Page 58 of Finders Reapers

“No, love.” He said. “He’s not going to Hell.”

We walked towards the doors just as they swished open to reveal the outside world. A tear rolled down my face, and then another. Soon I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t breathe. The lump in my throat was too much, as strange wheezing noises escaped from my mouth.

Jamal stopped his hand in mine.

The doors swished closed again.

The cracked asphalt of the parking lot and the desert sand stretched out beyond the frosted glass doors, but I knew the moment we stepped through them, we would be back in the Bellagio.

“I’m not ready to go back,” I whispered. “Just a minute.” My voice was foggy with tears.

Jamal tugged my hand, and I collided with his chest. He wrapped his arms around me, tucking my petite body into his warmth, and rested his head on the top of mine.

“Take as long as you need, love.” He whispered, stroking my head. “I won’t tell a soul.”

Chapter 8

It was night by the time we stepped back into the suite at the Bellagio, and I felt like I had lived several days at once.

My muscles ached, and my eyes burned with tiredness. My stomach churned, hungry from not eating all day.

I made my way to the sectional like a woman on a mission and dove headfirst onto the side. My body was a plank, and my face was buried in the seat cushions.

“I’ll get us some food.” Jamal chuckled.

I did not lift my head and simply responded with a “Mmf.”

“Do you know what you want? Or are you not fussed?” Jamal continued.

I lifted a hand and waved in his direction in a noncommittal fashion. He got the message, and I kept my face buried in the cushion even though I was smiling at his Britishness and his use of the word ‘fussed.’

I must have fallen asleep on the couch because one moment I was face down, and the next, Jamal sat down with a plate filled with food. The coffee table in front of the sectional was filled with takeout boxes. There is a large lasagne, a Caprese salad, alfredo, and spaghetti.

Jamal handed me the plate in his hand before he set about serving himself.

My mouth was filled with food when Fletcher strode into the room, dressed in a pair of combat trousers with an obscure tie-dye pattern in the pansexual pride flag colors and a poncho.

Fletcher beamed as soon as he saw the food. “Yes.” He said simply, turning to Jamal. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“Careful, Fletch.” Jamal joked. “Anyone would think I was proposing.”

“If you feed me, I’d be happy to be your wifey.” Fletcher shrugged out of his poncho and strode towards the food like a lion hunting his prey. He dumped a stack of paper on the edge of the couch along with his poncho and grabbed himself a plate.

“Where did you go today?” Jamal asked.

Fletcher rolled his eyes, his mouth filled with food. He chewed his bite before he answered. “Morgue.”

Jamal frowned. “That’s odd.”

“Were you collecting a soul?” I wondered, grabbing a napkin to wipe the side of my mouth.

“Our Grim tends to handle accidents and emergencies. Not so much natural death.” Fletcher’s gaze flicked down to my lips as he answered. “We normally get the soul before the body is cold.” He explained. “I picked up your file.”

My eyes rounded. “Myfile.”

“Uh-huh,” Fletcher replied, stuffing another fork filled with food in his mouth.

I moved my plate onto the table and held out my hands—making a ‘gimme’ motion with my fingers. Jamal snatched up the file and passed it to me.