Page 67 of Covert Affections (Shadow Agents/PSI-Ops #5)

Chapter Fifty-One

Lindy

Lindy stood in the kitchen of the bar, shaking her head as Bill tried, yet again, to get her to taste his Wild Bill Outlaw Wings.

They were something he’d been working on since he’d met her in the parking lot when she’d arrived with Nicholas to open the place.

Bill had helped carry in the groceries and had commended Nicholas on his amazing baking skills right before swiping a box of cookies from the delivery van.

By the time Nicholas realized they weren’t in the van, Bill had already shoved most of them in his mouth.

Nicholas had seemed more amused than annoyed with Bill. Even when Bill tried to get back into the van and go for the cakes that were there. Nicholas had skillfully removed Bill without incident and left with Lindy’s car keys and the promise to see to it to someone got her vehicle to the shop.

Waverly had arrived as Nicholas was pulling away, missing all the fun. She’d helped unpack the groceries and had buddied up with Bill quickly, all while laughing at the man’s outfit.

He was wearing a chef’s hat made from an old newspaper, folded into a lopsided cone that titled precariously to one side.

What appeared to be last week’s obituaries formed the front panel, leaving him looking like a demented preschool project gone wrong.

He had on an apron that said, “ Kiss the Chef’s Ass,” and on it was a mule with its backside on display.

On said backside was a large set of lips.

The apron had two large pockets that looked to be stuffed full of what was anyone’s guess.

There were numerous stains on the thing from culinary disasters from Bill’s past.

When Lindy had first seen Bill in the bar’s parking lot, the only thing he’d had on under his apron was his tighty-whities (which weren’t so white).

They’d been sagging slightly and had done nothing to hide the unnatural amount of leg and back hair the man had.

Thinking about it now left Lindy’s stomach curling.

As for footwear, he had on cowboy boots.

He'd had a catcher’s mitt under one arm and an oven mitt on his right hand. When she’d asked about the catcher’s mitt, he’d given her a look that suggested she might not be smart enough to understand and then proceeded to speak very slowly when he said, “To take hot things out of ovens, Lindy-Lou.”

Lindy had a feeling she’d never get the image of him in all of that out of her head.

Waverly had run over to the general store and gotten Bill a pair of gym shorts on sale.

They looked like Capri pants on him since he was so short, but they covered his ass—thankfully.

They were a rather obnoxious orange, but they were far better than the underwear.

Lindy had given him another T-shirt from the bar’s supply.

It was the same style as the one that Waverly was wearing except in baby blue.

It also announced him as being a staff member.

He wasn’t, but there was no telling him that.

He was convinced he was the bar’s new cook.

Lindy had only known Bill for five days, but it already felt as if she’d known him a lifetime. And she felt safe saying; he was a full-time job all unto himself. She wasn’t sure how Charley was managing to handle him at the rescue, but so far, he’d not burned the place down… yet .

It was hard for Lindy to believe it had been less than a week since she’d hosted the man-meat market for Charley. Five nights since she’d had the best sex dream of her life and five days since she’d used her succubus side to heal Fluffy.

That was the last time she’d seen the big cat.

She knew she should be happy for the animal.

The fact she’d not found him on her porch or near the back dumpster again probably meant he was totally fine and off living life where he should be, in the wilderness, not in her house.

But still, it was kind of lonely without him.

So much so Lindy had considered going to the humane society to see what cats needed to be adopted.

Charley probably had a flier there with Lindy’s picture on it, warning them of her inability to care for a goldfish.

I did all right with a mountain lion.

Doubtful she could use that experience as a reference.

A cat could help fight the loneliness she felt at her house.

Charley was so busy at the rescue that they’d only managed a few phone calls, Robert was ignoring her, Fluffy was gone and Teresa was on a boat somewhere.

Waverly was the person she’d seen the most over the past week, followed closely by Bill, who showed up every evening after his shift ended at the rescue and proceeded to make himself right at home in the bar’s kitchen.

Lindy had given Bill free run of the place so long as he promised to clean up any messes he made.

While he’d started working on another big pot of chili, Lindy had taken time to pack up Irwin’s personal items. She’d boxed up everything he’d left in his locker in the break room, as well as the photos he’d had taped to the wall in the kitchen—the ones that showed him holding various fish he’d caught.

She’d printed out his last paycheck and planned to include it in the box as well.

She was pissed that Irwin had left her high and dry, but he’d earned the money. She wouldn’t deny him that.

“Come on, Lindy-Lou,” Bill said, waving a chicken wing under her nose as if proximity would increase the likelihood of her wanting to try it. “These are delicious! A culinary masturbation .”

“Masterpiece,” corrected Lindy and Waverly at the same time, having gotten used to the man’s habit of confusing his words and sayings. At least he’d stopped talking about how familiar the bar’s kitchen was.

“Whatever floats your boats, ladies. I, myself, prefer a good chicken choking,” Bill said with a shrug before waving the chicken wing around more.

Droplets of the fiery sauce flew from the wing as he gestured, leaving tiny red splatters on the counter.

“You sure you don’t want to give the wing a try, Lindy-Lou? ”

“I’m not a fan of spicy food, and I can smell the spice from here,” said Lindy, having learned her lesson after trying a cup of the chili he’d made. It had been good, but it had done a number on her digestive system.

The smell of the chicken wing was enough to turn her stomach. It smelled as though it was fried in hell with an army of ghost peppers standing guard, and there was no way she was daring enough to try it.

Plus, she wasn’t entirely sure what it was he’d put on the wings despite having watched him preparing them.

When he’d pulled a squeeze bottle, with no label, of what he dubbed his secret ingredient from the pocket of the apron, she’d considered shutting down his entire operation.

She didn’t want to get a visit from the health department.

The only bright side was if the inspector did show, Bill now had on shorts and a shirt under the apron, rather than just stained underwear.

“People rave about my wings,” Bill added proudly.

He puffed out his chest, causing the newspaper chef’s hat to tilt further to one side, threatening to slide off completely.

“Been a line cook at diners and dive bars before. Hell, in the war I had something of a reputation for being able to make a gourmet meal out of just about anything. You should taste my Shit on a Shingle . Best creamed chipped beef you’ll ever put in your mouth.

I really need to make a cookbook. I’m that good. ”

“Shit on a Shingle?” mouthed Waverly over the top of Bill’s head, her expression a perfect blend of horror and fascination.

Lindy suppressed a laugh and shrugged. She had no idea what Bill was talking about.

“Folks say my wings are better than sex. They’re good but not better than any sex I’ve ever had. But to each his own,” said Bill, pride in his voice as he used his free hand to adjust his paper chef’s hat.

“Better than sex? Well, now I really do need to try them,” said Waverly, stepping closer. “I’m going through a sexual dry spell. Might as well get some chicken.”

“I wouldn’t do it if I were you,” cautioned Lindy. She eyed the squeeze bottle of Bill’s secret sauce on the center island, shocked whatever was in it hadn’t eaten through the plastic.

Waverly reached for the wing despite the warning.

Bill yanked the wing closer to his chest, and sauce dripped freely down his arm.

He licked it off. “I may or may not need you to sign a waiver before you try this. Wait, with your name being what it is—Waiver-Lee—does that already count as having cartel brunch ? You like a walking release form or what?”

Waverly cocked her head to one side, watching the man with amusement on her face. “Carte blanche.”

“Huh?” he asked. “What’s that?”

“It’s what I think you were aiming at…freedom to do as someone pleases,” returned Waverly. “What you said would be me having lunch with organized crime members.”

“Been there, done that,” said Bill with a low whistle.

His bushy eyebrows waggled so vigorously they seemed to take on a life of their own.

“Got the T-shirt to go with it. Zero stars. Not recommended. Now, about you agreeing to the possibility of any of the following: tastebud damage, loss of vision—could be temporary, might not be though, the possibility of waking up in another city or state unsure how you got there or who the women in bed with you are,” he glanced around and lowered his voice, “the potential of waking up in another country, or in a cow field, with your pants around your ankles…”

Lindy’s eyes widened as she touched Waverly’s arm. “Oh God, do not put that thing your mouth.”

“There are so many that’s-what-she-said jokes that could be inserted here about putting that in my mouth,” said Waverly with a laugh.

Bill waved the chicken wing around. “Oh and I should probably mention these can cause injury to your asshole. May result in death too.”