J.R. Ward - Envy

The waitress picked that moment to show up with his steaming plate of cholesterol, and the arrival was a conversational lifesaver if he’d ever seen one.

He salted. Peppered. Forked up and sucked down.

“Would it help if you talked to someone?” Reilly said quietly.

“As in a psychiatrist?”

“Therapist. They can be very helpful.”

“This from personal experience, Officer?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

He laughed in a hard burst. “Somehow I wouldn’t think you’re the type who needed one.”

“Everybody has issues.”

He knew he was being a bit of a shit, but he felt naked, and not in a good way. “So what’s one of yours.”

“We’re not talking about me.”

“Well, I’m getting tired of being up onstage all by my little lonesome.” He polished off half a piece of toast in two bites. “Come on, Officer. Spill something about yourself.”

“I’m an open book.”

“Who needs a therapist?” When she didn’t respond, he leveled his stare at her. “Coward.”

Eyes narrowing, she eased back and pushed her half-full bowl away. He expected some witty retort. Or, even more likely, a smack-down.

Instead, she reached into her pocket, took out a ten-dollar bill, and put it between them. “I’ll see you in the sergeant’s office.”

With subtle grace, she scootched out, taking her coat, purse, and cell phone with her.

Before she took off, Veck snagged her wrist. “I’m sorry. I was out of line.”

She disengaged the hold by putting her phone in her bag. “See you shortly.”

After she left, Veck pushed his own plate away, even though there was a good egg and a half left.

Not even nine in the morning . . . and he’d already won the asshole-of-the-day prize. Fantastic—

A draft passed over the back of his neck, prickling the hairs at his nape and making him crank around toward the door.

A woman had come in, and she was as out of place as a Ming vase in the Target housewares department. As her perfume drifted over, and she swizzled out of her fur jacket, there was an audible pause in the diner’s fifty or so conversations. Then again, she’d just exposed some Pamela Anderson breasts to half the CPD.

As Veck checked her out, he supposed he should have been attracted to her, but instead, that cold shaft tickling down his spine made him want to take out a gun and point it at her in self-defense.

And how fucked up was that.

Leaving a twenty of his own, he bailed on the rest of his breakfast and hit the door. Stepping outside, he stopped. Glanced around.

The back of his neck was still going, his instincts screaming, particularly as he glanced at the round windows of the diner. Someone was watching him. Maybe the chippie with the Hustler body, maybe someone else.

But his instincts never lied.

Good news was, it appeared he’d be getting his weapons back later this morning. So at least he could legally protect himself again.

As Jim pulled into the Riverside Diner’s lot on his Harley, some guy on a sweet BMW bike tooled off with a roar.

Adrian and Eddie were right behind him on their rides, and the three of them parked together in the far corner by the Hudson’s shore. As he dismounted and looked at the place Devina had named for a rendezvous, he thought, Well, isn’t this special. He’d been at this very same dive with his first soul.

Guess Caldwell was a hotbed of activity for the damned.

Then again, maybe she just liked the java here and was going to tell him the soul in question was somewhere else.

Heading over to the entrance, his boys were giving him the silent treatment—not a news flash on Eddie’s part, but a miracle on the other angel’s. No way that was going to last with Ad, though

The diner was crowded, noisy, and smelled like coffee and melted butter. Hell of a place for Devina to pick—

And there she was, way to the left, sitting at a booth and facing the door with a shaft of sunlight pouring in through the window next to her. The warm yellow rays illuminated her face perfectly, like she was about to be photographed, and he thought of the first time he’d seen her at that club, standing under a ceiling fixture. She’d been glowing then, too.

Evil had never looked so hot, but unlike the other men, who were staring over the rims of their mugs and all but drooling like dogs, he knew what she really was—and he wasn’t so distracted by the slipcover that he didn’t notice she threw no shadow: As bright as the illumination that struck her was, there was no dark outline on the tabletop or the Naugahyde beside her.

For a split second, he had an image of the two of them together from the night before. He’d tried to fuck her from behind on that table, but she’d insisted on doing it face-to-face. Frankly, he’d been surprised that he could get it up, but anger had a way of making him hard. At least with her.

As he’d departed that sweaty, rough scene, he’d looked around at her walls, imagining Sissy stuck in the tangle of the damned. He prayed his girl couldn’t see out of it. God, to think she might have . . .

But enough of that. Coming up to Devina, he put a block on any thoughts of Sissy or sex with the enemy or even the game itself.

“So who is it?” he said.

The demon peered over the top of her Caldwell Courier Journal , her black eyes doing a quick circuit of his body and making him want to take another shower—this time with a belt sander.

“Well, good morning, Jim. Won’t you sit down with me.”

“No goddamn way.”

The guy in the booth in front of her glared over his shoulder. Like he didn’t approve of Jim’s tone or language around a lady.

She only looks like one, buddy, Jim thought.

Devina put the paper down, and went back to her buttermilk pancakes and her coffee. “Do you have a pen?”

“Do not fuck with me.”

“Little late for that. Pen?”

As some people tried to get past, Jim and the boys had to turn sideways while Eddie outed a Paper Mate something or other and handed it over.

Devina uncapped the thing with her long, manicured hands. And then she folded the paper to the crossword puzzle.

“What’s a five-letter word for—”

“Damn it, Devina, cut—”

“—antagonist.”

“—the shit.”

“Actually, Jim, ‘the shit’ is seven letters. Although I am, aren’t I.” Devina began carefully filling in a word. “I believe ‘enemy’ is the word I’m looking for. And you’re either sitting down with me—alone—or you’re going to stand there until your legs rot off and you fall over in the aisle.”

More with the careful printing. Wonder if she was working on another word for “pain in the ass.”

Jim glanced at his boys. “I’ll be right out.”

“Good-bye, Adrian,” Devina said, with a wave. “I’ll see you soon, though—I’m quite sure.”

The demon didn’t say anything to Eddie. Then again, she liked to get a rise out of people, and Eddie was as unleavened as matzo.

Which Jim supposed put him and Adrian in the hotcross-bun department.

As the two angels took off, Jim slid into the booth. “So.”

“Would you care for some breakfast?”

“Who is it, Devina.”

“I hate to eat alone.”

“You could hold your breath until I join you—how about that.”

Her black eyes became direct. “Must we fight.”

At that, he had to honestly laugh. “It’s the reason we’re here, baby.”

She smiled a little. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you do that.”

Jim cut the sound right off as a waitress came over with a coffeepot. “Nothing for me, thanks.”

“He’ll have coffee and the waffles.”

When the waitress looked at him like, Come on, make up your damn mind , he shrugged and let it go.