Grave Robber for Hire Read Online Free PDF

into the bathtub’s drain. A finger flick had the hot and cold taps running enough to bubble the neroli gel wash I drizzled into the tumble of water , scenting it and the room with the sweet oil from the flowers of the sour orange bush.
    With a bit of hot water and that wine warming the slip streams of my veins, I knew when I’d finished bathing I’d spill into bed and sleep like the dead. Bean gas and all. But I’d leave the windows open in case I fumigated myself to death.
    Steam and citrus blossoms fragranced the air as I pushed my leatherette trousers down and remembered gym junkie’s card. Bare assed I dashed across the hall and dug out the white card from my boot. Back in the bathroom I considered his hot-damn corded arms and those molasses depths I’d floated in, and expelled a deep lust driven sigh. A picture of his butt fluttered into my dirty mind, making me smile. All men’s butts should be so tight, with indents carved into each cheek, visible even when clothed.
    Oh yeah. That had been a good ass.
    Dark blue lettering wavered on the plain white. Tyreal Van Der Waals, Private Investigator specializing in cyber research, an email address and cell number. Damn what a sexy name. Ty- real . I played around with his name a few times testing it for testosterone, then the words private investigator, cyber research, hit.
    Shit, perfect—I needed a hand with my investigations. And a honey, an arm sniffing honey true, but an arm sniffing, private investigating cyber specializing honey . Those are rare.
    I looked at the card and lusted a little more. Okay a lot more. So he smelled me, kept touching my arm—shit happens. That was one man too hot not to hire.
    I dropped the card on my vanity and froze. In too much pain and shock today, I hadn’t realized he’d called me Angel. Not like Amy Bryley in her effort of thanks. He’d called me Angel as if it were my name.
    It is of course, but I didn’t introduce myself.
    #
    I woke with brain, back, and arm aches. I felt as if I’d crashed into concrete at the speed of sound, without the sonic boom to impress people. Playing super hero Angel always hurt. I moved my grated shoulder and grit my teeth. Yeah, wasn’t feeling too super anything this morning.
    The kitchen and I bonded over a fried egg, whole grain buttery toast, and three large cups of coffee-press liquid splendor. I had a mild stomach ache, but I wasn’t sure if that was left over beans or my stomach revolting against the pain meds and wine. I ignored it, and gobbled pain killers like candy, fed the furry kids then hit the computer and started protection spell hunting.
    With a cat walking over then lying on the computer keyboard, another nestled in my lap and a morbidly obese dog asleep on my foot, sending it numb, I made twenty phone calls and wasted four hours to discover nothing.
    I wiggled my foot free, screwed my face up at the tingles as blood rushed to save the appendage, lifted the cat off my lap, and pushed my chair away from the desk. I tottered on my tingling foot past my dead aunt’s six bookcases filled with volumes on finding Zen and inner peace and the best way of growing dope with hydroponics, to my bathroom.
    I picked up Tyreal’s card from my silky-oak vanity and stared at his name.
    Why did I feel I needed to phone this man? Lust—yes. Need help in my investigations—yes and yes. Curiosity over his, I think you need help declaration yesterday—yes, yes, and yes. I tapped the card on my cheek and stared outside at the flowering bottlebrush bush. The phone rang. I held my casted arm close to my body, and ran to answer it.
    Claudia’s refined voice irritated my ear. I wondered if she knew of the evilness that rotted in her husband’s ancestor.
    Five minutes later I hung up. She’d found a whole box of written material she thought Clyde Owen Jones wrote. It was rare to score such a large bounty of old writing. Shame the evil bastard had been such a prolific writer. Still, if I wanted