The Road To Hell Part 1

The Road to h.e.l.l.

By Jackie Kessler.

This book is for Brett, my very own White Knight.

(with just a hint of demon), I love you.

Acknowledgments.

Lots of people made this book possible, and they all deserve to win the lottery. Or, at least, own a private island or two.

To the Kensington team-John Scognamiglio, Magee King, Maureen Cuddy, and the whole Zebra gang-and to my agent, Ethan Ellenberg: you made everything possible.

To everyone at Backs.p.a.ce and to my writing group: You people rule. As always.

To the following people, who are invested in all things h.e.l.l: Jaci Burton, Cathy Clamp, Elaine Cunningham, MaryJanice Davidson, Ty Drago, Lila Dubois, Zinnia Hope, Brian Howe, Caitlin Kittredge, Joe Konrath, Rich.e.l.le Mead, Rainfeather Pearl, and Mich.e.l.le Rowen.

Without the following people, h.e.l.l would only be a state of mind: Renee Barr: Love your inner demon, baby!

Heather Brewer: Words cannot describe how seriously you rock.

Stevie Guttman: L.A. is a different sort of h.e.l.l completely.

Most of all, to my mom and dad, who absolutely promised to skip the nookie scenes; to my wonderful boys, Ryan and Mason, who won't be allowed to read the h.e.l.l books until they're at least thirty five; and to Brett, as always-it's all good love.

Thank you all.

PART ONE.

JESSE AND THE ANGEL.

Prologue.

On The Precipice.

Whoever said you see your life flash before your eyes when you die was full of c.r.a.p. You don't see your entire life. Just the most important parts.

Or, in my case, just the most recent parts.

As I die now, feeling strong arms holding me tight, hearing a voice whisper that it's okay, my mind plays back the events that set me on the road to h.e.l.l, good intentions and all. Faces flash behind my closed eyes, almost too fast to follow-the incubus's fang-filled grin, the Erinyes hissing with reptilian fury, the angel crying fat, salty tears. My love, my White Knight, a name on his lips that isn't mine.

Nice to know there's a "rewind" b.u.t.ton that comes with life. If only there were an "erase" b.u.t.ton for the really sucky parts...

Darkness pulls me down, my heart slows, stops... and once again, I'm in Spice.

Chapter 1.

Spice.

"I'm from Death Valley."

"Really?" I smiled as I poured champagne into two long-stemmed flutes. Death Valley. Heh. People had such a sense of humor when it came to naming things. Take Slaughterville, Oklahoma, or my personal favorite: h.e.l.l, Michigan. There's also Paradise, Pennsylvania, but I don't hold that against them; they also have the spiffy town of Intercourse.

Handing a gla.s.s to the dark-haired man seated across from me, I said, "I've never heard of anyone actually being from Death Valley before. Scorpions and vultures, sure. People, not so much."

He grinned, and a blush crept up his cheeks until it stained his big ears. Bless me, he was so endearing-he embarra.s.sed easily and he was free with his money. What more could a girl ask for?

"Actually," he said, "I just work there. I'm a park ranger."

Ooh, a do-gooder. The last ranger I'd met had been of the bow-and-arrow variety, many years ago. Different beastie altogether. That ranger, a Royal Forester by trade, had been all too happy to b.l.o.o.d.y those he'd been sworn to protect in between bouts of raping women. Charming fellow. s.e.xy, in a pond sc.u.m sort of way. Remembering forest and frost and picking twigs out of his beard before our last romp in the crisp snow, I sank back onto the black leather sofa, feeling a smile stretch across my face.

Those had been good times.

"A ranger," I said to my latest client, rolling the word on my tongue. I tucked my legs beneath my body as I inclined on my left elbow, making sure my b.o.o.bs almost, but not quite, spilled out from my low-cut red gown. Why give something away when Ranger here would be all too happy to pay me? I flashed him my best Utterly Smitten smile. "I'd love to hear more about what you do."

His blush deepened. "I guess that depends on what day it is. Sometimes I'm a tour guide. Sometimes I'm a naturalist. And then there's times I have to be a cop."

Ah. No wonder I'd taken a s.h.i.+ne to him. Thinking of my own cop-who would actually be home tonight the same time I was, huzzah!-I asked, "Is there really that much trouble in the desert?"

"Well, not so much as like in the cities. But we get our share." The redness faded from his ears and cheeks as he spoke, and something hard and proud flickered in his brown eyes. Watching Ranger transform from a blus.h.i.+ng boy into a seasoned man sent a delicious tingle up my spine. Yum.

Stop that, Jesse. Don't get all hot and bothered by the nice customer. A friendly chat, a little drink in the mega-expensive Champagne Room, a private dance or two, clothing optional. No more. "What kind of trouble?"

"We get our ravers, our smugglers, our sc.r.a.ppers. We even get our full-fledged homicidal maniacs."

Ooh, really? How cool was that? "What sort of maniacs? Serial killers?"

Okay, nipples, that's enough. Down, girls.

"Well, the Manson Family hid out in the Panamint Valley."

"That part of Death Valley?"

"It's part of the larger park, yeah."

"Sounds like it can be dangerous," I said, putting an extra purr in my voice.

He shrugged, but the flush returned to his cheeks. My Ranger was modest. "I patrol in a Hummer, and I wear a bulletproof vest. That's with the temperature soaring well past a hundred degrees. And my M16, of course. I wouldn't go anywhere without it."

Broiling hot sun combined with a.s.sault weapons. Sweet.

"Tell me more," I said, taking a tiny sip of champagne. I hated the stuff-it was so light and airy that even angels would have b.i.t.c.hed about it-but my current Tall, Dark, and Handsome had ordered it as soon as we'd entered the Champagne Room. Maybe he thought it was obligatory. "Why'd you become a ranger?"

"I'm third generation. My parents both were rangers, and my grandpa before them. I love being part of the park service. And I love our mission."

"Mission?"

He took a deep breath, then said in a practiced singsong: "'To conserve the scenery and the natural and historic objects and the wild life therein and to provide for the enjoyment of the same in such manner and by such means as will leave them unimpaired for the enjoyment of future generations.'" He grinned at me before taking a deep swig of champagne. "National Park Service Organic Act, 1916."

"Impressive." Me, I preferred the o.r.g.a.s.mic Act of the here and now. "It's good that you're doing something you really believe in."

"What about you, Jezebel? Why'd you become a stripper?"

"Oh, I needed a career change," I said, toying with my drink. "I love dancing on stage, feeling the music moving through me. And I like taking off my clothes," I added with a wink. "So I decided to become an exotic dancer."

He said nothing for a moment as he stared at my face, a goofy smile on his lips. Based on how he was making with the soulful looks, Ranger seemed more turned on by my large green eyes than by my b.r.e.a.s.t.s doing their own rendition of "June Is Bustin' Out All Over." c.r.a.p, I'd guessed wrong; I'd been sure he was a b.o.o.b man. There'd been a time when I automatically knew what Hook worked for each client-long hair, dangerous curves, narrow ankles, you name it. Now all I had to go by was my gut. Clearly, that dandy hunch factor wasn't as fine-tuned as my s.e.x drive.

Mental note: Work on the whole women's intuition thing.

Finally Ranger said, "You're about the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

Ooh. Flattery. Right up there with chocolate. "You're a sweetie."

"No, I mean it. Your eyes, your smile... G.o.d, your t.i.ts..."

Hah, I'd been right. Smiling, I took another sip of champagne.

He broke away from my eyes to slowly look me over, eating me with his gaze. He ogled the swells of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the curve of my hip, the V of my crotch. As he feasted on the image of my flesh, I swallowed my drink, knowing that all I was to him was eye candy, a snapshot of s.e.xual gratification. Nothing more.

uber cool.

I grinned at him, my lipstick s.h.i.+ning in the softly lit room-enticing, advertising the things I could do to him with my mouth. That's right, sweetie. You want to taste the alcohol on my lips, want to pepper my flesh with your kisses...

As Chris Rock once said, there's no s.e.x in the Champagne Room. But that didn't mean I couldn't think about there being s.e.x in the Champagne Room.

In the background, the music from the hidden speakers switched to Patti LaBelle's "Lady Marmalade." Excellent tune, sultry vocals. I let my shoulders move with the beat, felt my skin humming from the sound of the piano keys.

"Say," Ranger said, his voice husky, "would you mind dancing for me now?"

"Love to." I placed my gla.s.s on the side table, then rose to my feet. With my stiletto-clad foot, I nudged his legs apart. Standing between his knees, I leaned forward, shoulders back, until my rack was inches away from his sweating face. I ran my hands over my twin mounds until they nipped out, straining against the material of my gown.

He groaned, then parted his lips as if he were dying to give suck. "Oh, Jezebel... you're killing me..."

Heh. Not even close. I don't do that anymore.

"I'm supposed to start in the middle of the song, charge you for a full. But I like you." I raised my arms high and s.h.i.+mmied, getting all jiggly and wiggly. "I'll just consider this a warm-up. No extra charge."

Ranger said something like "Argghluh" and proceeded to drool.

Winking, I teased him with a teeny nip slip. Peek-a-b.o.o.b.

"Jezebel," he breathed, "would you mind if I... um... touched myself while you dance?"

"Sweetie," I said, lowering myself into his lap, "I'd be honored."

One thing about a guy coming while you're giving him a lap dance: it's d.a.m.n sticky.

I dashed to the women's room as fast as my five-inch heels would allow me. It was one thing to give the nod to Ranger doing the hand-over-fist thing with his salami; getting his j.i.z.z on my gown was something else entirely. I'd a.s.sumed he'd have enough control to hold back until I'd stripped down to my G-string. But no-as soon as I popped my t.i.ts out of my dress, blastoff. Blech.

Not that I particularly minded being covered in bodily fluids. But I drew the line at c.u.m dripping off my work clothes. A gal's got to have some standards. And technically, it's a no-no for customers to touch themselves, or us, even in the privacy of the Champagne Room. If any of the bouncers-or, gah, the floor manager-saw the lewinsky drying on my dress, Ranger would be banned from the club. Forcibly. Premature e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n aside, Ranger was a decent guy; I didn't want him to get roughed up.

Besides, the poor dear had been so embarra.s.sed that he'd emptied his billfold to make up for it. A five-hundred-dollar tip goes a long way to forgiving such a faux pas.

I rounded the corner and saw the women's room at the end of the hall. One of the other dancers kept a supply of oxi-something in one of the bathroom cabinets for just such a stainage emergency. If I had another gown in my locker, I simply would have shucked the dress off, poured another one over my body, and not looked back. Problem was, all my clean gowns were currently balled up in the hamper at Paul's apartment, doing their dirty clothing impersonation. Mental note: Do laundry.

Mental note, part two: Learn how to do laundry.

Yanking open the door to the bathroom, I was greeted with a stink foul enough to curl my hair. Yow, someone recently visited the fudge factory. Waving a hand in front of my nose, I beelined it to the sink-the one farthest from the rows of toilet stalls-and was about to turn on the water when I heard a soft groan.

Breathing through my mouth, I saw Circe seated in the far corner of the room, at the end of the huge vanity table. The raven-haired beauty was staring intently at her reflection in the wall mirror, clutching something to her chest. I glimpsed her pale face and dark eyes in the mirror, but it was the hugely muscled man looming behind her that grabbed my attention.

Dressed in a sleeveless tank and biker shorts that left nothing to the imagination, he stood behind her, ma.s.saging her shoulders. Leonardo da Vinci would have creamed his pants to have this guy model for him. His body was perfectly proportioned, perfectly sculpted, and he radiated confidence almost to the point of arrogance. Slurp! Score one for Circe. After her s.h.i.+ft was over, I'd have to corner her and get all the juicy details about her latest love. Last I'd heard, she'd fallen hard for some skinny blond guy. Guess that was yesterday's news.

Mister Gorgeous bent over and whispered something in Circe's ear. She sucked in a hitching breath, then let out a soft moan, closed her eyes.

Humph. Maybe there was no s.e.x in the Champagne Room, but it looked like the ladies' room was up for grabs. I must have missed that memo.

I opened my mouth to ask Circe how she could even think about foreplay with the smell in the bathroom as overpowering as it was, when I realized three things. One, Circe was crying. Two, Mister Gorgeous cast no reflection. And three, mere was a dull red glow around Circe. This wasn't a freshly f.u.c.ked glow, either. It pulsed around her like a dying heart-slow, sickly, erratic.

s.h.i.+t.

I didn't know which was worse-that the aura around my pal meant she was perilously close to dying, or that there was a demon giving my pal a backrub. Of course, the latter explained the former.

Okay, Jesse. Play dumb. Most mortals can't see the nefarious. Ignore the obscenely huge-and h.e.l.lo, very turned on-demonic ent.i.ty. Hmm. Actually, there was one place where he wasn't so huge. Must be the infernal equivalent of steroids.

"Circe? Sweetie, you okay?"

"Ignore her," Mister Gorgeous said, casting me a long look. "She couldn't possibly understand the pain he's caused you. He doesn't love you."