Fallen Angel (5 page)

“Fine. Neither one of us is in her right mind. I don’t think that helped your argument any though.” She raises her brow at me like she’s waiting for me to have another go at it. But I’m not gonna.

“Oh, well.” I start to walk out. “Tell Blaise I said thanks for letting me borrow the Yukon again.”

“Wait. You’re just going to leave?” But she’s not taking any actions to stop me.

“Yep. See ya.” Then, before she can ask for more specifics, like return time, I hustle to the front door and take off.

This time, showing up at Angel’s house causes me far less anxiety. Maybe because he sort of invited me today. Or, at the very least agreed to letting me invite myself. Either way, I don’t linger in the car and I don’t go all turtle like, trying to disappear within my own bone structure when he greets me with a hug.

And, within a matter of minutes, we’re sitting in his Bentley cruising along.

“So, this is fancy.”

He grins. “A slight upgrade from the ’93 Honda I had back in high school.”

“Aw, good ol’ Gert. What ever happened to her?” Gertrude, the bright blue Civic Hatchback, had been Finding Nolan’s main ride back in the day. How in the hell they fit everyone and their instruments in that little thing will remain a mystery until the end of time.

“I donated her. Women’s shelter. She was still in really great shape, figured someone ought to be getting some use out of her.” He does a half smile where his attention is half on me and half on the road. And my heart gets a sweet, cozy feeling all around it. He donated Gert. To a women’s shelter.

Why do the good men have to use their powers for getting as much pussy as possible instead of focusing all of their super powers on one woman alone?

“That’s a really nice thing you did.” Not that he needs me to tell him so. “But, back to the nice thing I’m doing for you.” Because that’s the sort of distraction I need to keep me from getting sucked up in the ‘Angel is so wonderful’ funnel threatening to slurp me up and take me far far away from reason. “Where are we headed to first on our big shopping spree?”

“You’ll see. We’re about to pull in.”

Before he even finishes answering, the sign comes into view and he turns into their parking lot, thus officially starting our day of furniture shopping.

Between sitting on about a hundred different couches, discussing the benefits of a sturdy coffee table (in case you want to take a game of karaoke to the next level and need to use it as a stage) and fighting for thirty minutes about window treatments and whether or not it’s acceptable for a bachelor to have drapes (it’s not, even if Memomma always had them) the day pretty much flies by in a blur, leaving us no choice but to make plans for the following day. And then again the day after that. And so on and so forth. By the end of the week, we’ve actually got a little routine going. I pull up, he comes out, one coffee and one water in each hand. We switch cars. We stop at the French bakery down the street for some tasty pastry (the bats are letting me eat again) and then it’s shop until you drop, at least until lunch.

Come Friday morning and I’m cruising into Angel’s driveway in Blaise’s Porsche. Apparently, that’s my designated ride this weekend. It’s taking some getting used to from the Yukon he had assigned to me before. I’m not sure if all this car hopping is for my benefit or his. I think he sees cars a lot like shoes. Like you need to walk around in them a bit to make sure they fit right.

No one else is here, not even Derek from the looks of it, so I have no problem acting like I own the place when I roll up to in the middle of the driveway and park right out front. Then, my little fantasy comes to a crashing halt when the gate buzzer goes off behind me and I hear some chick’s voice yelling into the intercom.

“Angel? Baby? Are you home?”

Annoyed and seriously deflated, I walk up to the gate to see who it is. I want to get a good look at her before I send her packing. Then I regret it. She’s gorgeous. And I’m pretty sure I saw her sprawled out across the pages of the last Victoria Secret Catalog I perused in search of some new underwear I’m never going to fill out the way this chick does.

“Angel’s not here, sorry.”
Not sorry
.

“Are you the maid?”

“No, I’m not the fucking maid.” I take a deep breath and try to cool my jets. I should have just said yes and taken a message. It would have been easier than trying to explain who I really am.

“Does Angel know you’re on his property?” That stupid twat has a lot of nerve.

“I should think so, considering I have the security code to get in the front gate.” I know I’m not being super upfront about my business here, but this chick is unleashing a new mode of beast within me and I’m prepared to imply bad, bad things right now.

“You do?” I can’t tell if she’s surprised or doubtful.

“Yeah, I do. And since you don’t, maybe now would be a good time to stop coming around.” And I went and did it. “Good bye!” I don’t ask for her name, let alone a message. At this point I’m planning to deny the whole thing ever even happened if it comes up someday in the future.

I stomp my way up to the front door again and freeze when I look up. It’s him.
Shit
.

“Hello?”

He’s smirking. “Any reason in particular you yelled at my friend, Mariska?”

So fucking busted. “Oh, she’s your friend? Sorry, I just assumed she was a stalker.”

He chuckles. Thank God he’s not mad. Although, he may be laughing at me. “Nope, no stalker. They don’t usually ring the buzzer. Just climb straight over the gate.”

“Good point. Anyway, you ready to head out?” I do my best to move the conversation along and hope we never have to venture back onto the topic of Mariska, and whether or not I’ve claimed to be his live in girlfriend in front of any other women I assumed were stalkers when I’m so clearly the only psychopath he needs to worry about.

Thankfully, he’s easily swayed today and we get in his car to tackle our final day of shopping.

When we finally take a break again, we’re both starving and as usual, it doesn’t take us long to decide on a spot to eat.

Today, we’re dining at a top of the line fine dining establishment, also known as IHOP. It’s nearly three in the afternoon and aside from two tables in the very front, the place is completely empty. Which makes it pretty much perfect for not getting mobbed. Even better when we wind up in a booth at the very back of the restaurant as per his request.

“You’re really getting pancakes for lunch?” He’s eyeing me skeptically over his menu.

“Um, it’s the international house of
pancakes.
” I would have ordered them at Denny’s too.

“Alright, alright. I’m not knockin’ it. It was just a question.” He chuckles and those damn bats roar to life again. They still do it pretty frequently, but with the constant Angel exposure, they seem to be adjusting and now settle down again much faster.

“I suppose you’re going to eat something super healthy?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen him eat anything I’d deem crap worthy. Outside of the occasional baked good.

“I have to. All this shopping you’re making me do is seriously cutting into my work out schedule. I start eating like you do and I’m going to lose a body I spent over a decade putting together.” He puts down his menu with such gusto it’s like a gestured exclamation mark.

“And, you’re saying what exactly about
my
body?” I pour some maple syrup on my spoon and suck it clean. Since we’re all about using props to get our point across.

“I’m saying
your
body is s freak of nature. You’re the only person I know who can eat a platter of brownies for dinner and get up the next day looking hotter than they did the day before.”

I think the sticky syrup just fused my vocal cords together. It takes me a few false starts before I can get the words out. “Did you just say I was hot?”

He shrugs. “Right. Because no one’s ever told you
that
before.”

“You’ve definitely never said it before,” I mumble, but our server shows up just then, so I don’t think he hears me.

Donna, our friendly IHOP tour guide for this meal, sets our beverages, one water, one coffee, so, the usual, down on the table. Then she flips through her little notepad until she finds a semi-blank sheet of paper to take our order on. She’s about a hundred years old, so she has no clue who Angel is. Plus, she keeps calling him sweetie, which for some reason I find utterly adorable. Maybe because he actually seems slightly bashful every time she does it.

“You two love birds know what you’re having today?” That’s it. Donna is officially my most favorite person in the whole world. Angel on the other hand is choking on his water. He’s not my favorite right this second.

“I’ll have the chocolate chip pancakes, please.”

“Sure thing, short stack. How about you, sweetie?” She turns toward Angel, who’s still struggling to get back his cool as a cucumber demeanor.

“I’m going to have the big steak omelette, please. And maybe some hot sauce on the side? If you have some.”

“You got it. I’ll get these out to you two in a jiff. I’ve got tables over on the other side of the restaurant as well, so holler if you need anything. Don’t be shy.” She smiles warmly at the both of us and I kind of want to claim her as my grandma. I never really had one of those growing up outside of borrowing Memomma, but I imagine Donna would make an awesome grandmother.

“That was particularly flattering by the way, how you nearly killed yourself with a sip of water at the mere mention of us being a couple.” I rip two packets of sugar open and dump them into my coffee, doing my best impression of a cocky smirk. It’s an impression, because I’m not nearly as confident as I’d like him to believe.

Meanwhile, he scowls at me from across the table, doing
his
best impression of not amused.

“You going to jump on every opportunity to bust my balls from now until I die, or what?”

“If the opportunity arises, I must leap to meet it.”

He finally cracks a smile again. “You’re a real jackass, you know that?”

“I’ve heard mention of it a time or two.” I smile back. I can’t even remember the last time I had this much fun with another person. Sure, I had friends at school, but it was different. They were different. Everything always revolved around one of three things. School work, parties and getting laid. None of which I ever really found worth talking about, so it’s nice to just
be
with someone. Just bullshit. Talk. Laugh.
Laugh.
That’s a big one. Someone who actually thinks I’m funny. No one’s thought that in a long while.

Even though the kitchen is only cooking for maybe five people at this point, it’s a far cry from a jiff by the time we actually see our food. Not that I’m complaining. Then, it takes a small eternity for us to actually eat it because we’ve started an epic battle of knock knock jokes which have turned dirty beyond reason and has sent us into fits of giggles so extreme we’ve both got tears running down our faces.

When we nearly hyperventilate, we force ourselves to calm down and put a stop to the battle, calling it a temporary truce.

By the time we walk out of IHOP, the dinner crew is starting to show up for their shift. Which wouldn’t be a big deal, except it turns out, we know one of the cooks.

“Angel?”

“Shit.” Angel takes one look at the guy and starts to hurry me along back to his car.

“What? You can’t even say hello to your old man?” he calls after us. “That’s okay. I’d be in a hurry too if I had a fine looking piece of ass like that to tend to.”

Angel freezes. “Here.” He holds his keys out toward me. “Go get in the car.”

“What are you going to do?” And, also, there’s no fucking way I’m getting in the car.

“Going to say hi to my dad.” He glares in the man’s direction. Moe Hollis.

It’s always been common knowledge around the old neighborhood that Moe knocked up Angelica Price when he was twenty-seven and she was only fourteen. Memomma had been the first one to whoop his ass for it and had even told the Prices to press charges more than once, but they weren’t exactly stellar parents, so they dropped the ball on things, much like they had on everything else in Angelica’s life.

I guess it wasn’t much of a shocker to anyone, when she up and took off with some new loser who was rumored to be her pimp when Angel was only three. As far as I know, he’s never seen her since and Memomma raised him from that day forward.

Aside from being a top of the line pervert, Moe was also a shit father and a despicable son, but then Memomma always said his own father hadn’t been much better. I think on some level, Angel believes that shit’s hereditary because of it. Like maybe that’s the reason he’s such a player. I mean, I get it. If the pussy’s there, no guy in his right mind would turn it down, but still. According to Ava, it’s like he flat-out refuses to share anything beyond the physical with any woman he ever meets. And most days, I can’t decide if that makes me feel better or worse about my feelings for him.

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Angel.” I tug at his sleeve to get his attention, but there’s no swaying his gaze from Moe, who clearly lacks all judgement and common sense since he’s started walking toward us.

“Guess your woman doesn’t listen very well.” He licks his lips and leers at me. I swear my skin just jumped off my flesh and made a run for it. And I still feel dirty.

“Bam Bam, go.” His eyes finally break away from his father to find mine. “Please.”

“Come with me.” I glide my hand down his sleeve until my fingers link into his. “What good will talking do? You know you can’t reason with him.”

I can tell Angel is about to agree when Moe opens his fucking mouth again.

“That’s the problem with the young ones. They still need to be taught some manners and how to listen.” He laughs, and the rasp from years of smoking scratches my insides in the most disgusting way. “I get it though. I like ‘em young, too. Guess it’s true what they say. Like father, like son.”

He’s still laughing, his eyes running in circles between my boobs and my ass when Angel charges at him, punching him right in the face.