Fallen Angel

by Lily Baldwin

  Fallen Angel

  By

  Lily Baldwin

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are the creation of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  All rights are retained by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the individual author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. The unauthorized reproduction, sharing, or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Copyright 2018 Lily Baldwin 2nd Edition

  ISBN-10: 1-942623-97-6

  ISBN-13: 978-1-942623-97-7

  Produced in the USA

  Dedication

  To my husband,

  You are my real-life hero.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my family for supporting my dreams.

  I never could have written Angel and Ethan’s story without your endless love and support.

  I would also like to thank Duncurra Unbound and your amazing team of editors. This book would not be what it is without you all!

  Chapter One

  Ethan sat up with a jerk and scanned his bedroom. His gaze darted from the table with his collection of model motorcycles to his dresser, upon which sat his most recent little league trophy, to his overflowing hamper in the corner. No one was there. Nothing was out of place. He could have sworn a loud noise had woken him up. His shoulders slumped a little as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. Then he leaned against the wall and looked at the new poster of a cherry red Porsche hanging above his dresser. He had wanted to get the one with the hot, bikini-clad blond draped over the hood, but his mom rejected his choice even though—as he had pointed out several times—he was using his own birthday money from his grandparents. Still, she refused him, arguing that at ten years old he was too young to be thinking about girls—which he knew was total crap, but she wouldn’t listen.

  He swung the covers off and stood. He had to pee, bad. Stepping out into the hallway he looked impatiently down the seemingly endless hallway to the bathroom door at the far end. He considered the large potted plants in opposite corners of the landing where he stood and the fifty-gallon fish tank against the wall less than two feet away—both capable of holding what was near to bursting from his bladder, but he knew his mom would want to know why her Peace Lilies smelled like piss or why their goldfish were suddenly belly-up.

  Careful not to wake his folks, he tiptoed as quickly and as silently as he could to the bathroom. Just as he was about to swing the door wide and barrel forward to the toilet, his desperate urge was suddenly forgotten, replaced by an inexplicable dread. He turned to the left and faced the small attic door that marked the end of the hallway. The attic was nothing to be afraid of. It was where he built his models, practiced drums, and painted. And yet, the feeling grew heavy in his stomach and fear as thick as the dusty cobwebs that hung like Halloween bunting in the corners of the attic gripped his heart. He stared at the door, his heart lodged in his throat. He wanted to run but couldn’t. As if controlled by someone else, his hand encircled the door knob and turned. He gaped down at his feet climbing the stairs in horror. “What are you doing?” his brain screamed as he continued to watch twin Judases in blue tube socks ascend higher and higher. He reached the landing and stepped into the room, then stumbled back against the wall.

  A man dangled from a rope, secured to the ceiling, above a toppled chair.

  An instant later, Ethan’s brain registered his father’s bluish face.

  He screamed and never stopped.

  Ethan Calloway sat up with a jerk. His ears were ringing. His heartbeat echoed in his brain, pounding like a sledgehammer at a demolition. He threw off his blanket, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and cradled his throbbing head in his hands.

  Nothing like starting the day off with a dream of when your father committed suicide.

  “What the hell,” he snapped as he stood and crossed the gleaming hardwood floor to his spacious walk-in-closet.

  His housekeeper, Sarah, a local woman in her fifties with skin weathered by the hot Maine summers and frigid winters, was already there, neatly folding his boxer briefs and arranging them by color.

  “It’s 5:30 in the morning, Sarah,” he said, not bothering to cover his nakedness.

  She looked up, her lips pursed as she raised her brow at him. “You know I like to start early.”

  Sarah had grown up in Bar Harbor and moved to northern Maine at the tender age of seventeen to be with her husband who logged the North Maine Woods. She was hardworking and liked plain language.

  Ethan rubbed the back of his neck impatiently. “Yeah, but this is excessive, even for you.”

  She shrugged. “Billy’s working overnights. I don’t sleep when he’s gone.”

  He watched her fold another pair, smoothing out every wrinkle. He threw his hands up. “It’s just underwear.”

  She didn’t look up. “Like you, Mr. Calloway, I don’t do halves. It’s either all or nothing. Here,” she said, thrusting a pair of black boxer briefs at him. “There’s coffee waiting for you downstairs. Looks like you could use a cup.”

  “Thanks,” he said dryly, taking the black briefs and pulling them on. Then he left his room, resisting the urge to slam the door on the way out. The rustic walls of his log cabin raced past as he stormed down the hallway, which opened to a loft with a view down below to his spacious, open-plan living room and kitchen. On one side of the grand room, floor to ceiling windows boasted panoramic views, but he had no interest in watching the sun rise over the mountains that morning, nor was he heading down to drink the coffee Sarah had made. Before he could do anything else, he had to beat the hell out of something.

  Passing the stairs, he swung open a door that led into a long breezeway, which connected his house to a series of work spaces. He threw open the first door to his art studio and stormed past a pile of large, blank canvases and teeming stacks of full paint cans. At the far end of the room, he descended a set of stairs into his showroom where his most prized custom motorcycles were displayed, each one made by his own two hands.

  But he did not want to build or create at that moment—he wanted to destroy.

  He pushed on, finally swinging open the door to his personal gym. Passing weight benches and endurance equipment, he thundered across the rubber tiles and barreled at the punching bag. He threw a jab, then a right cross, then a hook. He pummeled all his strength and fury into the bag that transformed into the face of Stanley Lockwood—the man who had pushed his father over the edge.

  His father, Mark Calloway, had always been an emotionally volatile man. He had never been violent, allowing rage to be his guide, but he sank into periods of intense depression, only to rise up, soaring with elation a day later. Mark also had been an artist, a sculptor and a carpenter by trade. He poured his heart and soul into Calloway Builders and instilled in Ethan an appreciation for hard work: “You must work hard, son, if you want to make it. But remember—not making it is also hard work. It’s hard work being poor. It’s hard work watching your friends move up in life while you languish. Fighting for your dreams is hard work, but so is regretting that you never tried. If you’re going to work hard no matter what you do—you may as well work at what you love.”

  Ethan remembered how animated his father had been when he came hom
e to tell Ethan and his mother the news that Lockwood Luxury was building a new hotel in New York City and Calloway Builders won the bid to install the sheet rock. He patted Ethan on the back. “You see, son. Hard work pays.”

  The memory of his father’s proud, hopeful smile served to fuel Ethan’s anger to new heights. He growled as he again struck the bag, harder and harder, one blow following another. Sweat beaded off his brow and dripped down his back. Raising his bloodied fists in the air, Ethan growled his unrelenting rage to the ceiling before storming into the adjacent bathroom. He stripped off his briefs and turned the water on, inviting the icy stream to rush over his entire body. But the frigid sting could not cool his ire. Still, his fury burned. He turned off the water. Currents sluiced off him as he stepped onto the floor and looked down. Despite the chill, his arousal was rock hard. Anger blazed in his soul. He needed a way to exorcise his demons.

  He thundered back into the main part of his house. His hands fisted. He started toward the large wooden staircase the instant before the doorbell rang. He turned his head and glared at the massive double doors. His log home was situated on the summit of a small mountain, which meant unexpected visitors were rare. He pitied the mail carrier or whatever delivery person it was bound to be.

  “What do you want?” he snarled the moment he threw open the door.

  ∞∞∞

  Natasha Winslow squeezed her Chihuahua, Minky, a little too tight when the gorgeous, massively built, and fabulously naked man threw open the door and growled at her. He had asked her a question, but she found herself completely tongue-tied as her eyes traveled from his deep-set, angry, ice-blue eyes, across his chiseled jaw, and over his muscular shoulders. A sweet ache blossomed between her legs as her eyes trailed across his smooth, expansive chest and down his thickly corded stomach.

  “Oh my God,” she gasped. Her eyes widened to drink in the full length of him.

  “What do you want?” he snapped again.

  Her gaze jumped from his hard, naked body to his blue eyes now shadowed beneath his deep scowl. She smiled sweetly, clasping tightly to her usual calm. “I came to make a neighborly call,” she purred, taking a step closer. She was not afraid of the anger that flashed in his eyes. She was too drawn to his raw masculinity to even consider being afraid. She held out a plate of soft chocolate chip cookies, freshly baked by her maid that morning. “My name is Natasha. My boyfriend just bought the house halfway down the mountain.” She thrust the plate beneath his nose. “I baked you some cookies.”

  He made no move to take the cookies. Instead, his eyes roamed over her whole body. Thrusting her chest out, she savored his touchless caress and moved Minky off to the side so that he could see her tan, tight stomach in her half shirt. She stepped her legs apart, knowing her fitted leggings showed off her curves.

  “My boyfriend works in the city all week long,” she said before licking her bottom lip. “He bought this house and stuck me out in the middle of nowhere to keep me out of trouble.” She chewed her lip while she stared boldly at his hard arousal. “But I seem to find trouble no matter where I am.” She locked eyes with him again. “Like my cookies, you are too delicious not to sample.”

  She gasped as he grabbed the cookies from her hand. The plate and cookies hit the ground and shattered. She knelt and let Minky scurry into the house the instant before he grabbed her arm and pulled her inside. Then he slammed the door and thrust her against it.

  “Are you sure you want to do this,” he growled.

  “God, yes,” she cried.

  ∞∞∞

  Ethan needed a release, and it was as if the universe had offered up Natasha on a plate of cookies for him to enjoy. He pinned her arms above her head and seized her lips in a hard, furious kiss. She groaned, her tongue stroking his with a fury all her own. He released her arms, and they twined around his neck with surprising strength. Her firm breasts pressed against his chest. He stroked his hands over her sleek body, and her kiss intensified. She tasted like oranges and smelled like vanilla. His mouth left hers as he swept her cropped shirt over her head, revealing her proud curves. Hungrily, he tasted and teased. Soft moans reached his ears. He flipped her around and eased her leggings over her hips before plucking her G-string like a guitar.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said and crossed to the table near his distressed leather sofa and pulled a condom from the drawer. He returned to where she waited for him, hands flattened against the door, her ass raised in the air, and her legs parted.

  He slipped on the condom. “Open wider for me.”

  She stepped free from her leggings and panties and spread her legs wide. He gripped her hips and penetrated her, achingly slow.

  “Oh God,” she groaned.

  He pulled out almost all the way, and then slowly thrust again and then again and again, each thrust increasing in intensity, harder and faster.

  Her little grunts and moans grew louder. Her body trembled. He turned her around and picked her up, her legs encircling his waist.

  “Please, don’t stop,” she begged.

  He buried himself deep inside her. She clung to him, while he filled her again and again. He held nothing back, none of his fury.

  “Yes,” she screamed.

  His heart pounded. Pressure was building, rising, aching for release. His body seized. He shuddered as pain and pleasure poured out of him.

  He gripped her hips and rested his head against the door, breathing hard.

  When his heartbeat slowed, he set her feet down and took a step back. “Nice to meet you. The bathroom is down the hall. Help yourself to anything you need. You’ll have to let yourself out. I’m late.” He turned on his heel and headed toward the stairs.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too,” she called after him.

  He didn’t look back. His new neighbor, his dream, and his anger were already forgotten. His latest bike was supposed to be finished today, which meant he had to go into the city.

  Chapter Two

  “Oh God! Oh no! Shit!” The last word was drawn from Angel Sullivan’s lips, sustained and loud as she fought to maintain control of her dying car. Horns blasted around her. Cars whizzed by on her left as she squeezed the last bit of juice from her fourteen-year-old sedan.

  “Come on. Please!” she pleaded. The end of the bridge was in sight. Her car bucked forward, jerking her in her seat. Then it rumbled and knocked. She pulled off to the right as far as she could while it rolled to a dead stop. Smoke coiled up from her hood, fanning out against the gray sky as she sat now unmoving on the Zakim Bridge—one of the major arteries in Boston.

  Passing cars shook her in her seat. She pressed her forehead to the wheel. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she whispered. Then she held her breath and tried to turn her car over, but only a grating noise reached her ears. “Come on,” she pleaded with her car and the universe. “Please start.”

  Nothing.

  She tapped her gasoline reader. Supposedly, she still had half a tank.

  “Damn it,” she muttered before she reached for her cell phone.

  At least, she had roadside service. She did her best to ignore the cars hurrying past just inches from her door as she called the emergency number. It was a man who answered.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’ve broken down on the Zakim Bridge.”

  “On the Zakim? That’s not good.”

  No shit! She wanted to scream. “I realize that.”

  He asked for her member number. Then, after a lengthy pause, he said, “Well, hang tight. We’ll have a truck there soon.”

  “Thank God,” she breathed. “How long will it take?”

  “An hour and a half at the most.”

  “An hour and a half! But that’s crazy. This is Boston not Frye Island, Maine. There’s got to be a dozen garages within twenty minutes of here.”

  “A truck will be there within an hour and a half,” he repeated.

  She laid her head back against the headrest in defeat. “Fine,” she said. Aft
er answering a few more questions, she ended the call just as the gray churning clouds overhead unleashed sheets of rain.

  “Great,” she whispered, nervously eying the cars whizzing past. She was grateful the morning commute was over, because fewer cars were out on the highway. Still, as the hour approached eleven, traffic could move much faster. And now that the road was wet, all she could picture was a car hydroplaning right into her, smashing her against the cables or forcing her car to somehow plummet off the bridge into the Charles River.

  In her rearview, she saw a black Jeep coming up fast behind her. Her shoulders shot up around her ears as she braced herself for her own rickety car to shake as it raced by. But instead, the Jeep slowed as it passed, then pulled off the road in front of her.

  “Oh geez,” she whispered. Her heart raced even faster as she watched for what would happen next. Sure, she didn’t like the idea of waiting on the busy bridge for another fifty-two minutes, at least, but she also didn’t want to attract the attention of strangers. She gripped the wheel as the black door opened and a tall man with wide shoulders and short, wavy, black hair stepped out. He pulled the hood of his gray sweatshirt over his head, huddled down against the pelting rain, and started toward her.

  “Oh my God!” She snaked her hand out to make sure the car door was locked.

  Watching him draw near, she wished he would just turn around and go back to his car. The closer he came, the harder her heart pounded. And then, suddenly, he was beside her. A soft tap, tap, tap accompanied the rain on her driver’s side window.

  She looked up at him through the rivulets rushing down the glass.

  They locked eyes.

  “Oh God,” she said aloud, struck by mesmerizing ice-blue eyes beneath a deeply furrowed brow. He held her gaze for several moments, his face unreadable and hard. She didn’t know what to do. His sexy good looks screamed bad boy, and his present frown was anything but friendly.

  He didn’t actually expect her to unlock the door or get out of the car, did he?