Blood on the Bayou by Stacey Jay

sure what’s going on. She’s like family to me. No matter how bad this looks, I can’t throw her to the FBI wolves until I give her a chance to explain.
    Hopefully Lance will convince Jose I’m the woman for the delivery jobs, and I’ll be able to have a long conversation with Marcy. In person. Until then, I’ll stick to my cover story: I talked with Lance, got confirmation on the skimming, but nothing solid. I’ll tellHitch I’ll have to go back again and keep trying. He’ll understand.
    No he won’t. He’s risking his life and his future. He’s going to be devastated, his investigation will be quagmired, and it’ll be all your fault.
    Anxiety prickles along my nerve endings, making me itch. Shit . I could really use a beer. Too bad Hitch suggested Swallows for our meeting place again this afternoon. If we were meeting somewhere else I could sneak in for a quick Blue Moon before facing the music. Beer is a well-known lying-effectiveness enhancer. And maybe it would calm me the fuck down. Between the fairy attack and watching Marcy broker a black-market deal, I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my skin.
    And I’m thirsty, dammit. Really thirsty. I can just imagine how good that first explosion of cold, carbonated hops will feel as it swishes through my mouth.
    Without conscious agreement from my brain, my feet veer sharply to the right, heading for the entrance to the Quik Mart. They have beer. And they sell it by the can—a lot of people around here don’t have enough loose change lying around for a six-pack. I’ll grab a Sapporo, duck into the alley behind the store, and chug some liquid courage before meeting Hitch. As long as I pop a stick of gum after, I should be fine. It’s not like he’s going to get close enough to smell my breath.
    The bell above the door tinkles as I shove inside. Even with the window air-conditioner chugging away,it’s only a few degrees cooler in here than it is out on the sweltering sidewalk. I can tell J.J. isn’t thrilled to be working behind the counter. He greets me with a limp wave and a drowsy “S’up?” as I grab a pack of gum.
    “Same old, same old.”
    “Hear that,” he mumbles as I head to the coolers at the back of the store. I go straight to the single can beer section, tug open the sticky door, and am about to pluck my beverage of choice from the bottom shelf when I’m attacked.
    Tiny arms wrap around my waist and squeeze hard enough that my “Holy shit!” comes out more grunt than scream. I have a full-body startle-spasm and barely resist the instinctive urge to shove my attacker into the CornNuts display. Luckily, I see the carefully plaited braids with their collection of white bows, and pull my hands back to my chest in time.
    “Shit, Deedee! You scared the shit out of me,” I gasp, forgetting to watch my language. But it’s not like Deedee hasn’t heard me say worse. On several occasions.
    Child friendly, I am not.
    Deedee tips her head back to give me a crooked grin. “I snuck up on you. Like a spy.”
    I take another breath and will my heart to stop racing. “Yes. Just like a spy. But don’t do that again. You almost made me wet my pants.”
    She giggles, and I can tell she’s going to pounce me again as soon as she gets the opportunity, on theoff chance that she might make a grown-up wet herself. “Where’s your cat?” she asks, still hugging on me. She’s been clingy lately. Not that I mind. Her small-person hugs are surprisingly nice.
    “Gimpy’s at my house.” I tuck a braid behind her ear, and worry about the dark circles under her eyes. “I had work to do today.”
    “He’s home all by himself? With no one to watch him?”
    “He’s a big boy. He’ll be fine.”
    “You know,” Deedee says, propping her fists at her waist and throwing out a hip. “I know a few things about cats.”
    “You do?”
    “They’ve got six cats at Sweet Haven. They live in the barn with Mrs. Malky’s goats. I go out and pet ’em all