Death by Devil's Breath by Kylie Logan Page A

me, and I caught it and set it where it belonged. “So back in the day . . . Bernadette and Jack were an item?”
    I didn’t like the way the tepins were stacked so I removed the bag I’d just put there, rearranged the ones below it, and set the last bag on top. “Bernadette was nuts about Jack back then,” I told Nick. “Obviously, she’s still nuts about him.”
    “And he . . .?”
    When that group of customers came in, I’d been forced to lay the Chili Chick costume on the counter so I could take care of them. Now I picked it up again and cradled it in my arms. “Well, he’s not nuts about her. I can tell you that. How can he be when he hasn’t seen her in fifteen years? And when he’s missing?”
    “Not what I meant and you know it. I meant back when she worked at the Showdown. Was Jack as crazy about Bernadette as she was about him?”
    “No one’s as crazy as Bernadette.” I scooted to the back of the bordello. If Sylvia was punctual—and believe me, Sylvia is always punctual—she’d be back in just a couple minutes, and I wanted to be ready when she arrived. I sidestepped into a tiny storage room behind the bar to slip on my fishnet stockings, then reached out to grab the chili. I stepped into the costume, hauled it up and over my head, and walked over to Nick so he could do up the zipper at the back of the chili.
    “Maxie.” After he zipped, Nick leaned in close and I caught a whiff of his aftershave. I’ve never been to a tropical island, but if I had been, I imagined this was what it smelled like, all sun-kissed and rummy and dripping with undertones of hot night air and cool sea breezes. “You know what I mean,” he said. “And you’re avoiding my question. When Bernadette worked for the Showdown, how did Jack feel about her?”
    “Jack was Jack!” I threw my hands in the air. No easy thing now that my arms were sticking out of the chili. “Jack was . . .”
    I twitched my shoulders. I shivered. My back itched, and didn’t it figure, now that I was encased in red chili, that itch was impossible to scratch.
    “Jack was . . .” Nick did his best to lead me back into the conversation.
    I moaned. And believe me, it had nothing to do with what we were talking about. A feeling like a thousand little pinpricks scooted up my back. The costume had never chafed me before, and I danced a little circle pattern, and when I ended up facing the way I’d been facing when I started, I saw Nick watching me, the left side of his mouth pulled into an expression I wouldn’t exactly call a grin.
    “You can’t expect my help if you refuse to talk about it,” he grumbled.
    “It’s not that.” I jumped around and tried to slap at my back, but with the way the costume came down to just below my hips, it was nearly impossible. Desperate to relieve the prickling, I scooted over to the wall and rubbed my back against it, but that didn’t work, either. In fact, it only made the itching worse.
    I squealed and hurried back over to Nick. “Take it off!” I demanded.
    He glanced down at his suit. “Take it—”
    “Oh, stop being such a goof!” I gave him a boof on the arm. By now the itchiness had spread down my stomach and over my hips. My eyes watered. My voice burbled when I turned my back on Nick. “Unzip the costume and get it off! Hurry! I’m dying in here!”
    He unzipped, and I shot forward and peeled out of the chili. When I did, a shower of powder hit the wooden floor.
    “What the hell!” Nick looked from where I was hopping like a jumping bean on a hot sidewalk to the sprinkle of brownish dust on the floor. He dipped a finger into the powder, then instantly brushed it off. “It’s itching powder. I saw bags of it down in the gift shop. You know, gag gifts. I was looking for something I could send my nephews.”
    “Well, it’s no gift!” I waved my arms up and down.
    “You’d better not.” Nick put a hand on my shoulder when I started to scratch. “Your skin is red