2 Death Rejoices (53 page)

“You might have misunderstood the key term in ‘secret mission’.”

“Or I have loyalty issues.” That felt nice, and seemed sincere.

“Has
she
slept with Batten?” I asked.

“Quid pro quo.”

“Just between us? Off the record?” Declan nodded for me, and whether it was the cozy shelter of the small room while the rain drummed the windows, or the confidentiality agreement in his eyes, or the booze beginning to warm its way through my veins, I answered. “Unintentionally, many moons ago.”

“Accidental sex.” There was a gleam of understanding in his eyes. “Sometimes that's the best kind.”

“Oh fuck yeah,” I said, then slapped my hand over my mouth with a snort-laugh. “That was loud. Am I loud?”

“The prostitutes heard it, but they've heard worse.” He laughed that warm melty caramel laugh. “To answer your question about Golden no, she hasn't. Nor can she.”

“Religious reasons? A deformity? …Oh! Oh!” I pointed with sudden excitement. “Is she a man?”

“She can't, because Batten's not interested in her.”

“How is that even possible? A couple more shots of whiskey and
I'll
be interested in her.”

“Because he's the type of guy who forgets other women even exist when he's in love. Batten's got blinders on.” He smiled and said, as though it weren't the most shocking news ever. “All he sees is you.”

I blinked rapidly at him, trying to decide if Batten had put him up to this joke. When it was clear he meant it, I groaned.

“Dude, you better get me another drink.”

C
HAPTER
42

IF I HAD BEEN SOBER,
I might have noticed that, after Declan's fourth belt of whiskey, the proper clip of his practiced English vanished, and his lilting Irish accent became quite strong. If I'd been listening to anything he said, I'm sure I'd have been enchanted; I was a sucker for a sexy tongue. But I was far too occupied working up the good sweat that rolled down my back.

By the time Batten crashed our party, it was nearly five A.M. and I was trying to Riverdance on the bed in my t-shirt and underwear. Pants or no pants, it's nearly impossible to Riverdance on a soft bed with bad springs. That might have explained why the good doctor was collapsed on the floor laughing so hard he could barely breathe. If Declan noticed he'd spilled his drink, he sure didn't care. His midnight hair was curled damp, and his green eyes sparkled bright as riot lights.

I pointed at Batten with a cheer. “Way-HEY and up she rises, ear-lye in the mornin’!”

“You're not going anywhere ear-lye in the morning,” Batten informed me gruffly, throwing my jeans up at my face. I batted them aside in mid-air. “And neither is anyone else in this motel if you don't pipe down.”

“Am I keeping the whores awake?” I stage-whispered. “Remind me to send a fruit basket.”

“If you don't get down from there,” Batten started, but left off the threat. “Just put your pants on.”

“Don't make me toss your salad, Kill-Notch,” I threatened far too cheerfully, setting Declan off again. I'd learned about an hour ago that
Declan giggled, and it was like a chorus of applause as far as I was concerned; I could dance and sling bawdy insults all night.

Taking my hand to make sure I didn't fall while I hoofed it, Batten asked me to please come down. I ignored him. I thought I was doing some pretty nifty foot work, but that might have been the whiskey talking.

Batten repeated his request more sternly. “Come on down now, missy.”

“Wooo!” I exclaimed. “Missy? I'm in trouble now!”

“Awww,” Declan bawled, an audience disappointed, “she was just getting ‘ear-lye’ right!”

“I think Dr. Baranuik has had quite enough.”

“Let the lady decide!” Declan roared, clapping his hands from his position on the carpet.

“Okay, let me put it another way. I think we've had enough of Dr. Baranuik.”

“
Bahhhhhh
,” he scoffed, waving Batten off, “the lass is a fine singer!”

I'd never heard that before. Clearly there was something wrong with this man. I steadied myself in a wide-legged stance, aimed a finger down at him and watched, rather fascinated, as it weaved back and forth before my face.

“Dr. Edgar, you're blitzed.” I told him. Declan blinked at me once, then went off in a mutiny of giggles.

Batten took me by the shoulders and sat me down. “Pants.” I obeyed, not without difficulty. When I was suitably dressed, Batten turned me bodily and pushed me out the door.

I step-danced out the door and along the sidewalk, seeing only every other stride in my blurry path. “Blow the man down, bullies, blow the man down! To me,
way-HEY
, blow the man down! Blow him right ba-ack to Liverpool town…” I swayed hard against Batten, nearly knocking him off his feet, and he dragged me forward toward my room. From Declan's, I heard him chime in, “OH! Gimme some time to blow the man down!”

“What's with the pirate songs?” Batten wanted to know.

“Sea shanties,” I corrected. “Weird, or what, Shatner?”

Hot air streamed down from Batten's nostrils to bathe my forehead. “Don't call me that.” Batten took the key card from my back pocket,
and I grinned because his hands were on my ass. He shook his head in amazement. “You're going to be in a fine state in the morning.”

“
Pfffft!”
I exclaimed, stumbling into the dark room to flop face first into the squeaky bed. It made bouncy sex noises, at which point I remembered the gross nubbly comforter, and turned my face so I wouldn't get strangers’ genital-germs all over it.

I felt Batten tugging at my Keds. “What was all that about?” he asked.

“Why I wasn't wearing pants is completely unimportant,” I announced grandly.

“I hardly agree.”

“Now you sound like fuddy-duddy Harry.”

Batten moved in the dark. “I'll thank you to take that back.”

“That's exactly what Harry would say. Word for word!” I turned to hands and knees on the bed to face him. “It's fucking creepy, dude. Knock it off.”

Batten sighed. “Are you going to be fine if I go, or are you going to choke to death on your own vomit?”

“I'm not gonna…” I belched, and it tasted like whiskey. A
lot
of whiskey. “You know, I kinda like my assistant. He assists me. In learning stuff. Like sea shanties, and dancing in my underpants, and fun with booze. That li'l leprechaun is all right.”

“Don't enjoy him too much.”

I grinned. “You mad, vamp hunter? Wanna show me on the dolly where the bad psychic touched you?”

“That's enough.” His jaw clenched and unclenched. “Just go to sleep.”

“See? I told everyone you were a jackass, and boy, was I right.”

“You told everyone I'm a jackass, huh?”

“Not everyone. Just all the people who work with us.” I chewed thoughtfully on my bottom lip. “And the people at Claire's Early Bird. And the grocery boy. My hairdresser. My sister. My mailman. My masseur. I might have told my gynecologist.”

“Does my name spring from your mouth every time your legs spread?”

“No,” I scoffed. “Only, like, half the time.”

Through the paper-thin walls I heard Declan cry, “To the sea!”

“To the sea!” I echoed, raising my invisible cup and toasting his general direction.

Batten snorted and pointed to the head of the bed. “Sleep.”

“I'm not tired,” I insisted, with a wink. “Very not tired. Know what I mean?”

Batten's lopsided smile was a bright flash in the dim, as he shook his head back and forth, and peeled my clutching hands off his arms.

“Yeah, I don't think so, Snickerdoodle. Have to take a rain check.”

“It
is
raining. It's fucking pouring. That's just a fact, and you can't argue with facts because then you're just being dense,” I slurred, pawing him, “so stop being dense and take off those pants, Special Agent!”

“Keep your voice down,” he said, trapping both of my small hands together in his large one, “these walls are as thin as your attempts to con me into bed.”

“I can be quieter!” I stage-whispered up at him, eying his belt and wriggling closer on my knees.

“Doubt that,” he said. “Know how loud you're whispering? The night manager turned off his porn to listen-in.”

“Then we'll have to be super-stealthy. Like sex ninjas.”

“That's not a thing.”

“It should be. There should be a class.”

“A sex ninja class,” he clarified.

“I'd take that class. Lesson one: Silent Seductions.” I lowered my voice to whisper: “
Boink boink boink
.”

Batten pinched his lips. “Aaaaaand this is why Marnie Baranuik shouldn't drink.” He gave me one of his super-serious looks.
Kill-Notch means business
. “Sleep it off.”

“I'll sleep
you
off,” I threatened.

“Shhhh,” he insisted.

“I'll be more careful,” I swore, wetting my lips. “It'll be our little secret, just like you said.”

He pointed in my face sternly. “Behave.”

“Wouldn't you rather…” My tongue darted out to lick the tip of his finger.

Batten said, “Not fair.”

“And you texting me about your balls is fair?” I said.

“You said that had no effect whatsoever.”

I eyed him like he was crazy. “I lied. Duh.”

“So it gets you hot?”

“Does this answer your question?” I stood, wobbly on the bed, or maybe it was my legs that were unsteady. Incredibly, it only took a second to whip my shirt off over my head, but when I peeled my pants down to my ankles, the tangle of denim proved too much for my drunken balance and I flipped off the bed with a flailing whoop. I wrestled to liberate my ankles from the jeans, but they were caught fast.

“Wait!” I kicked free of my pants. “I'm still sexy! Hold on!”

Batten watched me with pinched eyebrows for a moment before he lost it completely. His shoulders shook with surrender, and, covering his laugh with one hand while offering me assistance with the other, he hauled me up. “On your feet, babe.” He gave me the head-to-toe inspection and shook his head sadly. “Jesus. You are one hot mess.”

“Stop fighting it.” I shoved my unruly hair back from my face. “You know you wanna.”

“Think about your pro/con list,” he reminded.

“Pro: I'm hotter when drunk,” I said.

“Sad but true,” he agreed, maneuvering me back onto the relative safety of the bed.

I stuck up a second finger. “Con: My hotness will destroy your eyes.”

“My career, my hopes, my dreams…” he added. “Just how drunk are you?”

“If I say ‘
soooo
drunk’, are you leaving your pants on?”

“Bet your ass.” Batten grinned. “Scale of one to ten, ten being hammer—”

“Negative eleventy-seventeen!” I hung upside down off the end of the bed and beckoned at his fly. “You know, from this angle, when you shake your head
no
it looks like
yes.
”

“G'night, Snickerdoodle.”

“How can a man with your sex drive say no to a chick in her underpants?”

“Because she's a crazy drunk chick in her…” He cocked his head to one side, frowning to make out the print. “Are those frogs on your panties?”

“Dude, be a pal.”

“Integrity, babe. Ask me again when you're sober. And remind me to bring a marker, so I can draw fangs on those frogs.”

I moaned in his direction. “I've had a shitty, shitty week and I need you to
do me
something fierce.”

He pretended to consider this, but even through the fog of booze I could tell he had no intention of losing the pants. “Fierce, huh?”

“Like, two-badgers-in-a-cardboard-box fierce.”

“That sounds messy and weird.”

“Sex with me is always messy and weird. Wait, that's not sexy. Pretend I said something sexy.”

“At this point I don't think that's possible. You need to sleep.” Batten retreated to the door and put his hand on the knob, indicated the bar lock. “Lock this behind me.”

“You and your stupid pink pansy heart.”

“Lock it,” he insisted. With a broad grin full of meaning, he left the room, and I promptly passed out.

C
HAPTER
43

I WOKE UP ALONE,
just the way I like it, sprawled out naked in the sweaty sheets like a happy tramp. It took me a minute or two of fuzzy blinking before I remembered my attempt to drunkenly seduce Hotass Batten. Burying my face in my pillow and calling myself every synonym for nitwit I knew did not help. Maybe I wouldn't have to see him for a while. Maybe I'd ride back home in Declan's car. Maybe I'd die in the shower and never have to face either one of them. Naked and sweaty, good. Writhing in mortified shame, bad.

I dragged myself to the bathroom to find my toiletries bag. Adding a couple extra Tylenol to my now-daily dose, I showered, thrice-brushed my teeth and whiskey-pickled tongue, and dressed warm, throwing a cardigan over my shoulders. The room was humid and hot but I was shivering. Whatever my nagging flu bug was, it hadn't abated with Harry's feeding or Wesley's forced drinking-from-Shield-through-IV-tube business. It also wasn't helped by a roaring hangover.

I schlepped to the motel manager's office, held my breath against the eye-stinging stench of ammonia, and grabbed some vague imitation of breakfast to take back to my room: a plastic-wrapped atrocity reheated in a sauce-splattered microwave and a rock-hard brownie dense enough to double as a doorstop. With the prospect of eating, my headache began to fade enough for me to marvel at the high-class accommodations the PCU had sprung for; this place was almost as swanky as the dump in Cheektowaga where Batten and I had first discovered our unfortunate addiction to hate-fucking the holy shit out of each other.

After guzzling half a gallon of tap water in the bathroom, I wondered if I should go back to sleep for another hour, but before I
could choose sleep over forcing my breakfast down my throat, a knock on the door squashed that plan.

I whipped the motel room door open immediately upon Batten's insistent rap, which made him scowl, fist in mid-air.

“Oh God, it's you,” I groaned.

“Thought I told you to check before opening,” he scolded. “Good news is, I'm not a psycho.”

I gave him my primo deadpan. “Are you sure?”