Read Online The Devil's in the Details by Kimberly Raye - Free Book Online
Authors: Kimberly Raye
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do holy water either.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Agnostic?”
“Claustrophobic.” Liquid would seep into the woodwork and carpet and be impossible to get out. My ma and cousins wouldn’t just be locked out.
I’d
be locked
in
.
Had I thought about this stuff or what?
“Don’t you have something that’s more here today and gone tomorrow?” I asked. “I’m leasing.”
Her brows drew together and I knew I’d screwed myself with the
claustrophobic
comment. She’d picked up on the fact that I wasn’t just a hot, vivacious human with a nasty demon problem.
Rather, I
was
the nasty demon.
I held my breath as I waited for her to start chanting an Eject spell or wag a yak’s tongue at me. Luckily, she seemed more interested in making a buck than casting me out.
She shrugged. “Many believe that a mixture of salt and various powdered herbs can form a barrier against demons.” She grabbed one of the numerous jars that lined the top shelf and unscrewed the lid to reveal a bright-pink powder mixed with white crystals. “You could try sprinkling this around the doors and windows, and then just suck it up the next morning with a DustBuster.”
“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?”
7
“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
She arched an eyebrow. “Agnostic?”
“Claustrophobic.” Liquid would seep into the woodwork and carpet and be impossible to get out. My ma and cousins wouldn’t just be locked out.
I’d
be locked
in
.
Had I thought about this stuff or what?
“Don’t you have something that’s more here today and gone tomorrow?” I asked. “I’m leasing.”
Her brows drew together and I knew I’d screwed myself with the
claustrophobic
comment. She’d picked up on the fact that I wasn’t just a hot, vivacious human with a nasty demon problem.
Rather, I
was
the nasty demon.
I held my breath as I waited for her to start chanting an Eject spell or wag a yak’s tongue at me. Luckily, she seemed more interested in making a buck than casting me out.
She shrugged. “Many believe that a mixture of salt and various powdered herbs can form a barrier against demons.” She grabbed one of the numerous jars that lined the top shelf and unscrewed the lid to reveal a bright-pink powder mixed with white crystals. “You could try sprinkling this around the doors and windows, and then just suck it up the next morning with a DustBuster.”
“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?”
7
“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
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