2
" Should I leave you two alone?" he asked, changing the subject.
"He's taken," I said, accepting the fact that forgiving himself was something Reyes didn't do. "Osh. By someone very special."
"And who might that be?"
This might be a little hard for him to swallow. Tact was definitely in order. Or I could just blurt it out and watch his expression go from content to disbelief to horror to a bristly, murderous kind of fury. I chose door number two. "He's destined to be with our daughter."
Reyes's expression slowly changed from content to disbelief to horror to a bristly, murderous kind of fury. "Oh, hell, no." He shot to his feet. "A Daeva? Are you fucking kidding me?"
Just like a dad.
"Yes, a Daeva. But I wouldn't dismiss him so offhandedly."
He whirled around and scowled. Not really at me. Just in general. "What do you mean?"
I pressed one corner of my mouth together in thought. "Okay, you know how I was the grim reaper all of my life, then suddenly I'm also this god from another dimension? And how you're the son of Satan all your life, then suddenly you're a god from this dimension? Who does that? Our lives are so weird. I think that maybe Osh is something else, too." I traced one of the dark lines on his face. "I think there's more than meets the eye. I see greatness in him, Reyes. I see a power beyond our imaginings. I see him giving his life for our daughter."
"Oh." He sat back down, satisfied. "As long as he dies in the end. "
― Darynda Jones , The Curse of Tenth Grave (Charley Davidson, #10)
6
" It was getting late, but sleep was the furthest thing from my racing mind. Apparently that was not the case for Mr. Sugar Buns. He lay back, closed his eyes, and threw an arm over his forehead, his favorite sleeping position.
I could hardly have that. So, I crawled on top of him and started chest compressions. It seemed like the right thing to do.
"What are you doing?" he asked without removing his arm.
"Giving you CPR." I pressed into his chest, trying not to lose count. Wearing a red-and-black football jersey and boxers that read, DRIVERS WANTED. SEE INSIDE FOR DETAILS, I'd straddled him and now worked furiously to save his life, my focus like that of a seasoned trauma nurse. Or a seasoned pot roast. It was hard to say.
"I'm not sure I'm in the market," he said, his voice smooth and filled with a humor I found appalling. He clearly didn't appreciate my dedication.
"Damn it, man! I'm trying to save your life! Don't interrupt."
A sensuous grin slid across his face. He tucked his arms behind his head while I worked. I finished my count, leaned down, put my lips on his, and blew. He laughed softly, the sound rumbling from his chest, deep and sexy, as he took my breath into his lungs. That part down, I went back to counting chest compressions.
"Don't you die on me!"
And praying.
After another round, he asked, "Am I going to make it?"
"It's touch-and-go. I'm going to have to bring out the defibrillator."
"We have a defibrillator?" he asked, quirking a brow, clearly impressed.
I reached for my phone. "I have an app. Hold on." As I punched buttons, I realized a major flaw in my plan. I needed a second phone. I could hardly shock him with only one paddle. I reached over and grabbed his phone as well. Started punching buttons. Rolled my eyes. "You don't have the app," I said from between clenched teeth.
"I had no idea smartphones were so versatile."
"I'll just have to download it. It'll just take a sec."
"Do I have that long?"
Humor sparkled in his eyes as he waited for me to find the app. I'd forgotten the name of it, so I had to go back to my phone, then back to his, then do a search, then download, then install it, all while my patient lay dying. Did no one understand that seconds counted?
"Got it!" I said at last. I pressed one phone to his chest and one to the side of his rib cage like they did in the movies, and yelled, "Clear!"
Granted, I didn't get off him or anything as the electrical charge riddled his body, slammed his heart into action, and probably scorched his skin. Or that was my hope, anyway.
He handled it well. One corner of his mouth twitched, but that was about it. He was such a trouper.
After two more jolts of electricity--it had to be done--I leaned forward and pressed my fingertips to his throat.
"Well?" he asked after a tense moment.
I released a ragged sigh of relief,and my shoulders fell forward in exhaustion. "You're going to be okay, Mr. Farrow."
Without warning, my patient pulled me into his arms and rolled me over, pinning me to the bed with his considerable weight and burying his face in my hair.
It was a miracle! "
― Darynda Jones , The Curse of Tenth Grave (Charley Davidson, #10)
