Blood on the Bayou by Stacey Jay Page B

become a part of and then go looking for an invisible man—who is no doubt a killer himself—to ask him why a fairy army is determined to get me out of town. Or kill me if they get another chance.
    I can’t be there for Deedee. I can’t handle my own life, let alone take responsibility for hers.
    “I’ll come visit you tomorrow,” I whisper. “I promise.”
    She sighs. Doesn’t move her forehead from my stomach. Sighs again. “Okay.”
    “I’ll bring you anything you want to eat, too,” I say, even though I feel lousy about bribing her to accept her shitty lot in life with junk food. “How about a cheeseburger and fries from Swallows?”
    She stands up, expression brighter than it was before. “How about a dozen buffalo wings with extra spicy sauce and blue cheese on the side and a triple order of celery?”
    “We’ll make it three dozen wings and six orders ofcelery and we’ll both pig out until we’re sick.” I reach out and close the cooler door. There’s no time for a beer now. Which is probably a good thing. Probably. “But I’ve got to run. You go sneak back into Sweet Haven and follow the rules and I’ll call for a visitor’s appointment tomorrow afternoon.”
    “You could call now.” She digs in her dress pocket. “I’ve still got minutes on the phone you gave me.”
    “I’ve got a business meeting in like two minutes,” I say, edging toward the front of the store. “I’ll call as soon as I get home. Okay?”
    “Okay.” She stands still, watching me go.
    I think about ordering her out the door in front of me and watching until I see she’s headed back in the right direction, but that would be acting like I have authority over her behavior. Like a guardian or a foster parent or a fully functional adult. Which I obviously am not.
    So I just give one last wave, toss J.J. a couple of dollars for the gum, and hurry out into the glaring sun. It is hellishly hot. Again. It feels like this stupid summer is never going to end. By the time I reach the entrance to the back alley behind Swallows, my armpits are fighting through their protective deodorant shield and sweat pools between my bra-free breasts. It’s too hot to be outside unless you’re submerged in water. Or naked.
    Naked . Holy. Christ.
    Not fifteen feet away, outside the back entrance to Swallows, my ex-boyfriend is pulling his faded redT-shirt over his head, revealing ebony skin and his ruthlessly chiseled eight-pack. (Cane has a habit of taking things to extremes, and his body is no exception.) I freeze at the end of the alley and step quickly to the side, pressing myself into the shadows behind the big blue recycling bins. I don’t want to see Cane right now. I’m on my way to meet Hitch, and I know that won’t go over well. I wouldn’t want to see him if he were alone, and I especially don’t want to interrupt him while he’s stripping down with another woman.
    I watch Theresa Swallows—owner of Swallows and a woman I consider one of my closest friends—pull off her gray and white Swallows T-shirt, revealing a black string bikini top that leaves nothing to the imagination. Theresa is five feet two in heels and probably doesn’t weigh much more than my cat. She’s a cute-as-a-button Latina who gets mistaken for her twelve-year-old daughter’s sister all the time. With her tan skin and walnut brown eyes, I’ve always considered Theresa pretty, but never sexy.
    But then, I’ve never seen her in nothing but a string bikini and a pair of ripped-up short shorts, either. Theresa may be petite, but she’s nicely proportioned. I’m a straight woman with pretty close to zero interest in women sexually, and I can’t stop looking.
    So I shouldn’t be surprised that Cane can’t keep his eyes off her fingers as she rearranges the itty-bitty triangles to make sure they’re covering her not nearly so itty-bitty boobs. Men like boobs. Men will look atboobs—even if they’re in love with another woman, as Cane still