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I turned around. “Um. Yeah, I had this whole long explanation that I was going to use to convince you that the whole thing was related, but I guess I don’t need to go into that now.”
“You do not. I also believe that the cuff has been muting the effects.”
“Right,” I said. “Because, as far as I can tell, I’ve gone batshit at least three times—I threw my coffee at Roman, I attempted to molest Ryan, and I went off on Rhyzkahl.” I grimaced. “And each time it’s been when I wasn’t wearing the cuff.”
“Yes. And I do not believe that any of these were specific, directed attacks—merely episodes brought on by the loss of inhibitions that this drug apparently causes.”
“In other words,” I said, “you don’t think I was drugged specifically to make me want to sleep with Ryan.”
Her mouth twitched. “I think that, with the cuff off, your normal iron self-control was lowered.”
I snorted softly and sat at the table. “The question now is, what the hell do we do about it?”
“We should go eat pancakes,” the demon said.
“Pancakes?”
She nodded firmly. “Everything is better with pancakes.”
“I’m not about to argue with you,” I said. “You making?”
“No,” she said with a smile. “You are buying.”
Chapter 14
Lake O’ Butter pancake house was fairly well populated at seven a.m. on a Tuesday morning, though fortunately there still seemed to be a few available tables. Probably another hour before they really hit a rush, I figured. The welcoming scents of butter and coffee hugged us as we walked in, along with the clatter of plates and the clipped commands of the short order cook. Formica tables looked like they’d been salvaged from a fire sale, the vinyl chairs had more cracks than an old woman’s heels, and the silverware was usually battered and bent, but the pancakes were fluffily sinful, the cooks used real butter, and the blueberry syrup was made from a patch in the owner’s back yard. For breakfast it was nothing short of luscious. Lunch or dinner was another matter entirely. I’d only made the mistake of ordering a tuna salad sandwich here once.
A waitress grabbed menus, and gave us a thin-smiled order to follow her. I started to comply, then paused at the sight of Roman at a table in the corner. He had his back to me and papers spread out on the table in front of him. Guilt shuddered through me at my behavior the other day. “Eilahn, give me a minute, okay?”
She followed my gaze, gave a slow nod. “I will order coffee for you,” she said.
She knew me too well.
Taking a deep breath, I walked to his table. “Hi, Roman.”
He lifted his head, gave me an uncertain and cautious look. He looked tired and had a faint dusting of stubble on his chin. “Er, hi, Kara.”
“I’m sorry,” I said in a rush. “I don’t know why the hell I did that to you yesterday.”
Giving a self-conscious laugh, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe because I deserved it?” He gestured toward the seat opposite him. I slid onto it, relieved, then shifted as a wayward crack of vinyl poked my backside.
“No, you really didn’t,” I said as I found a more comfortable spot. “People ask for that sort of thing all the time. And, to be honest, we do it all the time. Not fixing it, but it’s not that tough to get tickets reduced, depending on your driving record. That sort of thing.”
“It’s all right,” he said, meeting my eyes. Some of the fatigue seemed to have cleared from his expression. “I can afford it, and I was speeding.”
“Okay, but still,” I said, “last time I checked, the standard punishment for speeding didn’t include getting scalded with hot coffee.”
He cast his eyes upward, and pretended to consider. “Well, maybe when you factor in court costs…â??.” He chuckled and dropped his eyes back to me. “Seriously, though, apology accepted.”
“Thanks.” I skimmed my eyes over the papers in front of him without being too obviously intrusive. There was a stack of what looked like account statements, and some letters that looked like they were from law firms. “What’s all this? One of your investments?”
“Something like that,” he replied. “I’m part owner of an industrial park on the northeast side of town, and I’m trying to see if anything can be done with it that’ll allow us to turn a profit.” His eyes shadowed. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m not with ESPN anymore.”
I winced. “No, I hadn’t heard. Um, was this your decision?”
His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I was asked to ‘voluntarily’ resign earlier this spring. Personality conflicts.” A scowl briefly crossed his face before being wiped away by a sardonic smile. “So now I’m looking for other opportunities for a beat-up ex-football player.”
“You’ll land on your feet,” I assured him.
