Page 23 of For Better or Hearse

“You think Grandpops has lost it?”

“Grandpops is doing what he thinks is best.” Nathaniel rubs hisjaw. “And unfortunately, he thinks hiring an emotional support”—he zeroes in on Ash again—“creatureis the way to go.”

Tate gives an easy shrug, like he hasn’t yet caught on that their grandfather is not long for this world. Reality doesn’t get through the cracks of Tate’s existence. Not until it’s too late.

Feeling eyes on him, Nathaniel glances at the demon woman again. Locks gazes with her.

Before he can warn her away with a glare, Tate lifts a hand to his mouth. “Ash,” he bellows. “Over here.”

Brow arched, she considers them. Her expression wars between interest andugh. Then, slowly, with a wary look, she prowls their way.

“Gentlemen.” She sets her ridiculously tiny sequined clutch on the bar top and slips onto the stool beside Nathaniel. The way she shifts to adjust her dress causes the slit to fall open, exposing more tattoos, a flash of the curve of her ass.

Good Christ, he doesn’t need this right now.

“Bar has a dress code,” Nathaniel says, rerouting his attention to the bartender. “Doesn’t include drowned rat.”

She side-eyes him. In his periphery, her expression looks like one of amusement, or maybe irritation. He can’t tell.

“I was on the beach,” she says, wringing out her hair on the bar top. Small puddles form. “I tried to run but got caught in the downpour. Doubled back.”

His eyes drift to her boots. They’re covered in sand. Does she own a pair of flip-flops?

Her husky voice floats on the air around him. “I would recommend living a little. Have you tried it? You would love it.”

Huffing, she moves to grab a stack of napkins just out of reach. She stretches out on her barstool. Wiggles her fingers. Flattens those red lips and looks at Nathaniel.

“A little help here?”

“Maybe I like watching you struggle.”

Her eyes glow, more green than gray in this moment. “You would. A true sadist.”

With a grunt and a wrenching stretch, she snags a stack of napkins and blots her pale face. The way water runs off her skin in rivulets tugs at his stomach. He grips the bar top with white knuckles, tamping down on the reaction. Her lipstick sticks.

What would it take to get it to come off?With a slight shake of his head, he banishes the thought.

When she’s dry and the napkins are drenched, she sighs. “You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?”

“No,” he says. “I’m not.”

With a slight, devious smile, Ash says, “Sounds like you have too much time on your hands.”

Nathaniel bristles. Wills his muscles to unclench. He’s stuck on an oil rig for weeks at a time. He can suck it up and stick it out with this girl who aggravates his senses. Mostly the murderous side.

Her face does this pretty, pinched scrutinizing glare that makes him feel like he’s burning up on the surface of the sun.

The bartender sets a martini in front of her.

Tate leans past Nathaniel, says, “Bottoms up.”

Tate’s three objectives in life are to get people laid, get people drunk, and get people on his podcast.

“Thank you.” The honest smile Ash flashes in response makes Nathaniel’s stomach flip in an extremely fucked-up way.

“Funny, I didn’t get a thank-you,” Nathaniel says coolly. “For earlier.”

“I didn’t want your juice,” she shoots back.