by K. Webster
“Wait. You said, ‘To the both of us.’ We’re always in close proximity for our missions, but you make it sound like we’ll be on the same one,” I say slowly.
“What happens if Lovenia fails in distracting us?” Omega spouts out, interrupting me.
His sudden interest in her well-being frays my nerves a bit, but I try to ignore it. Omega is the more passionate of the two of us. I’m the level head and the final say. In the end, Omega always listens to me.
“Yes. Your missions are neighbors in an apartment building. You’ll be staying in the apartment across the hall from them. And, Omega, Lovenia’s superiors will handle her failures—it isn’t anything for you to think twice about. Here are your files,” he says, handing us each a thick, brown folder.
I open mine and see a black and white photo of a dark-haired woman with hollow, drug-hazed eyes paper clipped to the front. She’s beautiful but lost, hence her making it onto an FA list. Only the truly fucked up get on our list. As I skim through her file, I look at the assignment duration—three months. All of our other assignments have been less than a month. The length of time unnerves me.
“Why so long?” Omega growls out his question, mimicking my internal one.
Pallas sighs, “Just part of the challenge. Look, boys, if it were easy, everyone would be a Seraph Guardian. The good people of this Earth deserve to be protected by angels who don’t fall into temptation, are strong during moments of weakness, and don’t become attached. This is your final test. You’ve passed with flying colors thus far. Granted, you will be pushed, but the two of you are strong. You’ll succeed—I know it. I wouldn’t have recruited you otherwise.”
I flop my file closed and look over at my angry partner, who has his own file clutched so tight that his knuckles are turning white.
“Anything else, boss?” I ask Pallas while keeping my eyes trained on Omega.
“Report back here weekly. Look out for each other. And, boys,” he says gruffly, “make me proud.”
Why do I feel as if this will be more difficult than either of us could ever imagine?
THE THUMP OF my neighbor’s bass infuriates me as I stalk toward my apartment door after a long-ass shift at the tattoo shop. All I want to do is crawl into my bed and pass out. I dealt with a whiny-ass biker earlier who was at least six foot three and nearly three hundred pounds for five hours straight as I inked his ribs with the words “Badass Motherfucker” encased in a bed of skulls. The pussy cried while his biker bitch stroked his hair. I wanted to fucking puke, but I was making five hundred bucks on the deal and needed it to support my habit.
My habit.
The only thing that makes me smile in this godforsaken life.
I pull the keys from my worn purse and prepare to push them into the lock when I hear the music getting louder as Pedro emerges from his apartment.
Fuck.
“Estás muy buena!” he hollers as he stumbles his way toward me.
“Not tonight, asshole. I’m tired as hell, and for the thousandth time, I’m not going to sleep with you,” I snarl as I whirl around to face him.
He’s totally fucked up tonight, which sends a shiver skittering down my spine. I can hardly thwart his advances on a normal night, but when he’s high on meth, it’s nearly impossible because he is so damn persistent.
I attempt to turn the key in the lock with my eyes watching his every move. I’m not letting him out of my sight until the door slams in his face and I’m safely behind my locked front door.
“Chupame la polla,” he laughs like a fucking hyena as he thrusts his dick at me, using his hand to pretend he’s holding the head of someone bobbing on his cock.
Sick.
“Buzz off, Pedro. I’m not fucking joking. Carlos already said if you caused any more trouble, he was going to evict your ass. Don’t make me turn you in,” I threaten.
Compared to Pedro, I’m a shrimp. I’m only five foot six and a hundred and ten pounds if I’m soaking wet. Pedro, who’s fresh out of prison, has tattoos on his face for fucking crying out loud and wears wifebeaters five sizes too small. I’m no match for him in any way, shape, or form. The little knife on my key chain can barely open my mail, much less fillet the heart of a registered-sex-offender parolee.
I wrote a poem about his ass once and taped it to his door.
I think he took it as some sort of advance on my part. I was just angry one night and felt like taking it out on my annoying-ass neighbor. The next morning, I blamed my moment of insanity on the vodka.
Oh, the vodka.
I only pull it out once a month on the eighteenth. The eighteenth has been the title of many poems. All of them were shredded and burned in a trash can after I cried big, ugly tears.
He holds up two fingers in a peace sign and sticks his tongue between it, licking provocatively at me. “Te voy a hacer la sopa.”
Enough already. “Goodbye, Pedro. Talk to me tomorrow when you’re sober. And in English. Night,” I groan. Then I mistakenly turn my back to him to twist the key and open my door.
The brief drop of my guard is just enough for the hardened criminal to pounce. His thick, strong arms encase me in a bear hug from behind. I can feel his erection stabbing me in the back.
“Let go!” I screech and squirm from his grasp.
He inhales my hair like a fucking lunatic. On the first, I am out of here. I don’t know where I’ll go, but I’m out of this hellhole. I’d rather live in box down by the river than next door to this freak any longer.
When he leans into me, my hand turns the knob on my door and we stumble inside. Shit! The last thing I need is for him to be in my place with me.
“Te la voy a meter de mira quien viene,” he hisses into my ear as he thrusts into my back a few times.
I’m attempting to wriggle from his grasp so I can claw his fucking eyes out when he’s suddenly ripped from me.
My eyes skim right past him to the man who makes Pedro look like a twelve-year-old boy. This man is beautiful in his thunderous glory. Black hair a little on the overgrown and wild side sticks out every which direction on the top of his head, giving him a mischievous look. His eyes nearly match that of his hair, and his angry brows are furrowed as his hand closes around the throat of my punk-ass neighbor.
“Just take him next door. When he isn’t high as a kite, he’s not too bad. No need to kill him,” I grumble.
My words seem to alert him to me, and his head snaps to look my way. Something flashes behind his eyes, and I’m incredibly curious of the man before me.
“Are you hurt?” he asks in a voice so low that I swear it rumbles right through the walls of my own chest.
Instead of answering him, I drink up his features. Strong nose. Perfect, rosy lips. Scruffy jaw.
“Let him go, Al,” a growl orders from behind him.
I burst into hysterical laughter as another gorgeous man steps into my apartment beside the god of a man before me.
“What’s so funny?” Al demands angrily.
Tears stream down my cheeks. Damn, I haven’t laughed this hard since . . .
“Al? Really? Big, badass demigod and your name is Al?” I finally choke out past my tears.
“I’m not a demigod,” Al snarls as if the word is venom on his lips.
The man beside him chuckles and winks. “I’m Omar, and I’ll take care of this guy for you.”
Al’s eyes remain furiously locked on mine as Omar grabs Pedro by the shirt and hauls him out of my apartment. Without my greasy neighbor between us, I fully take in the sight of him.
His olive-colored skin is flawless, and the artist within me twitches to paint that canvas. Rigid, defined muscles are encased in a tight, black T-shirt, and his jeans are dark and fitted. My eyes peruse his body without shame. When a body like this fills the entryway of your apartment, you take a moment to enjoy the beauty of it. Finally, I flit my eyes back to his, which remain fixed on my face.
“Like what you see?” he asks with a dark brow raised. One co
rner of his mouth twitches, and I immediately look down at the floor.
Smiles get people in trouble. Smiles cause pain.
“Something like that. Thanks for showing up on your horse, Romeo, but I’m tired as hell. Catch you later?” I steal a glance at him, and the humor is gone as he watches me.
“My brother and I are moving into the apartment across the hall from that motherfucker. We’ll keep you safe,” he promises.
The way his words thunder on his last line—I feel it deep down in my soul. This man is completely serious. It will be kind of nice having someone like him around to help me contend with Pedro.
“Uh, thanks, Al,” I giggle.
He looks like a Dominic or a Maximus. Maybe even a Sebastian. Something powerful and sexy. Not Al. Thoughts of Al Bundy with his hand in his pants on the show Married with Children infect my brain, and I give way to more hysterical laughter.
“Woman, are you crazy?” he asks, seeming to genuinely want to know the answer.
Yes. Certifiably so.
“Al, I’m the kind of crazy that makes insane look fun and inviting. My kind of crazy is on a whole new level.”
Without warning, he stalks over to me and slides his hands into my long, thick, mahogany-colored hair. Then he tilts my head to look at him. Now that he’s close, I can’t help but inhale his utter masculinity. It’s a scent that makes my tongue water with the desire to taste him.
“Do you ever eat?” he questions gruffly.
Hardly. When you live in a state of despair and depression, food is the last thing on your mind.
“Time to leave, Al.”
His proximity is causing my heart to tense up, and I don’t like the feeling. My breathing becomes shallow as I attempt to keep his smell out of my body, from infecting my very being.
When I feel his thumb stroke my jaw, my eyes flutter closed. I want to freeze this moment and live in it forever. Moments like this are rare for me. Moments where I feel free from it all.
“Promise me you’ll eat more, woman.”
My eyes reopen, and I smile. “Call me Lark. If you cook for me, maybe I’ll eat more often.”
His eyes leave mine to watch my mouth as I say my name. He seems lost in my lips. For the briefest of moments, I’d like his lips to get lost there too.
“I haven’t cooked in years,” he says thoughtfully. Dark eyes unwillingly leave my lips to stare deep into my green eyes.
My mouth quirks up in a half smile. “I haven’t eaten in years.”
His face darkens with anger—as if he knows and is pissed that I only eat ramen noodles and cereal. I can’t help it though. When the mood strikes for me to eat, those are handy and easy. Although . . . my milk is usually expired and I end up whipping up ramen noodles, even for breakfast. My only vice—and truly what keeps me alive—are my Oreos. Double Stuf Oreos. Just one of my many habits . . .
“You’re going to eat, baby, even if I have to spoon-feed that pretty little mouth,” he flirts.
All seriousness is gone as we both break into simultaneous smiles at the idea of him feeding me.
Smiles.
Fuck.
Thump.
PALLAS WAS RIGHT. This assignment is going to be hard as shit. The black-and-white photo did nothing for the beauty that shines from Lark Miller. She hasn’t told me her last name yet, but I already know so much about her from her file.
I know that she is clinically depressed and takes medication.
I know that she is estranged from her parents.
I know that she works as a tattoo artist above a bar down the street.
The file told me of her faults. Her shortcomings. Her sins. But her file failed to mention the sparkle of a sea of emeralds that twinkles in her eyes. The file never mentioned the way her smile lights up her entire face and breathes life into her soul. The fucking file never mentioned that some woman would cloud every single lesson and training I’ve ever received with just one look.
Just one look and I knew this FA would be the hardest damn thing I’d ever encountered.
“You’re an exquisite mystery wrapped in an elegant yet razor-sharp package,” I whisper as I reluctantly release her from my grip.
Her eyes flicker at my words. “A poet.”
My lips are on her forehead before I can stop them, and I press a chaste kiss to her soft skin. “Words are extensions of our souls. Some people have the ability to let them out. I am one of those people, and you are worth the words.”
She looks away and takes a deep breath. “Goodbye, Al the Poet.” The way she says the last words is her question for my last name.
I don’t even know my last name. “Just Al.”
A ragged sigh. “Goodnight, Just Al.”
I tear myself away from her and stalk away quickly to break free from her magnetic pull. Before I step into the hallway, I toss her a smug look.
“Be ready with that pretty little mouth open and waiting tomorrow morning,” I instruct with a smirk.
Her eyes widen, and I know her mind went straight where mine did. My cock hardens at the thought of her lips all over me and—
I slip out the door and close it behind me instead of clarifying my words. The moment I’m back in the hallway, I feel a great heaviness at the loss of her company.
Lark.
My assignment.
My weakness.
“This fucking sucks,” Omega grumbles from down the hallway. He’s leaning up against our door with his arms folded like a damn GQ model.
“Just wait until Lovenia shows up to fuck shit up,” I groan.
His eyes darken again as a smile plays at his lips. “Damn, man. Why didn’t I take her to bed sooner?”
She’ll be as much of a distraction to him as Lark will be to me. They spent last night and all of today together. I had to drag his naked ass out of her bed so we could catch a cab to downtown LA. He reluctantly went with me, but at least I got my partner out of there.
“Probably because she’s the devil’s plaything and you’re a fucking angel,” I laugh.
He rolls his eyes and steps away from the door so I can open it. “We’re not angels. Well, not real ones yet, anyway.”
I swipe the entryway light on to find an apartment identical to Lark’s, only dirtier. “Well, right now, we’re human, which means things are going to be that much harder. I’ve got your back though, dude. I still can’t believe Pedro is your assignment.”
Pedro was about two seconds from getting his head bashed right into Hell. Had it not been for the fact that Omega has to keep him alive for his assignment, I’d have killed him and dealt with the consequences. Lark, no matter how evil or wicked they claim she is, does not deserve to be taken advantage of by that thug.
Lark deserves better.
She’s a thug too—in a different sense, but still a thug.
“Dude, I’m fucking beat,” Omega whines as he stretches out on the dusty sofa that came with the apartment.
Human bodies suck. Now, we have to eat and piss and fucking sleep.
Not cool, Pallas. Not cool.
“Me too, and I have to get up early,” I grumble, already feeling annoyed at my promise to feed Lark.
My duty requires me to keep her alive though, and she looks like, if she turns sideways, she’ll blow off into the wind.
“Why? I’m not. Pedro is wasted, so he’ll be sleeping until noon at least,” he yawns.
“I need to buy some food. That girl across the hall is wasting away,” I tell him as I peel my shirt off and head toward the shower.
“I’ve got your back, man,” he calls out from the living room.
I’m going to need his back on this one.
As the shower starts, I take a deep breath. Then I step up to the sink and glance at myself in the mirror. In six years, I’ve done it only once before. I fucking puked all night long. It was a few weeks after I’d joined HEA, and I had already been weak to begin with. I promised myself never to look again, yet here I am, devouring the sight o
f myself.
“Hello, Hottie.” I wink at my reflection.
There’s no humor in my features. I feel lost in this human body. My stomach churns as nausea threatens to make me vomit. With shaking hands, I grab the edge of the sink and lean forward, never taking my eyes from the mirror. My bones feel brittle and achy. The human skin that covers my body begins to itch and burn. Finally, I break away from staring at those almost-black eyes of mine and stagger away from the mirror.
No answers.
Still just Al.
I’m a fucking creeper. I heard a noise in the hallway, so I’m peeking through the peephole like a Peeping fucking Tom. When I see a long mess of wavy, mahogany hair flash by, I growl and swing the door open.
“Where the hell are you going?” I demand before she makes it to the stairwell.
She freezes in her tracks. While her back is to me, I take a minute to admire her narrow waist in her long, flowing, black dress. Her arms are bare, and colorful tattoos decorate her skin. I want to see them all.
“I have places to go,” she grumbles as she pulls her bag higher up her shoulder.
The drug addiction.
Fuck, I forgot all about seeing that in the file.
“I’ll go with you,” I assert and strut over to her.
She spins wildly to face me. Her pert nose is slightly red, as if she’s been crying. Black, oversized sunglasses hide her green orbs from me.
I need to see them.
When I reach for her sunglasses, she swats me away angrily, but not before I steal them away. Bluish circles hang under her eyes like dark half-moons. The whites of her eyes are bright red. She has been crying.
What the fuck is her problem?
“Baby, I thought we were—”
She angrily shoves me away from her. “I am not your baby. I’ll never be anyone’s baby ever again!”
I’m stunned by her sudden violent behavior toward me. When I reach for her, she staggers backwards. Her eyes are wild, and she looks borderline manic.
“Let me walk you at least,” I murmur.
She shakes her head and stumbles toward the stairwell. I get more nervous as hell the closer she gets to it. Fuck this. After striding over to her, I scoop her scrawny ass into my arms. Ignoring her screams and punches against my chest, I bound down the stairs as if she weighs nothing. Once at the bottom, I set her back to her feet.
