Page 38 of The B!tch is Bad

Chapter 12

Patience

Holy water sprinkler.

The Kindly Sicario had just murdered my wannabe kidnaper.

And I was completely amped about it.

I clutched my lover’s hand until my claws made him bleed. My eyes widened so much they stung like hornets.

By the time Santiago wound up his story about g-loads and skulls skewering foot bones, I was hallelujahing to the skies. Sure, I’d tried to kill Fingerhut when I’d gotten my paws on his gun. But I was a numbnuts with a piece, and he’d easily wrangled it out of my hands before I even got off a shot. Hell, I was lucky he didn’t shoot me with it. Worry about doing jail time was the only thing that stopped him.

So yeah, I was ecstatic about Santiago’s activities in Grand Falls. Sure, Joe King was only the hired help. But he should’ve known the damage his sleuthing was doing to innocent wives everywhere who only wanted to escape violence. He was almost as deserving of dying in a kayak over a waterfall as Fingerhut. Well, I would’ve paid ten year’s rent for the chance to shoot Fingerhut in the femoral artery.

Flinging my arms around Santiago’s neck, I kissed him loudly on the face over and over. “How ever can we repay you, my darling hit man?”

I felt him grinning over my shoulder, talking to Creed. “Ah, my lady. It’s very simple. The club has taken care of you, as they do with me. We are even Steven. No worries.” He petted my hair. He smelled of earthy sweat and spicy cologne.

Behind me, Creed said, “I owe you a case of my finest Cab.”

“Now that I will accept.”

Our blissful moment was pierced by a long, keening cry coming from the direction of . . . my house? All three of us turned to face the window that had a view of my front door.

“What in the name of Sir Isaac Newton?” said Creed.

And “¡No manches!” uttered Santiago.

Me, I was just silent, like deep and dangerous waters. I knew this wailing caterwaul had something to do with Joe King or murder in general, and my eyes darted to the gun safe. The howling doubled in decibels when the woman—for surely it was a woman in the throes of terror, like fowl hearing a falcon’s bells—closed in on our house.

Santiago, drawing his piece, went flat on his back against Creed’s wall by the front door, like in his soap opera. Was he leaving it up to us to open the door to this crazed chick? Sprinting to the window, I pulled a Slayer too with back to the wall, only I had enough balls to peek through the curtain.

What was her name? It was one of the legions of Creed’s future ex-wives, the gals always clamoring around him at events. The chick with strap-on boobs, platinum hair, and wiggly eyeliner. I struggled to recall her name as she raced, arms flailing, up his front steps. Now her keening became more distinct.

“Creeeeed!“

“Amber!” Creed shouted with sudden recognition, darting for his front door.

She ran in, a bag of panting limbs. Creed had to catch her and ease her down onto a couch. In the hundred-yard dash, some of the hair extension clips had come off. Her eyeliner dripped down enhanced cheekbones.

“Tell us,” urged Creed. “Where did you just come from?”

Reholstering his weapon, Santiago came forward too. “Yes, yes, dear lady. What is the trouble?”

I sat cross-legged on the carpet near her. “Amber. What’s wrong?”

“I came from Sean’s,” she sobbed, her trembling hand hovering about her face.

“And?” asked Creed.

Now she sobbed into both her bony, shaking palms. Her terrified, bloodshot eyes stared at nothing. “He’s fucking dead!”

The three of us looked blankly at each other, openmouthed.

I was the first to turn back to Amber and demand, “How? A heart attack? What? Where is he?”

Amber broke into a fresh round of sobbing, drooling snot into her palm. “In his macramé room,” it sounded like she said. She finally stared directly at me, a sorceress without a hat. “He was shot!” And she collapsed onto Creed’s chest, sobbing freely.