Shift Change

Chapter 1

LAST NIGHT:

When she tossed the empty pizza box over the side of the couch with the rest of the fast-food trash, she'd assumed the sheer volume of the feast would have knocked him out into a food coma, but this was the first time she'd ever sat in a guy's lap and stuffed him full of food, so it tracked that her expectations might be wrong. Still, his post-dinner boner pressing insistently into her crotch through the layers of their clothes was a surprise.

A hot one, though.

She made the first move: leaning in, she pressed her fingers to his mouth, coaxing him to lick off the last of the sauce and cheese grease, before she moved in for the kiss, biting down on his bottom lip. The electricity between them seemed to rip out the scaffolding of her, and she fell against him with an intensified ferocity. For a moment, the moan that built up in the back of his throat gave her pause-had she pushed him too far? Oh god, was he-was he going to throw up on her?

But when she pulled back for breath, he was looking at her with a look she'd never seen in his eyes before. It wasn't the distant longing she was used to.

For once, he was right here.

Then, like a gentleman, he pulled two understuffed pillows from the other end of the couch and propped them against the armrest, which was more than she deserved, as seconds ago, unlike a lady, she'd risked making him vomit, with the pressure of her full weight against his overstuffed belly. But that clearly wasn't important enough to him to stop him from hooking an arm under her knee and tackling her onto her back against the cushions.

"You're heavy," she sighed underneath him as the wind rushed out of her lungs, and, in the darkness, she began to see stars.

"You're welcome," came his reply, before he pressed a warm, breathy kiss to the side of her neck that made her shiver.

***

Connie was no stranger to waking up in men's apartments. She was, however, unused to waking up second. Usually, she was too preoccupied with the risks at play, and the next steps. She had to read the body language of her one-night stand before he awoke-was he on his back, relaxed? Or on his side, turned away from her, curled up into himself? Would it be a normal cuddles-and-breakfast kind of morning, or would she have to run verbal damage control, assuring him he was truly the one she meant to follow home, and not her drunken regret? (Once, she'd discovered a police badge on the nightstand of her flavor-of-the-evening and opted to fly out the window before he could realize she was gone. What a life she lived.)

But none of those other guys were Frank Conway.

He wasn't a stranger. He wasn't a gamble.

He wasn't the fattest guy she'd ever fallen in with, but it did help that he was gaining weight on purpose, even if it wasn't, strictly speaking, for her. Their relationship was almost professional: he owed a flesh debt to a demon, and she was simply here to help, as a friend. It wasn't her fault that she liked him better softer, and it would have been stupid of him not to sleep with her, since he'd only been trying to since nineteen-ish months (and thirty-someodd pounds) ago.

But last night?

He'd really outdone himself.

By the time she awoke (still on his couch, tucked against him under one protective arm), he was already up, fluffing his fingers through her hair. She didn't know how long she just lay there, blissed-out, letting him do it, before the light of the overcast Blackwater sky through the window melted the sleep from her eyes and she looked up at him, grinning. (And what an angle: the dip of his filled-out chest made the perfect resting spot for her cheek, and even with his beard yet unstyled, she had the perfect view from below of his modest but emerging double-chin.)

"Hey, pretty girl," he said, smiling fondly.

"Hey yourself." She didn't move quite yet. His stomach had recovered from the swell of last night's dinner, and if it were possible, she'd have stayed pressed to its soft warmth forever, like she was superglued there. But unfortunately, biology called, and eventually, another craving won out.

Negotiating her way off the couch-still butt-ass naked-to pluck her pack of cigarettes off the coffee table, she asked, lighting up, "You wouldn't happen to have your old staff uniform anymore, would you? I don't have time to go all the way home, and it's not like you can use it. Since, you know..." She let the implication settle in the pause before saying, "You're a manager now."

"...Fuck."

She chuckled through her smoke. "Did you forget we had to go to work?"

"Yes," he groaned, sitting up and slumping forward, also butt-ass naked, head in his hands. All things considered, she didn't think she needed to hide her lustful stare at the way his belly rolled against itself when he bent like that. "And I only have enough gas to get there one way, and my bus pass is expired, and I didn't put my paycheck in the-"

"Relax," said Connie, drawing the word out as if she could make him if she talked slow enough. Typical Frank; he could have easily used his mind-control powers to sweet-talk the gas attendant into hooking him up. Only he could bargain with a demon for magic and forget to ever use it. But Connie had a better idea, anyway. "We can take my car. One condition, though."

"Shoot."

She bit her lip mischievously. "Let me buy you breakfast."

***

The line at the drive-thru was three cars deep when they pulled up, and moving quickly, but slow enough that Connie was able to steal a sideways glance at Frank whenever her foot was on the brake. Not that she hadn't been doing that at every stoplight since they pulled out of his complex's parking lot, which he had to admit struck him as a little dangerous, but what was a little danger between a pair of long-time criminals? Besides, he'd waited over a year for her to look at him like that. Might as well relish it, at least until the Bloodhound came to collect.

And it wasn't like he wasn't looking at her, too.

"You know," he said, "I think that shirt looks way better on you than it ever did on me."

"Really, now? You don't think the sleeves are a fire hazard?"

"Connie, you ARE a fire hazard, and I haven't written you up for it yet."

"So you think I should keep it?" she asked, inching off the brake and up the driveway.

"Since when does a burglar ask permission?"

She propped her elbow against the center console and leaned in with this devilish sparkle in her eyes. "I'll keep it forever. But what are you gonna wear after that demon thingy makes you all skinny again?"

"Easy, I'll take the shirt you left on my floor," he responded without missing a beat.

"Ugh, I HATE that shirt! Promise me that if you do wear it, it'll only be so I can feed you until the seams pop right-"

"Welcome to WackDonalds, what can I get you?"

"Hi, yeah," said Connie, at the front of the line at last, "he's gonna get two Breakfast WackDouble combos with hash browns and a large chocolate shake." Frank squirmed in the passenger's seat; how had she known his regular order? "And I'll take the bacon WackBiscuit, just the sandwich, no side, and do you guys sell alcohol here?"

"Ma'am, this is a WackDonald's," came the cashier's voice, staticky and grating over the system.

"Bummer. Worth a try, though," said Connie, her shoulders slumping. "Then I guess just a small OJ."

"That'll be $11.37, please pull up to the next window."

As Connie gave the accelerator a gentle nudge, her Corolla moving at a snail's pace behind the car in front of them, he asked, "So, you're a mind-reader now, too?"

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't even tell you what I wanted, but-"

"Your favorite subject was English. You used to write sad poetry under a tree in your high school quad. Your favorite bands are ABCD and King, in that order, but you've told a few people over the years that your all-time fave is Brutalizer so you can sound edgier. You hate when good songwriters write lazy rhymes, like 'hey' and 'today' or 'now' and 'somehow'," she rattled off.

Oh, yeah-he had told her all these things the previous night, before all the food was gone and things took a turn. They had always felt like pieces of him that barely even mattered. But she'd held on to each one of them, and she wasn't even done.

"Your mom's name is Penny, but folks call her 'Poodle', and the night of your senior prom, you got nervous and drank all her booze and made out by the bleachers with Terra Novak-not her real first name-until you got caught and slapped by the girl who was supposed to be your date, Luna Cunningham-also not her real first name-"

"Okay, that's not-" Frank began to say, but did he really have a defense?

"But to be fair to you, you were plastered and they had really same-y haircuts and fishnet-y black dresses, and also to be fair to you, Luna only asked you out in the first place because she felt sorry for you after she watched your older brother beat the shit out of you by the community pool."

Nevermind. There was Connie, with the assist. Not that it felt like much of an assist, but at least it made him sound like a pathetic person instead of a bad one.

"And one time you cost the cantina probably three thousand dollars in sales because somebody called in a reservation for 'six to eight' people and you booked the dining room for a party of 68." Crap...that one, she would remember firsthand. She'd been on the staff that night, and yet, despite his mistake, and despite her immunity to his ability to convince everyone he could do no wrong, she'd laughed and joked with him in the near-empty restaurant to pass the hours until closing time, without judgment. "And either you don't know what you'd do if you could go to the moon, or you just wouldn't tell me when I asked."

"I..." He swallowed.

"You what?"

"I had no idea you've been listening that well," he said. "All this time, I've just been kind of...talking at you...I probably told you what I like here and just forgot I did."

She reached onto the dashboard for her pack of cigarettes and lit up on a finger-snap flame. "Nah, a receipt fell out of your pocket at work and I saved it like some nutso stalker."

Connie pulled up to the window. Paid, brought in the food. Determined to win back that sultry look from her from a minute ago, he took his milkshake and sucked through the straw. It worked; he could definitely tell. Her eyes widened, big and brown and curious, and he knew she adored how his round cheeks no longer hollowed.

She'd turned into traffic, but she was still watching him out of the corner of her eye. "Just you wait, Frank Conway. You're going to pay for making me crazy like this."

"Yeah?" He unwrapped the first of his sandwiches, popped off the top bun, and slapped a hash brown inside before taking a bite.

So delicious! Inside, he admonished the man he'd been before Connie-starving and lying in wait for someone to think he was perfect enough, trading his soul to the Bloodhound for superpowers until Connie decided to confront the demon herself and invent the flesh deal to get him out of-he checked his mental notes-stealing bones from people who were still alive.

This, though? This was so much better. He ate and ate until nothing was left and she watched him and watched him until...

Just as breakfast landed warm and heavy and pleasant inside him, Connie stopped the car. They'd arrived at Antonio's.

She gave his belly a couple of gentle pats. "Let's get to work, big guy."