I wasn't about to walk into an exorcism smelling like come. I took five minutes to be as thorough as I could stand to be with the water never more than lukewarm and uncomfortably rough paper towels before heading back outside toward the car. At least Seb had warmed it up.
And turned on the radio. I hated giving him control of the radio; he always searched around for the song he knew would piss me off the most and stuck there. I sighed behind the steering wheel and pulled out onto the highway.
"The only boy who could ever reach me," crash-bam, "was the son of a preacher man! The only boy who could ever teach me, oh-oh, was the son of a preacher man! Yes he was, he was, oh yes he was," bang-bang-bang on the dashboard. "Sweet talkin' son of a preacher man, ooh, oooohh—"
I turned off the radio. Seb's dark eyes flashed to me, and he pouted dramatically. "Ty, I was listening to that."
"You were butchering that."
"I beg your pardon? I sing like a choir of angels. I should know."
"Funny thing," I told him as I took the next exit for Couer D'Alene, "the simile doesn't get any more ironic the more often you tell it."
"No, but your appreciation of it increases, which makes it worth the telling," Seb said with a grin. "Besides, I still hold out hope that you'll learn to love that song. It's like your theme song. Son of a preacher man," he sang at me, mocking and serious all at once. His voice really was beautiful, a perfect dramatic contralto that suited the body he was wearing right now, that of a sweet-faced young man, gangling and loose-jointed. His hair was a mess of short black spikes, and he wore silver rings through his nose, both eyebrows and along both ears. All he needed to complete the punk ensemble was a cigarette, but I never let Seb smoke in the car. I had to have some boundaries, damn it.
And I'd never learn to love that song.