Page 18 of Generally Hospitable (Good To The Last Demon #7)

“I didn’t leave that bowl in the sink,” I muttered to no one as I stared in confusion at the blue piece of pottery with milk residue in the bottom. “Wait. Did I?”

Slowly backing away, I ran my hands through my hair that hadn’t seen a brush in days—possibly longer—and decided that I wasn’t going to think too hard about it. Thinking led to introspective thought, which led to dealing with reality, and that was a no-no.

Reality wasn’t my thing right now.

Maybe I’d walked in my sleep, eaten a bowl of cereal, then politely put the bowl in the sink. It was possible.

“That has to be it,” I announced, walking out of the kitchen and avoiding all mirrors and any glass where I could catch a glimpse of myself.

It was time to get to work. Sadly, books didn’t write themselves.

“I can do this. I have to do this.” I sat down at my desk and made sure my posture didn’t suck.

I was fully aware it would suck in approximately five minutes, but I wanted to start out right.

It would be a bad week to throw my back out.

“Today, I’ll write ten thousand words. They will be coherent.

I will not mistakenly or on purpose make a list of the plethora of ways I would like to kill Darren.

He’s my past. Beheading him is illegal. I’m far better than that.

On a more positive note, my imaginary muse will show his ponytailed, obnoxious ass up today, and I won’t play Candy Jelly Crush until the words are on the page. ”

Two hours later…

Zero words. However, I’d done three loads of laundry—sweatpants, t-shirts and underwear—and played Candy Jelly Crush until I didn’t have any more lives.

As pathetic as I’d become, I hadn’t sunk so low as to purchase new lives.

That would mean I’d hit rock bottom. Of course, I was precariously close, evidenced by my cussing out of the Jelly Queen for ten minutes, but I didn’t pay for lives. I considered it a win.

I’d planned on folding the laundry but decided to vacuum instead.

I’d fold the loads by Friday. It was Tuesday.

That was reasonable. If they were too wrinkled, I’d simply wash them again.

No biggie. After the vacuuming was done, I rearranged my office for thirty minutes.

I wasn’t sure how to Feng Shui, but after looking it up on my phone, I gave it a half-assed effort.

Glancing around at my handiwork, I nodded. “Much better. If the surroundings are aligned correctly, the words will flow magically. I hope.”

Two hours later…

“Mother humper,” I grunted as I pushed my monstrosity of a bed from one side of the bedroom to the other. “This weighs a damn ton.”

I’d burned all the bedding seven weeks ago.

The bonfire had been cathartic. I’d taken pictures as the five hundred thread count sheets had gone up in flame.

I’d kept the comforter. I’d paid a fortune for it.

It had been thoroughly saged and washed five times.

Even though there was no trace of Darren left in the bedroom, I’d been sleeping in my office.

The house was huge, beautiful… and mine—a gorgeously restored Victorian where I’d spent tons of time as a child.

It had an enchanted feel to it that I adored.

I didn’t need such an enormous abode, but I loved the location—the middle of nowhere.

The internet was iffy, but I solved that by going into town to the local coffee shop if I had something important to download or send.

Darren, with the wandering pecker, thought he would get a piece of the house.

He was wrong. I’d inherited it from my whackadoo grandmother and great-aunt Flip.

My parents hadn’t always been too keen on me spending so much time with Granny and Aunt Flip growing up, but I adored the two old gals so much they’d relented.

Since I spent a lot of time in an imaginary dream world, my mom and dad were delighted when I related to actual people—even if they were left of center.

Granny and Flip made sure the house was in my name only—nontransferable and non-sellable.

It was stipulated that I had to pass it to a family member or the Historical Society when I died.

Basically, I had life rights. It was as if Granny and Aunt Flip had known I would waste two decades of my life married to a jackhole who couldn’t keep his salami in his pants and would need someplace to live.

God rest Granny’s insane soul. Aunt Flip was still kicking, although I hadn’t seen her in a few years.

Aunt Flip put the K in kooky. She’d bought a cottage in the hills about an hour away and grew medicinal marijuana—before it was legal.

The old gal was the black sheep of the family and preferred her solitude and her pot to company.

She hadn’t liked Darren a bit. She and Granny both had worn black to my wedding.

Everyone had been appalled—even me—but in the end, it made perfect sense.

I had to hand it to the old broads. They’d been smarter than me by a long shot.

And the house? It had always been my charmed haven in the storm.

Even though there were four spare bedrooms plus the master suite, I chose my office. It felt safe to me.

Thick Stella preferred my office, and I needed to be around something that had a heartbeat.

It didn’t matter that Thick Stella was bitchy and swiped at me with her deadly kitty claws every time I passed her.

I loved her. The feeling didn’t seem mutual, but she hadn’t left me for a twenty-three-year-old with silicone breast implants and huge, bright white teeth.

“Thick Stella, do you think Sasha should wear red to her stepmother’s funeral?” I asked as I plopped down on my newly Feng Shuied couch and narrowly missed getting gouged by my cat. “Yes or no? Hiss at me if it’s a yes. Growl at me if it’s a no.”

Thick Stella had a go at her privates. She was useless.

“That wasn’t an answer.” I grabbed my laptop from my desk. Deciding it was too dangerous to sit near my cat, I settled for the love seat. The irony of the piece of furniture I’d chosen didn’t escape me.

“I think she should wear red,” I told Thick Stella, who didn’t give a crap what Sasha wore. “Her stepmother was an asshat, and it would show fabu disrespect.”

Typing felt good. Getting lost in a story felt great.

I dressed Sasha in a red Prada sheath, then had her behead her ex-husband with a dull butter knife when he and his bimbo showed up unexpectedly to pay their respects at the funeral home.

It was a bloodbath. Putting Sasha in red was an excellent move. The blood matched her frock to a T.

Quickly rethinking the necessary murder, I moved the scene of the decapitation to the empty lobby of the funeral home.

It would suck if I had to send Sasha to prison.

She hadn’t banged Damien yet, and everyone was eagerly awaiting the sexy buildup—including me.

It was the fourth book in the series, and it was about time they got together. The sexual tension was palpable.

“What in the freaking hell?” I snapped my laptop shut and groaned. “Sasha doesn’t have an ex-husband. I can’t do this. I’ve got nothing.” Where was my muse hiding? I needed the elusive imaginary idiot if I was going to get any writing done. “Chauncey, dammit, where are you?”

“My God, you’re loud, Clementine,” a busty, beautiful woman dressed in a deep purple Regency gown said with an eye roll.

She was seated on the couch next to Thick Stella, who barely acknowledged her. My cat attacked strangers and friends. Not today. My fat feline simply glanced over at the intruder and yawned. The cat was a traitor.

Forget the furry betrayer. How in the heck did the woman get into my house—not to mention my office—without me seeing her enter? For a brief moment, I wondered if she’d banged my husband too but pushed the sordid thought out of my head. She looked to be close to thirty—too old for the asshole.

“Who are you?” I demanded, holding my laptop over my head as a weapon.

If I threw it and it shattered, I would be screwed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d backed it up. If I lost the measly, somewhat disjointed fifty thousand words I’d written so far, I’d have to start over. That wouldn’t fly with my agent or my publisher.

“Don’t be daft,” the woman replied. “It’s rather unbecoming. May I ask a question?”

“No, you may not,” I shot back, trying to place her.

She was clearly a nutjob. The woman was rolling up on thirty but had the vernacular of a seventy-year-old British society matron.

She was dressed like she’d walked off the set of a film starring Emma Thompson.

Her blonde hair shone to the point of absurdity and was twisted into an elaborate up-do.

Wispy tendrils framed her perfectly heart-shaped face.

Her sparkling eyes were lavender, enhanced by the over-the-top gown she wore.

Strangely, she was vaguely familiar. I just couldn’t remember how I knew her.

“How long has it been since you attended to your hygiene?” she inquired.

Putting my laptop down and picking up a lamp, I eyed her.

I didn’t care much for the lamp or her question.

I had been thinking about Marie Condo-ing my life, and the lamp didn’t bring me all that much joy.

If it met its demise by use of self-defense, so be it.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, lady.

What I’d suggest is that you leave. Now.

Or else I’ll call the police. Breaking and entering is a crime. ”

She laughed. It sounded like freaking bells. Even though she was either a criminal or certifiable, she was incredibly charming.

“Oh dear,” she said, placing her hand delicately on her still heaving, milky-white bosom. “You are so silly. The constable knows quite well that I’m here. He advised me to come.”

“The constable?” I asked, wondering how far off her rocker she was.

She nodded coyly. “Most certainly. We’re all terribly concerned.”

I squinted at her. “About my hygiene?”