Something Wicked Read Online Free PDF Page A

window.
"And I don't think either of you can fix that."
    What could I say? He was right. I may be a crack cleaning
lady, but I was no Handy Andy.
    "Do you have any plywood?" He bulldozed over my
silence, raising my hackles.
    "No," I said flatly. "Why, you going to fix
it?"
    "You weren't thinking of leaving the window like that
all night, were you?" he asked, heading up the stairs.
    "You can't fix it in bed," I yelled up after him. Not
dealing with the broken window until morning exactly was my plan.
    He stopped half way up the stairs. "God, Iz, I am
getting a spare tarp and some duct tape."
    "You keep a tarp and duct tape in your room?" I
muttered. "Just like a serial killer."
    "I heard that," he called over his shoulder and continued
his ascent up the stairs.
    With the living room clear of bodies, it was a good time to
sweep up the glass. Ignoring Tara's retching from behind the bathroom door, I
slipped into the kitchen to grab a dustpan and brush. On the way back to the
living room, I knocked lightly on the door. Amanda opened it about an inch, and
I saw Tara, her cheek lying against the cool porcelain toilet.
    "You owe me," she said sourly.
    "Thanks, and sorry?" I tried, not really sure how
to respond to her. I expected the sour puss from Finn but not from Amanda.
    She slouched against the doorframe. "No, I'm sorry. I
know it's not your fault. I'm just annoyed. And grossed out. I had to hold her
hair back and everything."
    I gave her a small smile and held up the broom and dustpan,
managing to keep the paper shopping bag I grabbed for the refuse tucked under
my arm. "You think you can keep her in here a little while longer?"
    Amanda dropped her eyes to Tara, whose clammy skin still
carried a greenish hue. "Oh don't think she's going anywhere just
yet."
    Finn was still stomping around his room, and I had to get
busy sweeping lest he track glass all over the house. Amanda closed the
bathroom door, leaving me to walk gingerly around on my bare feet while I swept
the shards into a pile.
    I didn't want to look up when Finn thudded back down the
stairs, preferring to keep my eyes on the pieces of broken window. Raising my
head was almost automatic, though, and as soon as I did it, I wished I kept my
eyes averted.
    Finn changed into pajamas while he was upstairs. The loose
bottoms slung low on his hip, leaving no question that he wasn't wearing
boxers. Or briefs. Did I mention he was shirtless? His chiseled chest muscles
rippled down to well-defined abs. His body flexed in all the right places while
he spread out his tarp. Gawking was mandatory.
    I averted my eyes, forcing myself to laser focus on cleaning
up the mess of broken glass while Finn wrestled the tarp open. I hummed quietly
while I worked, hoping to push the impure thoughts I was having about Finn and
his low-hanging jammies out of my mind. Why in the name of Salem did Finn have
to be so freaking hot?
    I vaguely heard Finn saying something as I hummed the chorus
of Living on Prayer. "Take my hand and we'll make it I swear, Ohhh Ohhh Living
on a Prayer!"
    "Izzy!" Finn shouted, ripping me out of my 1980s
rock star dream. Oh damn. I wasn't humming. I was singing. Really loud.
    I cleared my throat and faced him calmly. "Yes?"
    "Could you hold up the tarp while I tape it?"
    "Oh, yeah, sure thing," I stammered. "Just
give me a sec."
    I swept the glass pieces into the dustpan and dumped the pan
into the paper bag, the glass pieces grating against each other as they tumbled
to the bottom. I walked carefully on my tiptoes over to the window, hoping
there weren't remaining shards ready to embed into my bare feet. When I safely
reached the window, I took a corner of the tarp from Finn and held it over my
head to the corner of the window.
    Finn taped off the opposite top corner, then dropped to his
knees and started on the bottom of the windowsill. I stood, arms above my head
holding the tarp in place, while he carefully adhered the rough plastic to the
wood.
    "This is not a