Fashionably Dead Down Under(51)

I laughed, but checked the room as well. Another visit would be one too many at the moment. “She took Grandpa home with her. For a week.”
“That will be loud.” Dixie giggled and rolled her eyes.
“Yep,” I agreed. “So will you play poker tonight?
“No, normally I watch, but I’m meeting some friends.” She picked very seriously at her nails as a slow blush travelled up her neck and landed squarely on her lovely cheeks.
“Friends?”
“Well, um . . . a friend, but my dad doesn’t know and I . . . ”
“Secret’s safe with me,” I told her, grinning.
She glanced over at Ethan. “My lips are sealed.”
“Thanks.”
“When do we have to be there?” I asked as I waded through the piles of clothes. Satan had thought of everything. There were undergarments as well as casual clothes mixed in with the formal wear. So much for going commando . . .
“In an hour. Go ahead and change and I’ll be over to pick you up in forty-five.”
I peeked over at Ethan as Dixie raced out. His grimace of pain made me smile. “No time for nookie,” I purred. I need to shower and daydream about our three-headed, four-armed baby.”
“Our son will be perfect,” he growled as he tried to stand, only to hunch forward due to his unsatisfied hard-on. “I’m letting you play this little game, Angel, but the consequences will be devastating.”
“Promises, promises.” I laughed as he chased me to the bathroom. I couldn’t wait to get back here tonight. I was going to ride him till he was blind.

Chapter 17
The poker room was brightly lit, but the ambiance was anything but friendly. It was as overly opulent as the other parts of the palace that I’d visited. Highly glossed marble covered the floors and rich brocades and velvets covered the furniture and walls. The focal point was the table in the middle of the room—a heavy mahogany top with carved and bloodied headless cherubs holding it up. Nice. The dark atmosphere was in direct conflict with Steven Perry’s voice belting out Open Arms. Ethan gave me the silent raised eyebrow and I shrugged and giggled. I’d forgotten to tell him about my uncle’s Journey obsession.
I recognized Hemingway immediately. He sat silently at the table nursing a martini. His demeanor didn’t invite chit-chat, so I kept my distance. A pompous, sullen looking man lounged on a furry black chaise lounge in the corner—had to be Dante. He was clearly pouting about something, but in ironic contrast, he sang along with the music.
Assuming Satan would make an entrance, I wasn’t surprised he hadn’t shown up yet. Neither had Mother Teresa . . . but Mister Rogers had. WTF? Mister Rogers shouldn’t be playing poker in Hell with Satan. He should be feeding fish and making new neighbors in Heaven. Did he even realize where he was?
“Ethan,” I whispered. “That’s Mister Rogers.”
“Mister who?”
“Mister Fucking Rogers,” I hissed, covertly nodding my head in his direction. He was wearing the cardigan and everything.
“His first name is Fucking?” my mate asked with a smirk.
“No. His first name is Fred and I can’t believe he’s here. I love him.”
Ethan glanced over at Fred and waved. Fred smiled and waved back, then proceeded to change from his dress shoes into some tennis shoes.
“No one will believe this,” I muttered.
As I gaped at my childhood idol, eight Demons entered the room and placed themselves in strategic areas. Interesting. Ethan’s body tensed and for the umpteenth time since I arrived in Hell I wished I was armed.
“How much of a handle do you have on your power?” Ethan telepathically asked as he sized up the Demons.
“Why? Do you think I’m going to need it?”
“Unclear at the moment, but I’m assessing our arsenal.”
“Apparently I have an assload of power. I need to get angry to use it and I’m not real sure how to control it.”
“Outstanding.”
“Sarcasm will not get you laid.”
Ethan’s mega watt smile made my knees turn to jelly. He’d get laid no matter what . . . and he knew it.
“I’d be surprised if Satan wants violence in his own home, but stranger things have happened,” he said.
The poker quintet appeared to be Ethan, Mr. Rogers, Hemingway, Dante and the Devil. The Demons were the bodyguards and Dixie’s therapy group was the staff. Wait. What? Carl, Janet and Myrtle were circling the room with trays of hor d’oeuvres.
“You look lovely, Miss Astrid,” Janet tittered, complimenting the tight red Prada halter dress I wore. “Would you care for a Soy-Pig-in-the-Blanket?”