The Wrong Number
Holiday blow jobs were just sad. Especially on Thanksgiving, where everything smelled like turkey and most of it tasted like it too. Sweat. Breath. Skin.
I would never eat that bird again.
That particular Thanksgiving, I’d been blowing my publisher—Seeley, a man who always looked like his shirt collar was trying to strangle him—for about two months. It had nothing to do with getting my manuscript read, and everything to do with the way powerful men turn into biddable puddles when you make the right noises. Watching Seeley moan my name like I was some minor goddess in the pantheon of Lower Groin was good for my ego. And for some reason, it unclogged my writer’s block better than yoga, vodka, or the persistent fiction that my therapist “got” me.
So after our little holiday encounter, I went back to my apartment and started my second book in a fevered, post-smirk haze.
A bottle of wine and a bubble bath later, I was suddenly hungry for real meat. Not the unzip-and-slap kind—actual, chewable, artery-clogging meat.
Johnny’s Pizza had been keeping my fridge magnet company for a year. (212) 876-6667. Simple. Foolproof. Except, apparently, for me after two glasses of Merlot. I hit “6666” instead of “6667.”
Twenty minutes later the doorbell rang.
I answered in my towel. No one was there. When I turned, there he was.
“Oh God!” I shouted.
“Let’s not drag my Father into this,” said the man behind me.
He was tall, dark-robed, and smiling in the way cats do when they’ve found a mouse that doesn’t know it’s a mouse yet.
I grabbed my pepper spray. (For the record, I’m not the kind of woman who keeps pepper spray handy because she’s paranoid. I keep it handy because I live in New York, and there are things on the subway you can’t unsee.)
“Who are you and how did you get in?”
“You called me.”
“No, I did not!”
“Yes, you did.” He stepped closer, and my towel slid to the floor like it had been waiting for an audience.
“Well, hello,” he said, smiling at my nakedness like it was a party trick.
I emptied it into his eyes.
He screamed, only momentarily, then straightened. The redness and swelling melted off his face like special effects in reverse.
“That tickled.”
“W—what are you?”
“A demon,” he said, strolling toward me.
“You’re Lucifer?”
“Lucy’s a dick. I’m the fun one. Azazel.” He unfastened his black robe and draped it around my shoulders like a gentleman who murders you after dessert.
The doorbell rang again.
“Who did you call now?” he accused.
I glared and opened the door.
It was Seeley, my publisher. “Clark, I need to talk to you, we—” He froze when he saw Azazel. “What—were you seeing someone else?”
“She called me,” Azazel butted in.
“Who’s this guy?”
“I’m not a guy,” Azazel said. “I’m a demon.”
“Yeah, pal, and I’m Jesus!”
“The hippie?” Azazel squinted. “Where did you find this clown?”
Before Seeley could answer, Azazel flicked his hand. Seeley flew out into the hallway, hit the opposite wall, and slithered down it like old lasagna. The door slammed.
“What did you do?” I demanded.
“We’re out of time. I need you to break the curse.”
“What curse?”
“The curse that vengeful, hottie Wiccan cast on me last time I was here on Earth. You summoned me. How?”
He prowled around my penthouse, sniffing the wine glass, the couch, the top of my head.
“What was that?”
“Dolce. By Dolce & Gabbana.”
He continued to sniff around. “Did you do a summoning ritual? Light candles? Chant?”
“I was calling for pizza.”
“Where is the candle you used to call this ‘pizza’?”
I held up my phone. “This is what I used.”
He stiffened and inhaled my phone like it was a rare orchid. “This is it. It smells like the witch. Take me to this pizza. The witch bound me to it—I know she did.”
“You mean Johnny’s? She bound you to Johnny’s?”
“Enough talk. Bring me to this pizza.”
“It’s one a.m.”
He looked at me like I had just claimed gravity was optional.
“Let me get dressed—”
He pulled me back, holding me by the wrist. His hand was warm, not clammy like I’d expect from something that supposedly marinated in Hell. “No. You look excellent as you are. This could get us favours. You are very... well-structured.”
“I’m not going out naked!”
Five minutes later, we were in my car—him in his robe, me in jeans and a sweater. I was regretting every moment of this and also, annoyingly, enjoying the way his presence made the air hum.
--
Johnny’s Pizza smelled like oregano, fryer oil, and low-grade heartbreak.
Two customers were slouched in the corner booth, halfway through a large pie. They both stopped chewing when Azazel walked in. One of them actually elbowed the other, eyes going wide. I could practically see the thought bubble: Oh. My. God.
I hated it instantly.
The pimply counter kid stared at him like he was auditioning for his dreams.
“Where’s your phone?” Azazel demanded.
“Uh, in the back,” the kid stammered.
Azazel smiled like a knife. “Fetch.”
“You’re scary,” I told him.
“I’m delightful,” he said. “Scary is my brother.”
The kid disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing with a cordless phone so greasy it could have been deep-fried.
Azazel’s nostrils flared. “This is it.”
The kid blinked. “It’s just the store phone.”
“This is not just a phone,” Azazel said, not touching it. “This is a prison.”
He explained as we stood there: The witch—apparently some goth pizza chef with a grudge—had cursed him so every time someone misdialed Johnny’s last digit, he’d be yanked out of Hell like a ragdoll on a bungee cord.
“That’s... petty,” I said.
“She was petty. Also had excellent thighs.” His eyes flicked to mine, lingering. “I appreciate excellent structure in any form.”
I ignored the sudden heat in my stomach. “So, what—smash it?”
He stepped back. “Not me. You. You’re the summoner. I can’t break it. She built the curse to need the original caller. I so much as touch it, it resets.”
“Of course she did.”
“You break it, you free me. Then I grant your heart’s desire.”
“You don’t even know what that is.”
“I don’t have to. You’re a writer. I can smell the desperation for validation.”
--
We took the phone into the alley, and there I threw the cursed thing on the ground. It just bounced.
I did it again and still, nothing happened.
Azazel was behind me with his arms crossed, gave me the kind of look usually reserved for toddlers who eat crayons.
“What?” I said. “Maybe it needs... I don’t know. A prayer or something.”
“Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’m a demon. I don’t pray.”
I spotted a steel pipe in the corner and grabbed it. I smashed the phone again. It only made a sad, hollow clunk and stayed perfectly intact. My frustration was boiling.
“What exactly did you do to this witch?”
His mouth quirked into something between a smirk and a confession. “We had... a disagreement.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I might have... ruined her life. A little.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘a little.’”
He waved a dismissive hand. “She overreacted.”
“Did you apologize?”
He stared at me like I’d just asked if he flossed. “I’m a demon.”
“Not an answer.”
He sighed, looking like he’d rather drink holy water than comply, and finally bent toward the phone. “Sorry,” he whispered to it, like the word physically hurt.
The phone didn’t break, but I swear I felt the air shift.
Azazel stood closer. Enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him, a strange, not-of-this-world warmth that made my chest tight.
“Do it,” he said softly, like it was foreplay.
I took the pipe and swung it down against the phone. Plastic finally shattered. Smoke hissed out—black, curling tendrils that smelled faintly of burnt basil and old arguments. Somewhere, faintly, I heard a woman’s scream.
Azazel exhaled. The air changed, like someone had opened a door to someplace bigger than the sky.
“It’s done,” I said.
He reached up, touched my jaw with a thumb that felt far too tender for someone who’d been flinging humans into walls minutes ago. “You’ve no idea what you’ve done for me.”
“Are you going to take my soul?”
“No. Like I promised, I will grant your heart’s desire,” he said, and kissed my hand. When he looked up, his eyes lingered like he was memorizing me. Then he was gone.
--
I didn’t feel different—until the next week. My second book sold. Then a third. Then a bidding war. Awards. TV adaptations. My face on billboards. Eventually, I bought the publishing house and made Seeley fetch my coffee. No more turkey-flavoured favours.
But Azazel never came back. Not after the first bestseller. Not after the movie deal. He’d promised me my heart’s desire, and he’d delivered—then disappeared into whatever dark corner of existence demons go when they’re not haunting humans.
--
Seven books later, I decided to celebrate alone. Wine. Bubble bath. Afterward, pizza.
There was a new place in town—Luciano’s. I called.
Before the order could go through, the doorbell rang.
A man in a weird robe stood there.
“Oh no,” I groaned. “Which one are you?”
He smiled. “The dick.”
“Lucifer,” I said flatly.
“That’s right. I hear you’ve been playing with my little brother.” His voice was silk and knives.
“Azazel?” My stomach twisted.
“He likes you,” Lucifer said. “Which is inconvenient. He’s not supposed to... like.”
Before I could answer, the hallway darkened, and Azazel was there, eyes burning brighter than I remembered.
“Step away from her,” he said.
Lucifer smirked. “Or what? You’ll pout me to death?”
Azazel moved between us. “This one’s mine.”
Lucifer’s grin turned cold. “We’ll see.” He vanished, leaving the faint smell of scorched roses.
I stared at Azazel. “You could have shown up before the part where I almost made a deal with Satan.”
“I was... occupied.” His gaze softened. “But I’m here now.”
He brushed a lock of hair from my face, the same way he had in that alley.
“Did you miss me?”
“Not particularly.” I lied.
His mouth curved, just slightly like he knew what I just realized the moment I saw his face again. My true heart’s desire wasn’t the writing success after all.
--
For three weeks, he had been coming and going on his own inexplicable schedule, showing up in my kitchen at 3 a.m. with stolen croissants, or in my bed at noon smelling faintly of ash and rain.
Three weeks of me pretending I wasn’t getting used to it.
The trouble with demons is that they never stay put.
So, when the doorbell rang late one night, I expected him.
It wasn’t.
Lucifer stood there, leaning against the doorframe like a man posing for a portrait he’d ruin later.
“Hello, writer-girl,” he said.
“Not interested,” I replied, and went to shut the door.
He caught it with one finger. “Azazel’s busy. But I’m not here to fight him. I’m here to offer you a contract.”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard the terms yet.”
“I don’t care if they come with eternal youth and free pizza for life.”
His smile deepened. “Funny you should mention pizza...”
Behind him, I saw a delivery boy in a red cap waiting patiently, holding a single cardboard box.
“I don’t want—” I began.
But Lucifer leaned in, voice low. “You will. This one’s cursed just for you.”
And then he was gone, leaving the pizza box on my doorstep.
When I picked it up, the cardboard felt warm—too warm.
Inside, there was no pizza.
Just a phone.
And I thought: Oh, hell.
