“How odd,” I said, teasing her. “I don’t want you to die, either.”

She ducked her head, hiding a shy smile, just as my phone rang.

Cookie’s name flashed on my screen, along with my favorite picture of her. I took it after she’d accidentally put pure cinnamon oil on her face instead of frankincense. I had no idea why one would put frankincense on one’s face, but I did learn that pure cinnamon oil was like acid on the skin. It burned her face instantly, and before she could get it washed off, it turned the brightest red I’d ever seen on human skin.

I snuck the shot as a memento so that I would never forget the lengths Cookie would go to for my entertainment. Or for flawless skin. Before I met her, I had no idea you could even put milk of magnesia on your face. Or why on earth you’d want to.

Actually, I still didn’t know that last part.

I answered with a “Charley’s House of Ill Repute.”

Heather giggled and went in search of water as Cookie’s alarmingly sexy voice wafted toward me thanks to the miracles of technology.

“When will you be back?”

“I can be there in ten if you need me to make sweet love to you.”

After a long—very long—pause, she said, “No. No, I’m good.”

“Are you sure? I’m cheap and relatively easy.”

“I’m pretty sure, but thanks. So, are you sitting down?”

My butt immediately sought out a chair. “I am now.”

Pari questioned me with her brows. I couldn’t actually see her eyes due to the ginormous shades, but lines appeared on her forehead over them. I shrugged.

“I’m not sure if this is good news or not,” Cook said, “since I have yet to be able to explain it, but the child is the wrong age.”

“Does the kid know that?”

“The one Reyes is paying child support to. The one in Texas.”

I bit down, hoping beyond hope that Cookie’s news was good. “What do you mean the wrong age?”

“It’s a boy, and brace yourself for the name.”

I tightened my muscles and clenched my butt cheeks. It seemed like the right thing to do. “Okay, hit me.”

“Damien.” When I said nothing because I was a little more than surprised, she added, “Damien Ledger Clay.”

“Could that name be any more appropriate?” I asked, heartbroken.

“Clay is the mother’s maiden name. But the father’s name isn’t listed.”

“If Texas is going to go after Reyes for child support, there has to be some kind of proof that he’s the father. What about on the kid’s birth certificate?”

“Nope. It says ‘Unknown.’”

“That’s a weird name.” I was trying to lighten the suddenly very heavy mood. “Why is he paying child support to a woman who didn’t even list him as the father?”

“That’s just it. I’m not sure he could be the father. Charley, Damien is five years old.”

I slumped back in my chair in relief. “Reyes was in prison five years and nine months ago.”

“Exactly. I mean, I’m not saying it’s impossible, but it’s just very highly unlikely that he fathered a child while in prison. Do they even allow conjugal visits in Santa Fe? And don’t you have to be married to even be considered?”

“I don’t know, but I do know who to call to find out. Then again, the rules of regular folk don’t always apply to my husband.”

“That’s true, but I like to think of this as a ray of sunshine.” Her voice, filled with empathy, softened.

“I’m all for sunrays,” I said, absently fondling the god glass in my pocket. “Give me permanent skin damage and a little radiation any day.”

“I love how you see the bright side of everything.”

“Right? Okay, I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“The second you find out,” she said.

“The second I find out.”

17

The man who invented chocolate vodka

more than makes up for the bastard who invented pantyhose.

—KATIE GRAYKOWSKI

I said my good-byes to Pari and Heather and headed to Misery to make a call. Neil Gossett would probably be off work already. The sky had darkened, and the clouds that still hung low had changed from a beautiful murky gray to an ominous, rich black. If only every day could be so serene. And the icing on the Playgirl centerfold? The roads were clear. I was worried with all the sleet we’d had I’d be driving on solid ice.