Principles of Spookology (The Spectral Files, #2)

by S.E. Harmon

My guest chair squeaked alarmingly. I glanced up, surprised to still find Kevin there. He smiled pleasantly… and then his gaze landed on my pastries. We had a brief battle of the eyes. My steely gaze told him I wasn’t above licking a Danish to claim it. His steady stare told me he wasn’t above eating a licked Danish.

For Christ’s sakes, she couldn’t chew my entire ass. I still needed some of it for sitting. And sex.

The feature I loved the most about him was that he had the biggest heart of anyone I’d ever known. And the most sculpted ass. Hey, I can love more than one thing.

I also owed him a blowjob, and I never welshed on a blowjob. It’s just not good manners, and I was raised better than that.

After an hour of searching, I had to face facts. We weren’t going to be so lucky. All we’d found was a copious amount of smelly refuse. Oh, and enough used condoms to make me wonder just what the hell people were doing in parks. I’d had some horny moments in my life, but I’d never let Danny fuck me behind a bush. In the backseat of his cruiser maybe, but never a park bush. I’ve got class, you know.

He was a loveable asshole who’d I’d originally had a lot of friction with, but he was growing on me slowly, just like any good fungus.

Didn’t Danny know the rules? You always side with the guy who warms up the lube before he jams it in your ass. “Et tu, Brute?”

He sent me an offended look. “I’m romantic as hell.” I snorted. The last time he wanted to have sex, he’d strutted into the kitchen wearing nothing but socks and a smile and asked, ‘How ’bout it?’ When I reminded him of that, he sent me a blank look. “I’m not seeing the problem.”

Disappointingly, his computer search history was rather innocuous and mostly work-related. I couldn’t say the same. In the event of my death, I expected Danny to throw my laptop on the interstate… in the name of love. And make sure a semi hit it doing eighty.

“Last time I checked, we’re cops. We can’t turn down donuts. People will talk, Daniel.”

The guru was a bust. No other way to put it. Turns out you can’t really force inner fucking peace. What the hell, right?

I sipped at my complimentary cup of wheatgrass. The only complimentary thing I had to say about it was that it was free. Quite frankly, I wanted a word with whoever decided it was acceptable to make a drink out of lawn clippings.

Danny was the worst of the bunch, so punctual he abhorred earliness as much as he did lateness. He’d probably arrived at 4:59. I was pretty sure he had a clock up his ass. I still hadn’t found it yet with my fingers or my dick, but I was dedicated to the search.

He generally liked products that had some form of the phrase “two in one” on the front. He once found a five-in-one body wash and nearly wet himself, right there in Target…at least that’s the way I tell the story.

I glared as he turned around, slicking hair away from his face. If he thought looking at his naked, soapy body was going to distract me from… whatever the hell I was upset about, he had another thing coming. Now if I could just remember that thing, I’d be golden.

“If anyone is sexually repressed, it’s you. Wasn’t I the one who brought up ditching condoms four months ago?” “Not really. You plucked the condom from my hands as I was about to roll it on and threw it.” His mouth quirked. “Then you said, and I quote, ‘Jesus Christ, Danny.’” “Is that not talking about it?”

Max wasn’t funny or smart or even particularly interesting, now that I think about it.” “Max,” he said casually. Too casually. “What was his last name?” “You’re not killing Max.” “I can’t kill Max if I don’t know his last fucking name.”

I eyed him with a healthy dash of disgust. Jogging. On a Saturday morning. By choice. When we were old, I was going to relish putting him in a home. I was going to cite reasons of senility, and this kind of behavior would be my first example.

“Because once a profiler, always a profiler. You want to know what he has to say.” He waited patiently, daring me to deny it. “And you’re going to want to solve the three copycat murders.” “Not interested.” If I was any more interested, I’d need a cup for my drool.