Page 24 of Hellbound

“Please do. Craig’s available twenty-four-seven. He used to work for Kourtney Kar—”

“I don’t care.” Marian reached into her pocket and pulled out enough singles to cover the coffee and tip. “I gotta go.”

Before your presence makes me throw up my Folgers.

Marian pulled the brim of her hat down and skulked toward the door without so much as a backwards glance at the demon, who called after her in an airy voice.

“Next time, let’s meet at my studio. I’d love to send you home with some products that’ll make those little under-eye baggies disappear.”

Marian kept her eyes trained on the door as she maneuvered her way through the crowd of unseated guests. Only when she was outside again did she realize she’d barely taken a full breath throughout the whole encounter. She rounded the corner to a wall without windows, tipped her head back and indulged in a deep inhale.

How did Verinne know that Mr. Vale was hunting something? Why were secrets always so heavy?

But the thought she kept coming back to? For someone who supposedly wasn’t broke anymore and keen to suck up to a diver, Verinne hadn’t offered to pay for Marian’s single damn cup of coffee.

She let her head roll forward until her chin hit her chest. Had this been a waste of time? Doubt gnawed at her nerves.

Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

Fuck, she needed a drink.

CHAPTER SEVEN

There were a handful of cheap bars in Marian’s neighborhood, but only one that still let her keep a tab. The Annex’s vibe was a blend of abandoned factory, and “neighborhood dive, but make it a horror movie.” Time had gnawed away at the interior; the myriad stains and holes marring the brick walls suggested that the place had been on fire, flooded, and shot at over the course of its existence. Every table reeked of nacho cheese and the floor outside the restroom was aggressively sticky, but none of that bothered Marian. The eighties power ballads blasting on loop did a bit, though.

The Annex was a place where she could enjoy a cheap drink, cheaper pizza, and practice shallow conversation with the flightiest bartender in North Hollywood.

“Okay, so,” Paul said as he leaned against the counter, lips pursed and brows low—his telltale I’ve-got-some-dumb-bad-news face. “Turns out we do have pizza today, but I’m not allowed to serve it to you.”

He may also have been the worst bartender Marian had ever met. The guy had a habit of leaving the place unattended when it was busy, and he spent more time chatting with patrons or to himself than pouring drinks. Marian wouldn’t complain so long as he kept forgetting to add meals to her tab, which happened so frequently that she wondered if he was trying to get fired. Aside from his tendency to take off his shirt on the job, Marian found Paul inoffensive. Him being moderately attractive didn’t hurt, either.

Marian frowned as she took a swig of her well whiskey and soda. She’d stopped ordering beer when it became clear Paul never cleaned the taps. “Why?”

Paul’s face split into a wide, sheepish grin.

“I may have accidentally told Iggy it was specifically you asking about the pizza, and he said you can’t have any.”

Marian threw up her hands. “Oh, come the fuck on.”

“I know. That guy is, like, really mean. Did you know that he—”

“You can’t tell me there’s pizza here and then not give me the pizza.” Marian swiveled on her stool and shouted across the empty bar toward the kitchen. “That’s a violation of the Geneva Conventions!”

She swiveled back to find Paul with his head cocked and arms folded across his broad chest, which was on the verge of bursting through his too-tight black shirt. The sleeves could barely even stretch around his corded biceps; it afforded her almost a full view of his blackout sleeve and the spindly white tree winding up the length of his arm. As far as Marian could tell, he didn’t play sports or frequent the gym; Paul was just jacked for no reason.

“Well, you did punch his boyfriend.”

Marian reached for her drink. “That guy was an asshole, and I was smashed. Those two things should cancel each other out.”

“I was there, you know,” Paul replied, his dark brown gaze darting to the kitchen door. “I watched you puke on the ATM because your ‘fist hurt too much from punching so good.’ ”

Marian didn’t really know Iggy, the Annex’s lone cook. But she knew firsthand that Iggy reheated a mean pizza. Marian just didn’t know that the Texas asshole she’d decked two months ago at karaoke night and Iggy’s boyfriend were the same person. The guy walked away with a black eye, and now Marian’s order always came out cold, incorrect, or wet. She didn’t even remember what he’d said to set her off.

Paul pushed off the counter. “Lucky for you, I know how to use the fryer. So, your options are french fries or french fries.”

“Surprise me. With ketchup.”

Paul rapped his knuckles on the counter with a grin. “You got it. Keep an eye on the place for a minute.” He slipped out from behind the counter and disappeared down the hall, leaving Marian completely alone in the front. It was the first quiet moment she’d had since she walked in.