The Devil's in the Details (8 page)

“I’ll take it.” My gaze shifted to the display case at the front and my weakness for faux chic gripped me. “How much did you say that Fandora bracelet was?”

“Hi, everyone. My name is Jess and I’m a sex addict.”

I’d like to say that I had loads of self-control and had kicked the lust bug by sheer willpower alone. But the truth was, I’d needed a little help to climb onto the wagon and to stay on the wagon, particularly after last night’s fantasy starring Cutter Owens.

I’d thought about him and how I shouldn’t want to call him and how I really,
really
did want to call him on account of he was so hot and I was so horny.

It was a good thing for me it was Sunday. Because Sundays meant one thing—the weekly meeting of the southeast chapter of the Circle of Love.

Note the word
love
rather than
lust
.

We were a fourteen-step group (we sex addicts needed two more than the usual twelve) committed to supporting one another by sharing stories, advice, and the occasional recipe. I’d contributed my infamous Chocolate Chip Nirvana cookies last month, which had met with rave reviews and three marriage proposals. Obviously sexual demons weren’t the only ones who needed a little sugar in the tank to stay on the straight and narrow.

I’d brought a dozen everything-but-the-kitchen-sink brownies tonight. Which had been a generous two dozen before three more cousins had stopped by to interrogate me about the upcoming wedding—I’d yet to use my demon dust. I’d been weak and hungry and, well, at least I’d made it here with something.

“I’ve been riding the good-girl train for two years, four months, and twenty-two days,” I went on.
And twelve hours and fourteen minutes
, my deprived hormones added silently.

Sherrie, a real-estate agent and mother of three who’d started the group several years ago, beamed at me and shifted her attention to the man seated to my right—a bald accountant with a pocket calculator and a Snickers bar. She motioned for him to keep the intros moving and he stood up. “My name is Alex. I’m a CPA and I’m a sex addict too.”

The intros rolled on around the circle, one after the other.

“My name is Trish LaFleur. I’m the head pastry chef at Belle Venue and I’m a sex addict.”

“My name is Kevin Martinson. I own Perfectly Fit, a nearby fitness club. I can do five hundred sit-ups, four hundred chin-ups, and two hours straight of cardio without getting winded, and I’m a sex addict.” Kevin had all the muscles to back up his statement and a pair of dimples that made my stomach tremble when he smiled.

My mouth watered, and I counted down the minutes until I could tackle the dessert table and the last of the brownies. Why, oh, why hadn’t I slipped one into my purse before sitting down?

“…name is Frank and I’m a sex addict,” said the guy sitting to Kevin’s right. “I also sell car insurance on the side, so if anyone needs a quote just see me after the session.”

Sherrie frowned, and middle-aged Frank slid back into his seat as if he’d been whacked with a ruler. She shifted her attention to the next person, and the introductions went on for the next few minutes until we reached the last person, the woman sitting just to my left.

Her blonde highlights had been cut into a stylish bob. She wore a petal-pink tracksuit, white running shoes, and a massive handbag that actually wiggled as she shifted it to the side and stood. “My name is Tammie Mae Hutchinson. I don’t actually work, but I
am
president of the Kingwood Estates Home Owners Association.” When Sherrie gave her a look that said
and?
, she added, “Oh, I’m also vice president for the Fairchild Elementary School PTA and secretary for the Kingwood Little League Association.” She started to sit down, but Sherrie cleared her throat. “I’m also an s-e-x addict,” she added before sinking back to her chair.

“It’s okay.” I smiled. “I was nervous my first time too.”

“Oh, it’s not my first meeting.” She waved a hand. “I used to belong to the Kingwood chapter, but all of our members graduated, so I’ve merged with this group. I’ve been to fifty-nine meetings including this one. I’m just uncomfortable saying the word out loud.”

“Religious issues?”

“Toddlers.”

“Now that everyone knows everyone,” Sherrie announced, “it’s time to share. Please remember. This is a safe place. No judgments. Just acceptance and understanding. And then refreshments.” Heads bobbed around the group, and she added, “Now would anyone like to tell us about any experiences since our last meeting that might have tested your progress in the program? Any instances where you wanted to slide back down the proverbial ladder? Or perhaps you slid and you’re ready to own up to your mistake so that you can shed the baggage and start climbing again?”

Frank’s hand slid into the air. “I met this pretty hot waitress over at this diner out in Clear Lake last weekend. I was giving an insurance quote to the owner—I managed to save him fifty percent off what he was currently paying—and she smiled at me. That was all it took for things to go south. I started having thoughts…”

Frank the insurance guy went on with several descriptive images before Sherrie cut him short, much to everyone’s dismay (hey, it’s the doing that’s off-limits, not the hearing about it).

“So what did you do about those urges?” she asked. “Did you act on them?”

“I almost propositioned her, but then I pictured my wife, Julie, and I ordered a slice of apple pie with two scoops of ice cream instead.”

Go, Frank.

“I’ve got something even more powerful that doesn’t pack on the pounds,” said the PTA mom next to me. “I’ve been on the wagon for over a year now and it’s all because of my poochies. See, my therapist suggested I try nurturing something instead of feeding my own desires and, what do you know? It worked. The only problem is, Candy and Molly—they’re my babies—turned out to be Candy and Mitch, so now I’ve got puppies.” She hefted the bag, which I then realized was one of those chic dog purses, and opened up the top to reveal a half dozen squirming balls of fluff. “They all need good homes if anyone is interested.”

“Well, now, what a lovely offer,” Sherrie said. “I think we should break now and give everyone a chance to check out these adorable puppies.”

The group crowded around Tammie Mae, but yours truly, being the typical dog-fearing demon, headed for the refreshment table.

I was stuffing another brownie into my mouth and trying to ignore Kevin flexing in my peripheral when Tammie Mae came up behind me.

“Rough night?”

“Something like that,” I mumbled around a mouthful.

“Well, I have just the thing to cheer you right up.” She reached into her massive handbag, which I’d thought was now empty. No such luck. She pulled out a miniature black Yorkie with loads of hair and a black-and-white polka-dot bow on top of its head.

The canine version of Snooki took one look at me and started yapping frantically.

“She’s my last one,” Tammie said.

“I’ll have to pass.”

“Come on. She’s a cutie, and if I come home with this dog, my husband will shoot me. He says our house is too full as it is, what with the kids and four dogs.”

“I thought you had two dogs.”

“I had to keep a few puppies for myself. Anyhow, she’s nine weeks old and guaranteed to keep you so busy you don’t have a second to think about all the nooky you’re giving up.”

I had no doubt. She was sure to raise such a ruckus on account of my demon vibe that the only thing I would be thinking about was smothering myself with a pillow.

I shrugged. “I’m not much of a dog person.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Go on and hold her. She likes you.”

“She’s growling at me.”

“She just needs to warm up to you a little.”

“My building has a no-pets policy, but thanks anyway. Have a brownie.” I shoved a piece into her mouth when it dropped open to argue and beat a hasty retreat to the other side of the room just as Sherrie called the meeting back to order.

No way was I getting stuck with a dog. Even if it was the last one. And kind of cute.

And sitting in a cardboard box on my front seat when I walked out of the building and opened the door of my Cube.

She’ll be the best thing that ever happened to you.

I read the note sitting on my dash before my head jerked around the parking lot, searching for Tammie. But I’d stayed a few extra minutes to gather up my brownie plate, so the parking lot was all but empty.

Just yours truly and a yapping Snooki, who eyeballed me as if she fully expected my head to do a three-sixty.

“You don’t want to go home with me, do you?”

She growled and barked that much louder.

“I didn’t think so.”

Which meant I had to call animal control.

Problem solved, I told myself as I reached into my purse for my phone. I punched in the digits for information. The experts would come and pick her up.

And possibly send her to a shelter where she would be the smallest and most vulnerable among a cage full of big, starving dogs who would rather eat her than look at her.

“You have to come home with me,” I heard myself say as I killed the phone and stuffed it back into my purse.

I fought down a thousand years of instinct that told me this was a bad idea and pushed the box over onto the passenger’s seat.

Demons and dogs were like water and oil. They just didn’t mix, and to even try would be a major catastrophe. Besides, I had stuff to do. I still had hours’ worth of venue details to work on before tomorrow. Add to that the demon-proofing job that lay ahead of me courtesy of Sassy and her magic powder, and the last thing I had enough time (or nerves) for was a yapping dog.

But as busy as I was, and as loud as she was, I still couldn’t let her end up a midnight snack for some depraved Doberman. Talk about screwing up my searching-for-true-love mojo.

It was one night.

I could figure something else out tomorrow.

Holding tight to the thought, I slid into the front seat, glared at Snooki until the yapping faded into a low growl, and headed for a nearby twenty-four-hour Walmart for doggie supplies, including a pink ceramic Diva Pooch bowl, a bag of high-protein dog food, a doggie gate, and the cutest rhinestone collar.

What?

She was destitute, and I wasn’t equipped to play hostess, even for one night.

Or two.

I’d read a news poll once that claimed Monday was the most hated day of the week.

The big M meant the tragic end of the weekend and the start of another grueling work fest. It marked the slowest and most painful eight hours of the proverbial forty plus. It was also the busiest day for suicide prevention hotlines, depression clinics, and Krispy Kreme bakeries.

All right, so I’d added that last one based on the forty-five minutes I’d just wasted picking up a dozen glazed, but still.

Bottom line—Mondays sucked, and no one in their right mind would think otherwise.

I topped off my second cup of black coffee and stopped whistling the chorus of “We Found Love” (barely audible above the constant yapping coming from the bathroom) long enough to take a drink and snatch up my briefcase. A few seconds later, I skipped downstairs to my office, a smile on my face and Rihanna belting it out in my head.

After the weekend I’d had—not one, but
two
visits from my
madre
, various demons popping in to poke their noses in my business (not to mention the one threatening my existence), and an entire night of high-pitched barking—even the most dreaded workday seemed like a dream come true.

A chance to throw myself into a great big vat of normal for a few hours and forget the totally abnormal state of my crappy existence.

That, and I was just this side of punchy after only forty-seven minutes of sleep. While Sassy’s powder had done the trick last night
and I hadn’t entertained any unexpected visitors, I hadn’t
known
it would work. I’d found myself wide-awake most of the night (thank you, Snooki), either surfing the Internet for possible venues for my ma or scarfing cookies and staring in abstract paranoia at the windows and doors. The little bit of shut-eye I did manage had been riddled with superhot fantasies starring a certain demon hunter with amazing eyes and buns of steel.