A year after the death of her ex-husband and boyfriend, Roger-the-Proctologist, Max has accepted the loss and moved on. Well, at least she’s tried, but a dating pool consisting mostly of weekend golfers in plaid polyester has left her unenthusiastic about her prospects. When Morgan Kane, the sexy Hellhound Grim Reaper, suddenly reappears seeking her assistance to rescue the bumbling teenage Zombie King from Cerberus' filthy paws, Max realizes that maybe she was holding out for snug denim all along. But a trip to Hell during Vegas Week, with Lucifer masquerading as a tone-deaf Wayne Newton and Kane’s psychotic mother as Satan’s Showgirl Bride, isn’t exactly her idea of the perfect date. In Hell, everything has a price, and though Max discovers she’s already paid dearly, if she and Kane are to succeed, another sacrifice is required. Will Max finally get her happily-ever-after or will she lose the man she loves to the Sweet Hereafter? Again.
With three sets of eyes glued to my sadly rumpled form, I began a graceful descent from my one bedroom over garage. After Roger died, I’d given serious consideration to keeping the condo. I’d even tried it on for size for a week. In seven days and nights, I never once dunked my bare ass in the toilet in the middle of the night because the seat was left up, my toothpaste was always squeezed from the bottom of the tube, and I didn’t find a single toenail clipping in the bathroom sink. Funny how someone’s quirky little habits that set your teeth on edge day after day when you live with them are the very things you miss most when they’re gone. Yeah, that. Bottom line? It just wasn’t the same, and I decided torturing myself wasn’t worth it simply to acquire additional square footage and upgrade my zip code. Besides, I also discovered, surprisingly I wasn’t really that girl anymore.
Just when I thought I was going to make it to the bottom of my stairs agilely and uninjured, I was foiled by a conglomeration of woven gossamer strands dappled with dewdrops glinting in the sun that some eight-legged bastard had constructed between the wall of the garage and the stair railing during the night.
Have you ever noticed how walking into an unexpected spider web turns you into an instant ninja?
I slapped myself in the face, did a passable imitation of a windmill in a hurricane, and provided a short demonstration of the Argentine tango. Then I stomped the spider into a mashed splat. I left the corpse where it lay to warn off any of his friends who might have ideas of picking up where he left off and jumped the final two stairs to the sidewalk, twisting my ankle in the process. Clearing my throat, I tossed my ratty ponytail over one shoulder with a deliberate air of insouciance intended to plainly communicate to my audience that I totally meant to do that. Anyone can be good. Awesome takes practice.
Once Gail established I’d landed on my feet, as opposed to my ass—my stepmother is well acquainted with my challenged coordination—she saluted me with a grin and a white waxed-paper bag, then headed for the house to prepare the kitchen for the pending arrival of my sister and her brood. Walking slowly and rolling my hips in what I fancied was a seductive manner, in an effort to detract attention from my limp, I absently wondered if there would ever come a day when Morgan Kane would see me at my best. All things considered, it wasn’t looking promising.
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