Angry God

by L.J. Shen

  “A friend?”

  “Well, friends. My joints.”

  She full-blown giggles now. I try to bite down my smile, but I just want her to say yes and put me out of my goddamn misery.

  “Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “I’ll marry you, Vaughn Spencer. But on one condition.”

  I frown. “Yes?”

  “No children.”

  “You don’t want any children?”

  “Nope.”

  I don’t pause to think about it. “Fine. Whatever. Fuck it. They’re whiny and annoying and could grow up to be fucking serial killers. Who needs them?” I slip the ring onto her finger and stand up, jerking her with me, holding her by the ass and wrapping her legs around my waist. She moans into my mouth, her arms linked around my shoulders as I kiss her.

  I slap one of her ass cheeks with a grin. “Lenora Spencer.”

  “Lenora Astalis-Spencer,” she corrects. “And I would very much like you to become Vaughn Astalis-Spencer.”

  This time I do think about it. There’s a pause. Then she starts laughing again, wildly, covering my entire face with kisses.

  “You’re such a bloody eejit.”

  “Your bloody eejit, baby.”

  One year later

  “What happened to ‘I don’t want kids’?”

  Vaughn is standing by the sink in the OB-GYN clinic, picking up a chart showing the fetus’ growing stages and frowning at it with dry concentration.

  He has the tendency to do everything gravely, and that makes me laugh.

  Even the day he dragged the statue of us, the one he sculpted, into our bedroom—the last piece of decoration we’ve added to our home—he looked no more happy than he was when he chopped vegetables for a salad the evening before.

  “I said that just to see what kind of husband you’d be if you don’t get your way. It was a test.” I’m dangling my feet in the air, sitting on the examining table in a gown, waiting for the doctor to tell us the sex of the baby. The truth is, the idea of children had grown on me, like leaves on a summer tree, the more time Vaughn and I spent together.

  But everything I thought I wanted or needed changed after we eloped in London’s city hall three weeks after Vaughn’s proposal, in front of our close friends and family. Poppy arrived with her new boyfriend, Jayden, whom Vaughn got along with surprisingly well. Really, we couldn’t have done it any other way, when you think about it. Vaughn wasn’t one for fancy events.

  Three weeks after the wedding, Baron and Emilia presented us with our wedding gift, a plush, six-bedroom beach house in Todos Santos. We thanked them politely, but weren’t going to do anything with it, of course. We loved our Corsica home. Then Emilia made the very good point that we could at least visit it and list it to be rented. We agreed.

  The minute I set foot in that house, I knew I was born to live there.

  The ocean called to me.

  The sound of the waves crashing on the shore lulled me into drugging bliss.

  Everything was open and beautiful and new. The air felt lighter and crisp. The four of us walked in—Emilia, me, Vaughn, and his father—and the second I stood in the center of the living room, I knew it was my new home.

  I turned to Vaughn with a smile. “Let’s keep it.”

  Without a thought, he turned straight to his parents and narrowed his eyes at them. “Is it too late to rebel against your asses? Because you fucked me over real nice and good this time.”

  His father patted his shoulder with a patronizing smirk. “Watch and learn, son.”

  “Not sure I’d be dedicating my life to screwing over my imaginary kids, if we wanted to have them,” Vaughn countered.

  He still thought I wasn’t into the idea of kids. My silly, silly hubby.

  “You’d be singing a different tune if and when they decided to live on the other side of the universe.” His mother smiled sweetly, but there was no venom in her voice. She meant it. She missed us.

  For the next few months, we lived at the Spencers’, in hotels around Todos Santos, in San Diego, and with Knight and Luna Cole. We had to stay close while we worked on designing the house. And that left a lot of room for morning sex.

  And evening sex.

  And middle-of-the-night sex.

  And, frankly, all-day sex.

  I took the pill religiously and didn’t take antibiotics or do anything to hinder their success. It was a fluke, but one I wasn’t even a tiny bit annoyed with.

  “Not sure I’m comfortable with something like this living inside my wife’s body.” Vaughn turns around to me now with the chart in his hand, tapping a pink blob the shape of a comma.

  “Not sure you have much choice.” I grin, sitting back on the bed. “Besides, if you think that’s odd, it’s about to get a hell of a lot weirder.”

  He pushes his lower lip out, coming to sit next to me. “Question.”

  “Yes?”

  “What if I suck as a dad? I mean, I know you’re one-hundred percent going to save the situation, but what if I won’t be enough?”

  “Do you love me?” I ask him.

  “To death,” he says. “And that’s not just a figure of speech, although I’d appreciate it greatly if you don’t test me on the matter.”

  I already did, I want to tell him. And you chose not to kill someone, because of me.

  But that’s not a conversation we have too often.

  “Then you’re going to love this baby twice, if not thrice as much. You’re an amazing husband. Why wouldn’t you make a fantastic father?”

  We smile at each other, and the doctor walks in—the same one who delivered Vaughn, actually. I lie back and allow her to squirt ice-cold gel onto my stomach. My stomach is poking out a little more than usual for how far along I am, but Emilia says it’s because I’m tiny, so everything shows. Emilia is a bit like the mother figure Poppy and I needed after Mum died, and I would let that frighten me if it wasn’t for the fact that my happiness is too raw, too real to let the past upset me.

  The doctor watches the monitor and moves the transducer around my belly. We all stare at the screen expectantly. Vaughn is holding my hand.

  “How old are you again?” she asks, as a way of making small talk.

  “Twenty-one-ish,” Vaughn answers on my behalf when he realizes I’m too stunned with joy and pride.

  I can feel his foot tapping on the floor. He is nervous, but happy.

  “Why?” he asks suspiciously.

  “How well do you deal with lack of sleep?”

  Vaughn and I exchange amused looks.

  “Quite well. We’re not heavy sleepers. Besides, Vaughn’s mother is going to help us a lot, and I’m taking a year off after the baby is born,” I answer cheerfully, recovering from the initial shock. I can’t understand anything I’m seeing on the screen, anyway.

  “Babies.” The OB-GYN turns around and grins at me.

  I blink at her. “Pardon?”

  “When the babies arrive. Mrs. Astalis-Spencer, you’re having twins. I’ll take your mother-in-law’s help and up you two part-time nannies.”

  I open my mouth to say something—although I really don’t know what there is to say; we don’t have a history of twins in my family, and neither does Vaughn—when my husband scoops me up in the air and kisses me in front of the doctor.

  I laugh breathlessly as he puts me down, showering me with little kisses. He looks elated. Fantastically happy. The happiest I’ve seen him.

  “Scared yet?” I smirk at him.

  “With you by my side?” He grins. “Never.”

  THE END

  Enjoyed Angry God? Did you know it is a spin-off of my series, Sinner of Saint? Make sure you read these interconnected standalones and find more about Vicious and Emilia’s romance in Vicious:

  Vicious (Sinners of Saint #1)

  Defy (Sinners of Saint #0.5 – Novella)

  Ruckus (Sinners of Saint #2)

  Scandalous (Sinners of Saint #3)

  Bane (Sinners of Saint #4)
>
  Or jump straight to the rest of the books in All Saints High, all of them standalones:

  Pretty Reckless (All Saints High #1)

  Broken Knight (All Saints High #2)

  Standalones available:

  Tyed

  Sparrow

  Blood to Dust

  Midnight Blue

  Dirty Headlines

  The End Zone

  The Kiss Thief

  In the Unlikely Event

  This series has been such a ride. I wasn’t sure if I should write the Sinners’ kids’ stories, but once I sat down and did it, I couldn’t imagine NOT telling Daria, Knight, Luna and Vaughn’s stories. I’m so glad I did. Some of the books in this series became the ones I’m most proud of.

  And I couldn’t write them without the help of the following wizards:

  My amazing editors, Paige Maroney Smith, and Jessica Royer Ocken for being so unbelievably talented and dedicated. Especially when I’m being super obsessive about each word. Thank you for putting up with me!

  A huge shout out to Letitia Hasser who made this cover happen and to Stacey Blake of Champagne Formatting for making the interior absolutely perfect.

  Big thanks to my agent, Kimberly Brower at Brower Literary.

  A huge, HUGE thank you to my wonderful street team, my momager Tijuana Turner, who basically runs my entire life, and my beta readers, Amy Halter, Lana Kart, Vanessa Villegas and Sarah Grim Sentz.

  Special thanks to the people who put up with me on a regular basis, Charleigh Rose, Helena Hunting, Parker S. Huntington and Ava Harrison.

  Also, to the Sassy Sparrows, my reading group, and to my readers, who make me strive to become a better, more daring writer and artist. Thank you for pushing me in the right direction. Always.

  On a personal note, I would be so grateful if you could leave a brief, honest review for the book when you are done reading.

  All my love,

  L.J. Shen

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  Before you leave, try a sample of my standalone, The Kiss Thief, a modern arranged marriage novel with a twist:

  What sucked the most was that I, Francesca Rossi, had my entire future locked inside an unremarkable old wooden box.

  Since the day I’d been made aware of it—at six years old—I knew that whatever waited for me inside was going to either kill or save me. So it was no wonder that yesterday at dawn, when the sun kissed the sky, I decided to rush fate and open it.

  I wasn’t supposed to know where my mother kept the key.

  I wasn’t supposed to know where my father kept the box.

  But the thing about sitting at home all day and grooming yourself to death so you could meet your parents’ next-to-impossible standards? You have time—in spades.

  “Hold still, Francesca, or I’ll prick you with the needle,” Veronica whined underneath me.

  My eyes ran across the yellow note for the hundredth time as my mother’s stylist helped me get into my dress as if I was an invalid. I inked the words to memory, locking them in a drawer in my brain no one else had access to.

  Excitement blasted through my veins like a jazzy tune, my eyes zinging with determination in the mirror in front of me. I folded the piece of paper with shaky fingers and shoved it into the cleavage under my unlaced corset.

  I started pacing in the room again, too animated to stand still, making Mama’s hairdresser and stylist bark at me as they chased me around the dressing room comically.

  I am Groucho Marx in Duck Soup. Catch me if you can.

  Veronica tugged at the end of my corset, pulling me back to the mirror as if I were on a leash.

  “Hey, ouch.” I winced.

  “Stand still, I said!”

  It was not uncommon for my parents’ employees to treat me like a glorified, well-bred poodle. Not that it mattered. I was going to kiss Angelo Bandini tonight. More specifically—I was going to let him kiss me.

  I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about kissing Angelo every night since I returned a year ago from the Swiss boarding school my parents threw me in. At nineteen, Arthur and Sofia Rossi had officially decided to introduce me to the Chicagoan society and let me have my pick of a future husband from the hundreds of eligible Italian-American men who were affiliated with The Outfit. Tonight was going to kick-start a chain of events and social calls, but I already knew whom I wanted to marry.

  Papa and Mama had informed me that college wasn’t in the cards for me. I needed to attend to the task of finding the perfect husband, seeing as I was an only child and the sole heir to the Rossi businesses. Being the first woman in my family to ever earn a degree had been a dream of mine, but I was nowhere near dumb enough to defy them. Our maid, Clara, often said, “You don’t need to meet a husband, Frankie. You need to meet your parents’ expectations.”

  She wasn’t wrong. I was born into a gilded cage. It was spacious, but locked, nonetheless. Trying to escape it was risking death. I didn’t like being a prisoner, but I imagined I’d like it much less than being six feet under. And so I’d never even dared to peek through the bars of my prison and see what was on the other side.

  My father, Arthur Rossi, was the head of The Outfit.

  The title sounded painfully merciless for a man who’d braided my hair, taught me how to play the piano, and even shed a fierce tear at my London recital when I played the piano in front of an audience of thousands.

  Angelo—you guessed it—was the perfect husband in the eyes of my parents. Attractive, well-heeled, and thoroughly moneyed. His family owned every second building on University Village, and most of the properties were used by my father for his many illicit projects.

  I’d known Angelo since birth. We watched each other grow the way flowers blossom. Slowly, yet fast at the same time. During luxurious summer vacations and under the strict supervision of our relatives, Made Men—men who had been formally induced as full members of the mafia—and bodyguards.

  Angelo had four siblings, two dogs, and a smile that would melt the Italian ice cream in your palm. His father ran the accounting firm that worked with my family, and we both took the same annual Sicilian vacations in Syracuse.

  Over the years, I’d watched as Angelo’s soft blond curls darkened and were tamed with a trim. How his glittering, ocean-blue eyes became less playful and broodier, hardened by the things his father no doubt had shown and taught him. How his voice had deepened, his Italian accent sharpened, and he began to fill his slender boy-frame with muscles and height and confidence. He became more mysterious and less impulsive, spoke less often, but when he did, his words liquefied my insides.

  Falling in love was so tragic. No wonder it made people so sad.

  And while I looked at Angelo as if he could melt ice cream, I was the only girl who melted from his constant frown whenever he looked at me.

  It made me sick to think that when I went back to my all-girls’ Catholic school, he’d gone back to Chicago to hang out and talk and kiss other girls. But he’d always made me feel like I was The Girl. He sneaked flowers into my hair, let me sip some of his wine when no one was looking, and laughed with his eyes whenever I spoke. When his younger brothers taunted me, he flicked their ears and warned them off. And every summer, he found a way to steal a moment with me and kiss the tip of my nose.

  “Francesca Rossi, you’re even prettier than you were last summer.”

  “You always say that.”

  “And I always mean it. I’m not in the habit of wasting words.”

  “Tell me something important, then.”

  “You, my goddess, will one day be my wife.”

  I tended to every memory from each summer like it was a sacred garden, guarded it with fenced affection, and watered it until it grew to a fairy-tale-like recollection.

  More than anything, I remembered how, each summer, I’d
hold my breath until he snuck into my room, or the shop I’d visit, or the tree I’d read a book under. How he began to prolong our “moments” as the years ticked by and we entered adolescence, watching me with open amusement as I tried—and failed—to act like one of the boys when I was so painfully and brutally a girl.

  I tucked the note deeper into my bra just as Veronica dug her meaty fingers into my ivory flesh, gathering the corset behind me from both ends and tightening it around my waist.

  “To be nineteen and gorgeous again,” she bellowed rather dramatically. The silky cream strings strained against one another, and I gasped. Only the royal crust of the Italian Outfit still used stylists and maids to get ready for an event. But as far as my parents were concerned—we were the Windsors. “Remember the days, Alma?”

  The hairdresser snorted, pinning my bangs sideways as she completed my wavy chignon updo. “Honey, get off your high horse. You were pretty like a Hallmark card when you were nineteen. Francesca, here, is The Creation of Adam. Not the same league. Not even the same ball game.”

  I felt my skin flare with embarrassment. I had a sense that people enjoyed what they saw when they looked at me, but I was mortified by the idea of beauty. It was powerful yet slippery. A beautifully wrapped gift I was bound to lose one day. I didn’t want to open it or ravish in its perks. It would only make parting ways with it more difficult.

  The only person I wanted to notice my appearance tonight at the Art Institute of Chicago masquerade was Angelo. The theme of the gala was Gods and Goddesses through the Greek and Roman mythologies. I knew most women would show up as Aphrodite or Venus. Maybe Hera or Rhea, if originality struck them. Not me. I was Nemesis, the goddess of retribution. Angelo had always called me a deity, and tonight, I was going to justify my pet name by showing up as the most powerful goddess of them all.