Page 36 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)
Ezra
D amon Clemens is coming to supper and I’m a fucking mess. I mean, my apartment’s clean enough, and there’s a nice pork tenderloin ready to go into the oven after he gets here—yes, I do know how to cook—but I want everything to be perfect.
And if I’m involved, things ain’t ever gonna be perfect.
I’ll be lucky if I don’t manage to destroy whatever good I accomplished today.
I did do good, too. Micah told me so. He spied on me, so far out of sight I didn’t know he was there until after Damon took off. Micah’s been my twelve-step buddy, although instead of alcohol, I’m weaning myself off all the crazy shit my parents taught me.
Under different circumstances, I’d call my parents and ask what the fuck they were thinking.
Yeah, not gonna be doing that anytime soon.
From what me and Geordi have been able to piece together, Mom’s side of the family had the psychics and Dad’s side had the sin eaters.
Still can’t say those words out loud, but I don’t lose my shit when others say them, so it’s a step.
Anyway, Mom tried to beat the devil outa me and Dad tried to cram my double gift into a narrow space, and for reasons we don’t yet understand, James Smith blew the whole thing to shit.
Micah and Geordi don’t want me to go back to work at the hospital until the dead bodies stop screaming at me.
Somehow, I managed to parley that into an actual medical leave of absence and even better, Dr. Chen must have worked a miracle.
I’m no longer on Geneva’s shit list, although she’s pretty insistent that we go out to lunch so I can tell her what’s going on.
That oughta be fun.
For now, I’m just trying to get used to having the occasional voice in my head that isn’t my own.
Geordi’s already working on my contract with SPAM—he says good psychics are rare and he’ll definitely use me—and though I don’t see how my gift/curse thing compares with Micah’s ability to turn into whatever creature he wants, I’m going with the flow for now.
Meanwhile, Damon texted me five minutes ago to say he was leaving the hospital and anticipation has my gut so fluttery it might actually take wing.
The floor lamp is on its lowest setting and I’m lighting candles for the table, three slender tapers in mismatched vintage ceramic holders.
The match in my hand is definitely not shaking.
Much.
He’ll be here soon, like, any minute. It’s getting hard to draw in a deep breath.
I’ve got to apologize—again—and convince him that I mean it, and I’ve got to make him understand that I am that thing I can’t say out loud.
More importantly, he needs to know that I’m trying hard to let that part of myself go.
Offering the dead a final service is a good thing. Taking on their faults and failings, whether for real or only in my imagination, not so much.
It’s fair to say that my family history fucked me up. I don’t blame my parents—much—but their plan failed. It’s time for me to figure out my own way of coping with the gifts I inherited.
I repeat that to myself about seven times before my phone buzzes, letting me know Damon is downstairs, and a couple more times before he knocks on the door.
Then he’s there, in my apartment. He puts his arms around me, dragging me against his body, and leans in for the kiss we couldn’t have in the Brew.
My knees go weak but his hand on the back of my head holds me upright.
His cheeks are cold from his walk, he smells like soap and man, and the scruff on his chin rubs against me. Delicious .
I open for him, my lips and my soul, and his strength grounds me. Our tongues play against each other, finding our way. He tastes so good. I want more. I want it all, and that fucking terrifies me.
I break the kiss with a gasp, terrified I’ll start babbling nonsense and he’ll take off running. “Lemme get you a beer,” I manage.
He rests his forehead against mine. “A beer would be good.”
“Do you have to work tomorrow?”
“Yeah, unless I feel a fever coming on.”
We grin at each other. “I’ll give you a fever, Big D.”
“You already do, baby.”
Spinning out of his arms, I head for the kitchen and come back with a beer and a seltzer water. That’s the other thing. Geordi says I use whiskey to suppress my power, to keep it in the box labeled sin eater , so I should stay sober until I can use it in a healthier way.
Which sucks, but it does make sense, so I’m trying. For now, anyway. At least until he and Micah turn out to be assholes. Then I’ma drink myself into a coma.
I take his coat and replace it with a beer. “Go sit. I’m going to put the pork in the oven.”
“Pork? I was thinking we’d do Uber Eats or something.”
Laughing at his surprised expression, I wave at the dining table and duck back into the kitchen. This time, I bring a little plate of appetizers I’d prepped earlier, bacon-wrapped water chestnuts and mini skewers with tomatoes, peppers, and chunks of spicy sausage.
“Here. Eat.” I set the apps on the table and take the seat next to him. “You’re hungry.”
“I am,” he says, sounding halfway between surprised and amazed. He pauses while reaching for one of the skewers. “You didn’t need to do all of this.”
My cheeks go hot and I focus on the flickering candles. “Yeah, I did. You’ve always been honest with me and I couldn’t tell you everything.” My mouth goes dry, because this is the tricky part. “I still can’t. I mean, I physically can’t say the words.”
He puts the end of the skewer in his mouth, pulling off the tomato on the end, which comes across as dirtier than the circumstances call for.
I babble on, wishing I could whet my mouth with whiskey. “Micah and Geordi were right, though, and I’m sorry I didn’t try to tell you more before that.”
He’s working a chunk of sausage off the skewer with his fingers. I want to lick them clean. “If I repeat what they called you, is that a problem?”
A buzz sounds from the kitchen. “The oven must be hot enough. Hold that thought.” I jump out of my seat, totally not avoiding the conversation.
I put the pork in and set the timer, doing my best to slow down my breathing.
Both Geordi and Micah have called me a sin eater to my face, and it went okay, but I’m not sure how I’ll react hearing it from Damon.
Plastering on a perky smile, I head out to face the man I want to be with.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I blink. “What?”
“Why are you smiling like that?”
I drop into my seat. “I’m happy to see you?”
He pops another chunk of sausage in his mouth, chews and swallows. “You’re Ezra. You’re not the happy-smile type.”
My face relaxes into something closer to my normal bitchy grin. “So where were we?”
“I asked if it was okay if I called you a sin eater.”
The words land like a pair of sharp slaps. I close my eyes until I know I’m not going to lose it, take a deep breath, and meet his gaze. “Maybe not every day.” I buy a moment of respite by snatching one of the water chestnuts and eating it whole.
Once I can, I start talking. I tell him how the psychic thing wasn’t a lie, and how I’m working with Geordi to try and get my shit together and how Micah’s my new best friend.
“Should I be jealous?” he asks. The oven timer chimes and I jump up, leaving him in suspense.
“Ezra?”
“Nah,” I call from the kitchen, where I’m finishing a sauce made from pan drippings and plating a perfect roast pork tenderloin with baby potatoes and corn soufflé made from Grandma’s recipe. “He’s married, and his husband is intimidating enough that even I wouldn’t mess with him.”
I bring out the platter holding our dinner. His eyes get wide and for a moment we just stare at each other.
“You’re forgiven.” He rises, scooting the appetizer plate off to the side of the table.
“I didn’t say that before, because I really don’t think there’s much to forgive.
You are who you are, and I’m good with that.
” He comes around the table, stopping close enough to wrap his hands over mine where I’m holding the platter.
“And dude, I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me. Thank you.”
He leans in and kisses me.
From there, dinner is lovely. We talk about the hospital and whether I’ll return to the morgue versus working for Geordi instead. Apparently, SPAM is part of a larger network of agents who deal with the sorts of things they put in Marvel movies, and Geordi says I have a future there.
Go figure.
In turn, Damon tells me about what Mo found out about Sue Myhre and how McGraw is working on comparing DNA from Sue’s sister to samples taken from unidentified bodies in hopes of finding a match.
He says the whole thing has inspired him to become a private investigator so he can track down missing persons, which I think is the coolest idea ever.
Our conversation winds down about the time we’re done eating. It’s not so much that we’ve run out of things to talk about as it is time to move things on to the real main course.
“It’s almost time for dessert.”
He runs the tines of his fork through the puddle of sauce on his plate. “Oh really? You got a layer cake or a plate of perfect chocolate chip cookies tucked away somewhere?”
My grin slides to a very naughty place. “Not exactly.”
“Hit me with it, then.” His smile echoes mine. “Not sure there’s anything you can say that’ll surprise me.”
I don’t answer him, at least not with words. Instead, I come around the table and push on his shoulders to make him scoot his chair back, then straddle his lap. I take hold of his face, palms against his cheeks, holding him steady for what I’m about to do.
He wraps his arms around my shoulders, as if he wants to hold me just as still. He feels good, strong, a solid object to ground myself with. He’s still out of my league—and yeah, on one level I wonder what the hell I can ever offer him—but then our lips crash together.