her. “Done.”

Her disappointment was nearly sexual. She wanted to pout, but resisted the urge. “That’s it?”

He shrugged. “Minor demon. No fireworks.”

She felt her eyes flare wide and gasped excitedly, “There can be fireworks?”

His eyes narrowed as much as hers had widened. “That was not a challenge. Do not call any more demons. I did this one as a freebie, but if you get anything else stuck in this car, you’re on your own. You can call Karma and have Edwin scheduled, just like everyone else.”

Brittany didn’t admit that for a second she had been tempted to try to call a demon. In part because she would get to see Rodriguez again—which apparently wouldn’t happen even if she could figure out how demons were called—and in part because she was a little let down by her first exorcism.

As new experiences went, this one had a distinct anti-climactic feeling.

“I expected more.”

He shrugged, tossing his exorcising accoutrement back into the bag in the back seat. “Most people do, but, trust me on this,
more
is almost never a good thing where demons are concerned.”

Brittany supposed she ought to listen to him. He was the expert on demons, after all. But her first experience with demons hadn’t been
too
terrifying.

Admittedly, while she was in the car, blind and not stopping, it had been a little
dramatic
there for a moment. But Rodriguez had saved the day rather nicely.

So perhaps the moral of the story was don’t mess with demons unless you have your own personal exorcist on hand.

She eyed the luscious exorcist and wondered what her chances were of turning him into her own personal exorcist. From the grouchy, completely-uncharmed-by-her-artless-charm look on his face, she had a feeling her odds were pretty poor at the moment.

“Be more careful,” he ordered. “Okay? No more summoning. Stay away from demons. And don’t skip your meds.”

Brittany glanced down automatically, checking to make sure the scarf that covered her scar hadn’t shifted out of place. He must have seen the scar from her surgery, or else how would he have known she was on a regimen of immunosuppressants to keep her body from rejecting the transplant heart?

The scarf still seemed to cover the scar, but she tugged it more firmly into place before saluting Rodriguez with a cheeky grin. “Yes,
sir
.”

He half-heartedly returned her salute, and then turned and climbed back into his car. Brittany watched him drive away and then leaned against her no-longer-possessed hood.

She would take care of the flowers tomorrow. A new job, nearly getting killed, her first exorcism… She’d had enough excitement for one day.

She climbed back into the car and set the emergency brake before cautiously cranking the key. The engine purred to life. No blaring music. No cherry cola mist. Just her car, peaceful and safe.

In spite of the completely innocuous act her car was putting on, her heart started to pound. She pressed a hand over it, wishing Rodriguez had stuck around a little longer, maybe even followed her home to make sure the demon didn’t come back. Repossession took on a whole new meaning.

Brittany released the emergency brake, put the car in gear and inched oh-so-slowly toward the street. The traffic was blessedly light and the brakes responded eagerly to her softest tap. “Nothing to worry about,” she said aloud, but her heart still drummed hard. “Get right back in the saddle, Brit,” she encouraged herself.

About halfway home, with not even a hint of a demonic incident on the drive, Brittany’s heart began to slow again. By the time she pulled through the twisting wrought-iron front gates of the Hylton-VanDeere estate, she was beginning to feel daring again.

As she wound down the drive toward the garage, Brittany smiled to herself and began to sing softly. “Going to the Chapel…”

Chapter Six—Satan, Matchmaker Extraordinaire

“For the record, your car is fine. But you might want to have Adela look at it, since some nutjob in a possessed car rear-ended me today.”

Marisol didn’t glance away from the whining socialites on the reality television show she was watching. “Male nutjob or female nutjob?”

Rodriguez kicked off his shoes and flopped down on the couch beside her. “Does it matter? What the hell are you watching? And why aren’t you watching it on your own television in your own house? Or did you forget you moved out? You got married, remember?” He grabbed her left hand, waving it between her eyes and the screen. “Look, there’s a ring on your finger.”

“Ha-ha.” She snatched her hand back and casually flipped him off, her eyes still locked on reality schlock. “You’d miss me if I stopped coming by. Besides, Jorge got the baseball channel added to our cable service and has decided May is the most important month of the entire season. If he does not watch every Red Sox game from start to finish the entire month, the team will feel his loss of faith in them and start losing.”

“You could buy a second television.”

“But then we would lose out on together time. I’d be in my room watching
Millionaire Matchmaker
and he’d be in his room watching baseball.”

“You aren’t together now. He’s at your house and you’re here, forcing me to watch—what the hell is this?”

“
Millionaire Matchmaker
. She takes hopeless rich men and helps them figure out how to land The One. You should watch. You can learn something.”

“I’m not rich.”

“The lessons transcend class boundaries,
hermano
. You need this.”

“I don’t have any problem getting dates.” Or collecting propositions from oversexed socialites. Of course, he hadn’t been out on a good date in longer than he cared to admit.

The show went to commercial and Marisol muted the set, turning her attention to him and bouncing on the couch in her enthusiasm. Marisol’s naturally bubbly temperament brought the sparkling eyes of the brunette bimbo springing back into his thoughts.

“This isn’t about dates, Luis. It’s about finding Ms. Right. You are clearly doing something wrong, since you don’t have love in your life.”

“I’m thirty-two. I have plenty of time for love.”

Marisol shook her head sadly. “Not if you want kids. The young, fertile women want young, hot men. Or old, extremely rich men. You need to snag a hot, young thing before you are too old to compete with the successful guys.”

“Hey, I’m plenty successful.”

She wagged her finger at him. “The clock is ticking, Luis.”

She sounded just like Mama. Realization crashed into his brain. He palmed her head and shoved her smiling face away from him. She tumbled off the couch with a laugh.

“You brat. Mama’s been after you to have kids again and you’re trying to foist the
niños
bullshit on me.”

Marisol shrugged, unrepentant, and clamored back onto the couch. “I’m just trying to share the wealth,
carnal
. Adela’s getting a pass right now because of the divorce, but that means Mama is twice as gung-ho on Jorge and me. I love kids, but I’m only twenty-seven. I’ve got years of carpools in front of me, eventually. I figure if you start seeing somebody, I’ll get a stay of execution. Mama can freak about your wedding for
months
.”

“Machiavellian,
niña
. The only problem with your master plan is that I am perfectly happy as I am. Unattached.”

She shook her head sagely. “You are not happy. You just haven’t realized how empty your life is. Look at Jorge and me.”

“When? I never see you together. You’re always here and he’s always watching baseball at your place.”

“Ha-ha. That wasn’t what I meant and you know it. I was content with my life before I met Jorge, but I only thought I was content because I didn’t realize what I was missing out on. I needed to meet him to realize what I needed to be truly happy.”

“You should put that on a Hallmark card. I think I might cry.”

She punched his shoulder hard. “Stop trying to be smart. You aren’t good at it. Just shut up and listen to Marisol. You have the job, the house, the yard. All you need is the wife and two-point-two kids to be the American dream.”

“And if I don’t want the American dream?”

Marisol snorted. “Go sell that somewhere else. I’m not buying.”

The commercial ended and she flipped the sound back on, falling back into a world that looked alarmingly like his morning with the flat-ironed, plastic-surgeried
Desperate Housewives
set.

The devil of it was, Marisol was right. On the days when he came home and she wasn’t camping out on his couch and commandeering his television, the house was far too quiet. He’d bought it six years ago, and Mari had left their parents’ place to become his roommate less than three months after he’d moved in. He’d gotten used to having someone to just relax with—as well as someone to trade off on the cooking and laundry.

He missed her, now that she’d moved out—moved on with her life and married Jorge. And he
did
want the domestic companionship his parents and now his sister had. He wanted someone to come home to and a bunch of kids for his parents to spoil rotten.

He could envision his future wife perfectly—her warmth and laughter, the soft seduction of her smile. In his mind, she was a blend of all the women he loved. Unfortunately she was just a figment of his imagination.

And working as an exorcist wasn’t exactly conducive to meeting women. Most normal women weren’t comfortable with a guy who dealt with demons full time and a lot of his work was done at night, which could seriously cut into his dating life.

And the women he met on the job… The desperate housewives were married and utterly unappealing. And Brittany…her warmth and laughter wasn’t real, was it? It was just an act designed to win a bet. And even if she was the real deal, the woman had a screw loose.

“Tell you what, Mari. I’ll get married just as soon as I meet a woman who isn’t completely out of her mind.”

Marisol snorted. “You’ll be a bachelor until you’re eighty. All women are nuts. It’s part of the feminine mystique.”

“You and Adela are normal.”

“You’re our brother, so you don’t see it, but we’re nuts in other ways. Ask Jorge. He’ll tell you I’m bat-shit-out-to-lunch. But don’t ask him when I’m around, because if he says that in front of me I’ll have to make him sleep on the couch or something and I hate doing that.”

Rodriguez frowned. “That makes no sense. If you want him to say he thinks you’re nuts, you can’t punish him for saying it.”

She shrugged. “Feminine mystique. We have our ways. So was the nutjob a
chica
?”

Brittany’s face flashed in his mind. The sparkling eyes. The ever-present grin. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Ha! She was! I knew it. Was she cute? She was. You don’t even have to tell me. I can see it all over you. What’s her name? Is she Latina? Not that it matters, but I need to get a good mental picture. Will I like her?”

He leaned his head on the back of the couch and draped an arm over his eyes. Marisol was never going to let it go now. Damn it. He didn’t know what she’d seen on his face, but whatever it was, he needed to figure out how to get rid of that expression before his mother saw it. “She’s certifiable. And I’m pretty sure she summoned a demon to possess her own car just so she could talk to me.”

“Aw, that’s cute. Someday I’ll tell you what I did to get Jorge’s attention. Did you kiss her?”

He snorted.
Madre de Dios
, she was tenacious. “No, I didn’t kiss her. I have no intention of ever kissing her. She’s a demon-summoning crazy person.”

“And you’re a demon-exorcising crazy person. It’s a match made in heaven.”

“More like hell.”

Mari shrugged. “Who cares? It’s a match. I bet Satan can give the Millionaire Matchmaker some tips. You could honeymoon in hell. I bet it’s nice and toasty this time of year. Tropical.”

“If Mama hears you talking like that, she’s gonna drag you to confession so fast your head will spin. And then she’ll ask me to perform an exorcism on you.”

She tipped her head speculatively. “Do you think she’d lay off the baby stuff then?”

“No. Not even demons and devil-worship will stop a Mexican mama intent on grandchildren.”

“Then there’s no other choice. You have to get married, Luis. What’s her name? Or would you like me to have ‘crazy demon-summoning girl’ printed on your wedding invitations?”

“No invitations. No weddings. No kisses.
Nada
.
Soy independiente
.”

“Ha. You’re a ticking time-bomb,
carnal
. The demon of matrimony is coming for you. Even you can’t exorcise this one.”