today.
Finally, I could have gotten a little action. And you deny me. P-p-poker face. P-p-poker face.
Liza groaned. Great, Boris was angry enough to begin his Lady Gaga torture again—although at least he was doing a medley. Still she was going to have to resort to the Benadryl again. Obviously.
Don’t you dare.
“Then just stop singing. Please.” She didn’t even care that she was begging. She was so tired. And so upset.
“Ms. McLane.”
Liza spun in her desk chair to find Finola’s newest personal assistant at the door. Sadly, Liza didn’t even know her name, because frankly most of them didn’t make it long enough to bother with names.
“Ms. White would like to see you in her office,” the goth/rockabilly-looking woman said, pushing up her funky cat’s-eye glasses. Liza absently wondered if the woman had always fidgeted with her glasses like that, or if it was a nervous habit from dealing with the demanding, and oh so evil, Finola White.
“Tell her I will be right there.”
The assistant looked like she’d rather do anything else. Poor woman. But she simply nodded and disappeared out of the doorway, rushing away on a pair of chunky-heeled, red patent-leather dolly shoes that Finola was guaranteed to despise.
Poor woman, she thought again, then sighed. Poor me. Her day was already the pits, and now she had to have a meeting with Finola.
I just want to point out that she’s a bigger bitch than me.
Liza snorted. “I think that one is debatable.”
Boris snorted back, but then actually fell blessedly silent.
Liza gathered up some of the articles and layouts she’d been working on for the July issue of HOT! and tried to brace herself for the next trial of her day.
“What took you so long?” Finola asked as soon as Liza stepped into her office, which was decorated in a sort of the-arctic-meets-the-future motif. Everything was white and ultra-modern—and somehow inherently pretentious.
“Forgive me,” Liza said, not bothering to keep the hint of sarcasm out of her voice. “I’ve had a rather distracting morning dealing with the little friend you’ve cursed me with.”
Finola raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, whether at what she’d said, or how she’d said it, Liza wasn’t sure. Then Finola gestured to her lackey, Tristan McIntyre.
Tristan crossed the room and pulled an oval mirror out from behind a dressing screen that stood in the corner of the office. He positioned it at an angle so that Liza was reflected and Finola could look into it as well.
Behind Liza stood Boris in all his flaming glory. And not the flames of Hell way, but rather the kitschy, over-the-top way of a very flamboyant gay man.
“What are you doing now?” Finola said into the mirror, which was the demonic equivalent of a video chat.
Boris pouted. “She drugged me again.”
“I don’t know that I can blame her,” Tristan murmured from where he stood beside the mirror.
Boris made a face at the other demon. Liza probably would have found the interaction amusing if she didn’t have to be a part of it.
Finola clearly didn’t find any of it amusing. Instead her pale, icy gaze moved over each of them.
“I’m not concerned with your petty dramas,” she finally said.
“She is drugging me, Finola. That is hardly a petty drama,” Boris said, placing a hand on his hip, his expression somewhere between irritated and wounded.
“I’m possessed,” Liza stated. “I wouldn’t call that a petty drama either.”
Tristan suppressed a chuckle.
“And,” Boris added, “the prude finally got laid last night, and where was I? Out cold. I finally had a chance for a little carnal fun, and nothing. Nuh-thing.”
He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, waiting for Finola’s sympathy.
Finola’s usually beautiful and flawless expression tightened, appearing hard, frustrated.
She narrowed her eyes at Boris. “Do you really think I care about her love life or about you missing it? Your only concern is
Finally, I could have gotten a little action. And you deny me. P-p-poker face. P-p-poker face.
Liza groaned. Great, Boris was angry enough to begin his Lady Gaga torture again—although at least he was doing a medley. Still she was going to have to resort to the Benadryl again. Obviously.
Don’t you dare.
“Then just stop singing. Please.” She didn’t even care that she was begging. She was so tired. And so upset.
“Ms. McLane.”
Liza spun in her desk chair to find Finola’s newest personal assistant at the door. Sadly, Liza didn’t even know her name, because frankly most of them didn’t make it long enough to bother with names.
“Ms. White would like to see you in her office,” the goth/rockabilly-looking woman said, pushing up her funky cat’s-eye glasses. Liza absently wondered if the woman had always fidgeted with her glasses like that, or if it was a nervous habit from dealing with the demanding, and oh so evil, Finola White.
“Tell her I will be right there.”
The assistant looked like she’d rather do anything else. Poor woman. But she simply nodded and disappeared out of the doorway, rushing away on a pair of chunky-heeled, red patent-leather dolly shoes that Finola was guaranteed to despise.
Poor woman, she thought again, then sighed. Poor me. Her day was already the pits, and now she had to have a meeting with Finola.
I just want to point out that she’s a bigger bitch than me.
Liza snorted. “I think that one is debatable.”
Boris snorted back, but then actually fell blessedly silent.
Liza gathered up some of the articles and layouts she’d been working on for the July issue of HOT! and tried to brace herself for the next trial of her day.
“What took you so long?” Finola asked as soon as Liza stepped into her office, which was decorated in a sort of the-arctic-meets-the-future motif. Everything was white and ultra-modern—and somehow inherently pretentious.
“Forgive me,” Liza said, not bothering to keep the hint of sarcasm out of her voice. “I’ve had a rather distracting morning dealing with the little friend you’ve cursed me with.”
Finola raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, whether at what she’d said, or how she’d said it, Liza wasn’t sure. Then Finola gestured to her lackey, Tristan McIntyre.
Tristan crossed the room and pulled an oval mirror out from behind a dressing screen that stood in the corner of the office. He positioned it at an angle so that Liza was reflected and Finola could look into it as well.
Behind Liza stood Boris in all his flaming glory. And not the flames of Hell way, but rather the kitschy, over-the-top way of a very flamboyant gay man.
“What are you doing now?” Finola said into the mirror, which was the demonic equivalent of a video chat.
Boris pouted. “She drugged me again.”
“I don’t know that I can blame her,” Tristan murmured from where he stood beside the mirror.
Boris made a face at the other demon. Liza probably would have found the interaction amusing if she didn’t have to be a part of it.
Finola clearly didn’t find any of it amusing. Instead her pale, icy gaze moved over each of them.
“I’m not concerned with your petty dramas,” she finally said.
“She is drugging me, Finola. That is hardly a petty drama,” Boris said, placing a hand on his hip, his expression somewhere between irritated and wounded.
“I’m possessed,” Liza stated. “I wouldn’t call that a petty drama either.”
Tristan suppressed a chuckle.
“And,” Boris added, “the prude finally got laid last night, and where was I? Out cold. I finally had a chance for a little carnal fun, and nothing. Nuh-thing.”
He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, waiting for Finola’s sympathy.
Finola’s usually beautiful and flawless expression tightened, appearing hard, frustrated.
She narrowed her eyes at Boris. “Do you really think I care about her love life or about you missing it? Your only concern is
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