Page 42 of Venomous as a Snake

One is for Hooker. The maniac is chasing butterflies in the backyard.

As I stir everything into the mixing bowl, the front door opens, footsteps thudding in the entryway.

“Did you forget something?” I call out to Ali. “I thought you had already—”

“Just you, then?” an unfamiliar voice says from the other side of my island.

I don’t let my shock show, keeping my body relaxed as I continue mixing my batter. I spin on my heel and smile at the stocky, bald man with a cleft chin.

“Can I help you?”

“Clay sent me to pick you up.”

“Shame,” I sing. “I was just making waffles. Can you give me like twenty minutes?”

“Afraid not, Ayers,” he replies lightly. “The boss is waiting for you.”

I click my tongue, something I’ve picked up from Drew that also calls Pimp into the room every time he hears it.

Smart cat.

“Really,” I insist. “I’ll have enough for you to eat, too. We can have breakfast for lunch, then go see worms-for-brains so I can tell him to fuck off.”

“You’re going to come with me, nice and easy,” he counters. “Or I’ll dope and rope you.”

“That sounds like a hellacious Friday night,” I admit. “But it’s Thursday. That’s not going to work for me. I’ve got to meet a guy about trimming my bush tomorrow.”

He blinks, then shakes his head. “I’m not giving you any other options. We’re leaving. Now.”

“Listen, Cliff the Cleft,” I placate. “I appreciate your determination, but I don’t want to mop today.”

“What does moping—”

“So kindly step the fuck out of my kitchen before you bleed on my tile,” I finish.

Cliff chuckles, and I grin. I set my bowl on the counter, pushing it against the wall to keep it from getting caught in the fight. And I jerk the waffle maker’s cord from the wall, leaving it dangling.

The first lesson my dad taught me was anything can be a weapon if you want to survive badly enough.

This guy isn’t here to kill me, though. He came alone, or he came inside alone… If I’m out-matched, I’ll shift. After all, everyone knows king cobras are impressive escape artists.

“I feel like I should warn you,” I begin, waiting for the growling in my mind to simmer down. “My cobra is agitated. She’s a hissy bitch today.”

“Saw viper, baby,” he purrs. “We can fight all day.”

“That’s no good, Cliff,” I cajole. “I’m really not in the mood. You should soften a woman up before you call her baby.”

He’s done with our banter, giving me no more time to stall. He charges straight at me with his arms outstretched to grab mine.

I snatch the waffle maker off the counter by the top handle and swing, smashing the hot iron against his face. Pain shoots through my ankle as I push-kick his right knee.

Cliff snarls at me, his face screwed up in anger and agony as the skin of his cheek puckers up. I circle the counter, putting some distance between us.

Hooker barks at the back door, shoving himself against the glass to get to me. I worry he may break it and cut himself, but I can’t stop him at this moment.

An obnoxious meow draws Cliff’s attention from me. Pimp jumps onto the counter beside the door, licking his paw like he’s bored with our fight. This isn’t enough action for the holier-than-thou cat.

Cliff prowls to the left, caging me in the kitchen’s corner. He reaches for me, our arms tangling as we battle for the upper hand. My tailbone slams into the metal drawer knob, causing me to hiss in warning.