Page 8

Chapter 7

Shag Your Way Out of This …

Jemma

“W hat the actual …” I gasped as I tumbled out of the spinning, travelling thingamajig back into my living room. I scrambled away as it sealed up behind me, almost like a zipper closing between two dimensions. “Did that … am I still dreaming?”

Luci was making frantic scrabbling sounds from her cage in the laundry. I rushed in on wobbly legs, bundling her out and nestling her around my neck.

“Mummy went somewhere really … strange,” I explained, stroking her soft little nose. She responded by licking the inside of my ear. I shrieked.

“Luci, don’t!” I protested weakly through my giggles. “You know how ticklish I am!”

I tugged her away from my ear, depositing her on the floor, where she quickly scurried off, no doubt on the prowl for those two filthy roaches from the night before.

Roaches. Thai food. Texts from Ezra.

FiendPay … no, I was sure it was FriendPay! Well, about eighty per cent sure, anyway.

“He was lying,” I reassured myself. I found my phone on the bench, charged enough to switch on. With shaking hands, I navigated to the messages app. Ezra’s name appeared at the very top of the screen.

Ezra: Having brunch with HP

Ezra: OMG have so much to catch you up on!

Ezra: I know you’re probably sleeping off your wine, but … I’m starting to worry about the no reply thing

Ezra: You missed a call, but the caller didn’t leave a message.

Ezra: You missed a call, but the caller didn’t leave a message.

Ezra: You missed a call, but the caller didn’t leave a message.

Ezra: WAKE UP JEMMA!!!!!!!

Ezra: REPLY NOW SO I KNOW YOU’RE ALIVE!!!

Ezra: Sorry for the caps, but if you don’t reply, I’m defo coming home to check on you

Ezra: Jem …

Ezra: Don’t make me get Joe involved …

The last message was from about thirty seconds ago. Heart in throat, I quickly tapped out a proof of life reply.

Jem: I’m alive, just hungover. About to get in the shower. DO NOT CALL JOE! Go have your banging brunch

There was no way I was telling him a word of what had happened to me overnight. I didn’t want my crazy to ruin his budding love story with Hottie Potter. But threatening me with Joe? That was a low blow.

I tapped back to the main screen. There, under the messages from Ezra, was a thread labelled …

“Shitting bugger it!” I snapped, dropping my phone on the bench. “FiendPay.” Even the profile picture was a little pair of neon devil horns.

My headache was back with a vengeance. Somehow it had completely disappeared while I’d been …

Holy … Hell. I’d been in Hell.

I couldn’t deny it—that had been real.

And that son of a Devil who stole all the donuts … he’d manipulated me into this! And he wasn’t a hot fanfiction Draco Malfoy! Well, not just a hot fanfiction Draco Malfoy, anyway … he was also a giant, red, disturbingly sexy beast.

I scowled over at my bookshelf, filled with paperbacks of demons, orcs, dragon shifters, eight-foot-tall blue aliens …

“This is all your fault!” I snarled at them. “I should not find him attractive!”

I dropped my phone back onto the bench. I needed to think. I needed a shower. I needed something in my stomach that wasn’t donuts in wine soup. And I needed to work out how the … Hell … I was getting myself out of this predicament.

* * *

My damp hair smelled like my strawberry shampoo. My skin smelled like citrus soap. My armpits were coated with watermelon deodorant. I was about as fruity as they came.

And I was still no closer to a solution.

I had no idea what four ‘payments’ he’d expect of me. The only thing I was certain of was that he wouldn’t be coming around demanding cash. What would a devil do with cash, anyway? Buy another eighty donuts to torment another unsuspecting soul?

No … he’d come up with something far more sadistic than that. Maybe he’d force me to eat an endless supply of donuts, the way Homer had to in that one Simpsons episode.

Maybe he’d want to torture me …

Maybe , I thought, as I tugged on some neon purple flared leggings and a cropped T-shirt, he’ll want … sexual payments …

I shivered. Heat bloomed under my skin.

“Don’t be gross, Jemma!” I admonished myself. Popping my glasses back on, I peered at my reflection in the mirror on the back of my bedroom door. My cheeks were flushed. “This is not one of your smutty monster romances! You can’t spread your legs and shag your way out of this!”

But …

Hadn’t I already noticed how he looked at me? When I’d tied up my shirt in a vain attempt to cool myself down, he’d been gawking at my boobs and the lucky undies.

Maybe it was a good thing I hadn’t bothered to shower before I got rip-roaring drunk last night.

Maybe I could use this to my advantage …

Maybe I could shag my way out of it …

I chewed on my lip in thought as I rustled up something my stomach could cope with. I peeled a spotty banana, biting into it as I perused our fridge. Aside from the scrapings in the bottom of a butter tub, a mouldy block of cheese, and a very limp bunch of celery, it was bare.

Sighing, I tugged open the freezer and grabbed out two slices of my gluten-free bread. I kept it in there so that it lasted longer because Ezra refused to eat it. He swore that bread without gluten was the spawn of …

Satan. Donut Douche was the spawn of Satan! Satan, the King of Hell, had a son, who wanted to own my eternal soul.

I toasted and buttered viciously. Well, if he thought I’d give up without a fight, he clearly hadn’t done his research.

And I was going to fight dirty.

I clambered up onto the kitchen bench and stuffed a triangle of toast into my mouth.

Bang! Bang bang!

My heart leapt into my throat, and I sucked in a breath, then immediately coughed and spluttered toast crumbs everywhere. Was it him? Was this his plan? I’d barely wrapped my head around this quandary! But of course that would make sense. Keeping me off-kilter would make it all the more difficult for me to beat him at this little game.

This little game where the prize was my soul …

I just wouldn’t answer the door. Simple. I snorted around another mouthful of toast.

“For the love of … Jemma! Open the damn door!”

I groaned, sliding off the bench and massaging my temples. It was worse than Satan Junior.

It was Joe.

“I know you’re in there! Ezra texted me!” my brother shouted through the door.

“Ezra!” I muttered, chancing a glance into the living room. It was a complete shemozzle. Luci had found an eggshell she’d pilfered a week ago and was gnawing on it from a crevice in the sofa cushions, glaring beadily at me as if daring me to move her. The rug was still partially rolled up from where I’d had to move it to clean up the Thai food … which I hadn’t done the most thorough job of.

And then there was the empty wine cask and fingerprint-smudged wine glass …

“I’m using my spare key, Jemma!” Joe announced. I leapt into action, scampering around the kitchen bench and hurling myself at the coffee table. I knocked the empty cask behind the sofa, tugged the rug back into place so it covered the smear of satay on the floor …

Nope, that was worse. The food stain on the rug was huge!

The lock snicked, and the door creaked open. I snatched up the wine glass and jumped to my feet, hiding it behind my back as I turned to face Joe.

He glowered down at me. He was in his weekend wear—basketball shorts, a workout tank with a towel around his neck, and the latest high-tech gym shoes. He was still wearing his earbuds.

He worked out seven days a week.

“Morning!” I squeaked, then cleared my throat with a frown. Did I really squeak that often? The devilish dickwad had called me ‘Mouse’ again this morning.

“Ezra made it sound like you might be in dire need of a trip to the emergency department and a stomach pump,” Joe snapped, his eyes roving over my hair—drying into pastel tangles because I hadn’t brushed it yet—and my clothing. “Do you ever dress appropriately?”

I didn’t bother to look down. I knew what I was wearing, just as I knew he would never approve.

“I’m comfy. It’s Sunday morning.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Don’t try to tell me you don’t wear exactly that on weekdays when you’re leaving the house. I know you do.”

He made a beeline for the kitchen. Just like he always did. He’d check the fridge, the pantry, the overall cleanliness. I winced. None of the above would meet his exacting standards.

As if on cue, he opened the fridge, wrinkling his nose. “When was the last time you did a grocery shop?”

I sidled into the kitchen, sneakily depositing the wine glass in the sink. “It’s on my list today,” I lied. My Sunday list had been wiped completely clean the moment I fell into a literal Hellhole.

I pressed my mouth shut so tight my gums ached. The thought of confiding in Joe about Satan Junior and the little piece of my soul he’d sucked into that coin …

He’d have me committed to an insane asylum. I was sure he’d been looking for an excuse to do just that since …

But I wasn’t going to think about that.

“Are you even making enough money to feed yourself with your little market folly?” he closed the fridge, then opened it again, checking the seals.

“I sell on Etsy, too!” I argued. Which reminded me, I needed to go through my orders—people often browsed at the markets and then went online to order pieces or the patterns and yarn kits for them that I designed and sold.

I sighed. So much adulting to do, and how was I supposed to get any of it done with the Prince of Hell stalking me?

Joe ignored me, scanning our pantry shelves. With a sigh, he pulled out his phone and started tapping away.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, stepping closer, peering over his arm at the screen. “Uber Eats?”

“I’m placing an order for some essentials and a few of those microwave meals, since I know you’re barely capable of navigating an oven.”

I gaped up at him. “Are you serious right now? I cooked dinner every single night during high school to help out because you were working two jobs!” I snapped, smacking his arm.

He narrowed his eyes. “I remember eating a lot of sloppy mac and cheese.” He turned back to the pantry.

I winced guiltily. Overcooked pasta was somehow my specialty, and when you added in the fact that it was gluten-free, which struggled to hold its form at the best of times, it always ended up being a gluggy mush.

“Well, that was because I was trying to study while cooking!” I snapped defensively. “You know, because me getting into university was your number one dream!”

He rounded on me. “No! Ensuring you grew into a productive, capable adult, that was the only thing I allowed myself to worry about for so many years.” He looked me up and down, then gestured to the chaotic pantry, to the dishes on the sink, and sighed. “Clearly I failed miserably.”

That same old hurt that I tried not to feel unfurled, and I stepped back. I bumped into the bench, freshening up the bruise on my hip from last night. I felt the all too familiar lump expanding in my throat, the heat unfurling behind my eyes. But I was not going to let him see it. I’d cried too many times in front of my casually cruel brother. I’d learned that tears didn’t help my cause one iota.

“Okay, we’re done here,” I said firmly. I wished I could have high-fived myself for how my voice didn’t wobble at all. “Thank you for your unnecessary visit. You’ve satisfied yourself that Ezra was overreacting. I have a lot of work to do for my business today—you know, I took a load of orders yesterday, so I need to get crocheting.”

“Crocheting,” he muttered with a shake of his head. And that hit my tolerance limit for his nonsense.

I surged forward and shoved him, hard. I must have managed to catch him off guard because he stumbled backwards, hooking his ankle on the open pantry door. He did this weird sort of twisty, awkward, arm-flailing move, his feet like skates under him. Spinning, he tripped over his other foot, knocked his elbow against the fridge, and staggered into the hallway, colliding with the wall. The apartment shuddered.

I tried not to laugh. I honestly did. What he’d just said to me was so incredibly unfunny.

But … the karma of it was just so delicious that I couldn’t help but giggle. And that giggle turned into a full-on belly laugh until I was clutching my aching stomach, tears of mirth streaming down my cheeks.

He straightened, brushing his shirt off, his cheeks flaming, his mouth a tight, angry line. I bit my lip, but another splutter of chuckles burst out with a violent raspberry sound.

“Sometimes I don’t know why I still bother,” he snapped, storming towards the door. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t, because I was just going to honk with laughter if I opened my mouth.

He threw me one last, disgusted glare and left. And with him, all the merriment leeched from me, and I sagged against the wall.

I’d given up a long time ago on making my brother proud.

“Sometimes, we just suck at things … and that’s okay,” I reminded myself. “It’s okay to suck at meeting Joe’s impossible standards.”

But I didn’t suck at crocheting. And since it was also the thing that I’d found when I needed something to do with my hands, to focus on, when my sad moments got too overwhelming, it seemed fitting that I had a day full of it to turn to.

And maybe I’d get out of my own head long enough to formulate a plan for saving my soul.