George's sense of humor sucked reaper ass.
After five minutes of me wandering around the club, pretending like I was having fun, my lovely Deadie brought me to my second and final assignment of the night. And boy, was this one a kicker.
-This night just keeps getting weirder and weirder.
Considering that five minutes ago I was wishing for a terrorist I could reap. Instead, I got a drug dealer.
Corey Thatcher, 24. And already boasting a promising career.
Although from his appearance, you never would've guessed he was dealing illegals.
Well-dressed and perfectly groomed, in a sleek olive green shirt, and styled hair, he looked like the preppy hardworking office manager any parent would be thrilled to have as a son. Not the sleazy, tattooed and ill-cultured thug you'd find in some dark alley.
Man, if I hadn't spent three years hanging around Mason and all the delightful people he knew, I could've easily missed the suave way he was doing his deals. Casually going from booth to booth, as if to greet people he knew, and then with the quickness of a snake, slipping them something under the tables when the staff wasn't looking.
I squinted at this preppy Jesse Pinkman wannabe, for once feeling less guilty about helping Death snuff out a life. But still not glad, because, let's face it, I was Saint Violet of the Extremely Compassionate Society, and too freaking soft to ever wish for someone to die, no matter how awful.
I rolled my eyes. Mason would probably laugh in my face.
-I can't approach him.
If I could barely handle chatting up a bartender, then a drug deal was definitely out of my league.
That was most definitely Mason's department.
Trying not to lose my reap, I quickly scanned the booths for Mason's trademark ripped jeans and biker jacket. My luck that he was waving some glow sticks around, otherwise I never would have found him. He had ditched the three girls in pink for another group of guys that in no way looked old enough to be in this club, much less drinking so heavily. To top it all off, they all glowed azure like 4th of July fireworks, only an hour away from meeting their maker.
-Of all the days to use your new fake ID to sneak into a club, they had to do it on the same night Death was coming in?
Running my fingers through my hair, I sauntered over to the booth, trying not to stumble in my six-inch heels. Before Mason's new friends could say something, I hugged him from behind, planting a kiss on his scruffy cheek.
"Mind if I borrow him for a second?"
One of the guys was all but drooling over his beer bottle. "Yeah... yeah, sure, sure, no problem. I'm Mike."
"Hi Mike, I'm Zoe, his..."
"Girlfriend," Mason finished, running his fingers up and down my bare arms.
Despite my better judgment, I shivered. Out of all the roles we had to play in order to reap souls, Mason and I being a couple was the most common one. Though I couldn't, for the love of me understand how we pulled it off. Mason was the reckless Steven Tyler type, and I was his boring, nun-in-training sidekick. Two personalities you wouldn't expect would make a convincing couple.
"Right, cool." Mike slurped his beer, admiration in his eyes.
"Excuse us, while we go and furiously make out."
I gave him a light punch on the arm when we were far enough away from his fans.
"So much for the most important rule of all. Don't get attached." I said as a quiet, slow song started playing, giving us the opportunity to talk normally.
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Death's Rulebook
الخوارق"You cannot change fate. But maybe, you can edit it just a little." If there is one thing Violet Ellis has learned in her five years as a Grim Reaper, it's that a) reaping souls and sending them off to the afterlife is the worst job in existence, b...
