Dying for a Living (A Jesse Sullivan Novel) Read Online Free

good,” I said, trying not to fidget despite the pain in my back.
    “Organic Rosemary Tint,” he replied. “It will compensate for your pale complexion until your circulation improves.”
    Real dead people don’t care about their cosmetics. However, with developing Necronite-mortician relationships, a whole line of organic cosmetics for customers like me had spawned. Let’s just say that no amount of Maybelline would make me look okay after a replacement. Though I have a really fast metabolism and some regeneration-healing skills, I still need help putting parts of me back together. This was also why I needed Kirk. Unlike any doctor, he was used to working with stiffs, so I could trust him to fix me up at any stage of decomposition, no matter the damage my body took in a replacement. The hospital was responsible for making sure all my organs, etc. were accounted for—and Kirk was responsible for the rest.
    “Did you see anything strange?” I asked.
    He paused, the brush hovering over my bottom lip. “Your heart beating in my hands is strange.”
    “No, I mean anything unusual,” I said. “Anything you don’t usually see?”
    He considered my question then returned to painting my face. “No. Why?”
    I thought about the strange electrical problems I’d had lately: coffee makers, light bulbs and then the secretary’s computer, all exploding on their own. That wasn’t normal for me and something about it scared me a little—the way missing my period or losing a wallet scared me—not the mishap itself so much as the possibility of greater mayhem.
    “I was just wondering if you found any brain-eating slugs. Got to watch out for those.”
    “No, nothing like that,” Kirk said with a warm grin and the snap of a latex glove. “All finished.”
    Kirk packed up his black case, arranging the box of gloves, varied brushes and cosmetics just so. He pulled off the other glove with a second snap and threw it in the waste bin. The fact that I could turn my head at all said I wasn’t “zombie-shuffle” sore. I asked Kirk about it.
    He turned his wrist over to read his watch. “You’ve been alive for almost four hours.”
    That explained why the rigor mortis wasn’t so bad. My cells would’ve had time to push some of the calcium out and lessen the muscle contraction, but the only cure for rigor mortis was a hot bath, massage, lots of gentle stretching and most importantly, time.
    “What was my D.T.?” I meant “down-time” or “death-time.” Necronites stay dead—no heartbeats, no breathing, actual decomposition and all that—until our brains reboot. Then we experience the coma state, in this case, the four-hour stint Kirk mentioned, while our bodies heal enough to support themselves and regain consciousness. Scientific minds are politely calling this whole process NRD, or Necronitic Regenerative Disorder. No hocus pocus here, folks!
    Kirk looked at the ceiling as if calculating in his head. “About fifteen hours. We’re coming up on 8:00 A.M.”
    “Tuesday?”
    “That’s the one.”
    I loved it when that happened, when I slept through the night and woke up at a normal hour. It made the death-life transition easier.
    “Where’s Ally?”
    He wiped the bristles of a dirty makeup brush clean with a towel. “Gone since she delivered your body last night. Brinkley’s here to take you home.”
    I fell against the bed and faked a coma.
    “That shit won’t work on me,” a familiar voice said and I didn’t feel the least bit compelled to quit playing dead. I’d rather be dead than deal with Brinkley any day.
    “Get up.”
    I groaned and dragged myself from Kirk’s table. My legs instantly stiffened as they hit the floor. Groaning, I stretched each limb before rolling my eyes up to meet Brinkley’s.
    “Have I ever told you how much fun you are?” I asked.
    “More than once.” Brinkley was just a tad shorter than Kirk with the same wide shoulders and early signs of a beer gut, bodies like old