by K. Webster
“You’re a big, crazy caveman lunatic!” she snarls, waving her hands franticly, both middle fingers pointed in the air.
“Cut the crap, Lark,” I bellow. “I just saved your unstable ass from falling headfirst down a flight of stairs.”
Her head snaps to mine and she pins me with a very serious glare. “Next time I’m about to fall to my untimely death, turn and walk the fuck away. Stay out of my life, asshole.”
“Not a chance, baby. You’re stuck with me for three months.”
Fuck.
“Well, I’m leaving this shithole in one. See ya!” And with that, she storms out of the building and steps into the hustle and bustle of the morning commuters.
I’m barefoot but at least clothed, so I stalk after her. She’s my assignment whether she likes it or not. I’ll just need to tread lightly when following her. There’s no way I’m letting one pretty little hair on her head get hurt on my watch.
As soon as I emerge from the building and instinctively turn my head left, I see her chocolate hair bouncing as she hauls ass down the sidewalk. Ignoring the disgusted stares at my bare feet from others, I trot after her to catch up. I stay about twenty-five feet back and slow my pace when she nears the end of the second block. When she hangs a right, her step is slower. Once I reach the corner, I peek around the side. The poor girl already lives in a shitty part of town, but she’s heading right to the fucking ghetto.
The drugs.
Damn woman. Why does she have to be so difficult?
When the street is clear, she glides across the road and I send up a silent prayer that no cars come out of nowhere. I watch her come to a dilapidated building and hesitantly approach the main entrance. She scans the crowd around her, and I duck behind a telephone pole when her gaze reaches me. Once she’s satisfied that nobody is after her, she slips inside.
After looking both ways, I race across the street toward the building.
“Hey, baby,” a used-up whore purrs from the sidewalk. Her body is grotesquely thin, and she appears to be wearing the same dress she’s been wearing for the past year. I can smell her stink from here and would bet my entire existence on the fact that she’s crawling with diseases. When she smiles a toothless smile at me, I shudder.
“Ten-dollar blow job just for you, sugar,” she grins and wobbles on her heels toward me.
“Not today, baby,” I breathe out in a rush as I fly past her and into the building.
She mutters something about it being half off, but I ignore her and quickly take stock of my surroundings. Fuck. Lark is nowhere in sight. The entryway is dark and dirty as hell. Trash litters the floor, graffiti colors the walls, and it smells like piss.
A dark-skinned little girl appears in one of the doorways and watches me with interest as I begin making my way down the hallway and peeking in any open doors. When I reach the girl, who’s no older than four, I squat down in front of her.
“Are you God?” she asks me pointedly.
I cringe at her question. It still gets me that kids seem to see right through us. We always have to be careful that they don’t blow our cover. Now that I’m in human form, it is easier to hide from them, but this one still senses something unusual.
“No, doll. Not God. Have you seen a pretty girl with pictures on her skin? Brown hair almost the color of yours?” I ask.
Her tiny mouth grows into the biggest grin. “Miss Lark? Yeah. She went upstairs to the Crack Room.”
Crack Room? Shit!
“Want me to show you? Momma is about to take me there. We love the Crack Room,” she giggles.
Lark, what are you doing?
“No, sweetie. Stay here. I’ll find it. Second floor?” I question, already striding toward the stairs.
“Right above my room.” She smiles, pointing up.
I nod and bound up the stairs to take my assignment far away from this dangerous crap hole where she’s influencing sweet, small children. This is worse than I thought. Pallas was right. These people are just our assignments. We shouldn’t get close to them because the Reapers have a nice vacation spot for them in Hell. They are not good people like the little girl downstairs. People like Pedro and Lark need to be wiped from this Earth.
The sound of voices spills out into the hallway once I reach the second-floor landing. One of the doors on the left at the very end is open, and light pours from it into the dark hallway.
The Crack Room.
Tiptoeing, I make my way over to the room and then peek inside. What I see is so damned confusing that I have to blink several times just to make sense of it. When I finally do understand what’s going on, I’m suddenly very angry.
Have I been duped?
“MISS LARK, I messed up on mine. Can I have another one?” Sha’Tanya asks. The girl is fourteen and pregnant, but when she comes to the Crack Room, she lets her inner child free.
I rip another sheet from my notebook and pass it to her.
“Anyone ready for another Oreo?” I question as I hold my bag of cookies up.
Out of the eight kids here, three raise their hands. I’m still missing little Kisha. I pass more cookies out and look toward the door. Finally though, my favorite little one bounds into the room and hugs my legs tight.
“I missed you, Miss Lark,” she says sweetly with her face pressed against my legs.
“I missed you, too. Go sit down beside La’Trice and I’ll bring you something to write on and some cookies.
Her mother, Corrine, smiles at me and leaves her in my care.
“Kisha, today, everyone is writing poems about something beautiful. Can you do that?” I ask as I hand her a handful of Oreos.
She nods as her dark eyes shine with delight. The little girl may not know how to write anything other than her own name right now, but she’s certainly the most creative in the group. I always have them read me their poems afterwards so she doesn’t get embarrassed that I can’t read what hers says. She’s four and the smallest of my nine “students.” Sha’Tanya is the oldest and has promised to still come after she has the baby.
“I met God,” she tells me knowingly with the biggest grin on her face. “And he was the prettiest man I’ve ever seen.”
I chuckle at her words. This is the same girl who says that Santa visits her on Saturdays because she is special. And that SpongeBob eats her dinner for her when she’s too full.
“Then you should write a poem about him,” I smile.
She furrows her brows and sets to writing her poem. As I look around the room, my heart fills with joy. It’s one of the few “highs” in life for me these days. And it’s appropriate that it happens in the Crack Room. A grin tugs at my lips as I take in the view of the cracked drywall in the living room of this abandoned unit. Corrine knew the lady who used to live here and had a key. We’ll use it as our own until someone kicks us out. When that happens, I’ll have to come up with another place for these kids. I’ve been saving up in case I need to rent out a space at the rec center.
Sunday is Poem Day. These kids live for this day of the week. As long as I live, I’ll never take that away from them.
An hour later on the dot, the kids all put their pencils down and look up at me expectantly. One by one, they read their sweet poems about what they find beautiful. Sha’Tanya is the second to last to read hers.
“Don’t laugh or I’ll beat your ass,” she threatens the group.
The class giggles, and I roll my eyes.
“Don’t say ass,” I groan with a smile.
She smiles back and begins her poem. “My poem is called ‘Beautiful Baby Boy’,” she starts.
“Beautiful baby boy,
I love your toes.
Beautiful baby boy,
I love your nose.
Beautiful baby boy,
You are mine.
Beautiful baby boy,
I’ll love you till the end of time.”
Her eyes shine with unshed tears, and my heart does that wicked thing it does from time to time.
It aches.
“Good job,” I mumble and blink away my own tears.
The class claps for her, and then Kisha stands.
“My poem is called ‘God is Beautiful’,” she tells us proudly with a grin that could melt glaciers.
“God is beautiful.
I saw him today.
He was looking for Miss Lark.
And then he ran away.
His hair was black like my cat.
And his hair was sooooooooooo pretty.
God is beautiful.
I saw him today.”
I blink in surprise at her poem. If that bastard followed me here, I’ll kill—
Clap, clap, clap.
Bastard.
“So, this is what happens in the Crack Room? When do I get to do my poem?” he asks behind me.
I spin around and face the man who looks like he was dropped right out of Heaven. “Your poem?” I hiss in disgust. “You don’t get to do one.”
The class shrieks in shock at my sudden rudeness. That’s a side they’ve never seen from me before.
“Why not, Miss Lark? Please,” Kisha begs as she grabs my hand and tugs.
I sigh and hand him an Oreo. “Fine. Think fast.”
Without missing a beat, he takes the cookie and begins his poem.
“Lark is a bad girl. So they say.
Brown hair. Green eyes. Bags under her eyes, so grey.”
I glare at him.
“She thinks she has it all figured out, and maybe she does.
I can tell her right now she doesn’t, because,
Things aren’t always what they seem, Miss Lark.
Sometimes, an angel is found in the dark.”
His poem is nonsensical bullshit. I grumble and begin gathering my pens from the kids, ignoring his smug ass. The class chatters around him, asking him questions, but I don’t want to see him. He made me cry.
Well, he didn’t actually make me cry, but he made me remember things that did. I purposefully sliced the most painful part of my life from my head and my heart. And with one innocent smile, he forced me to think about things. He forced me to climb up to the top of my closet last night, pull down that one box I have left, and touch everything in it.
I didn’t sleep one wink.
I cried until my eyes burned from being so dry.
When I grab a pen and stand quickly, my world spins. Shit—ramen time. Three cookies do not constitute breakfast, it would seem. I’m going to pass out.
As soon as I begin to feel flushed and black out, strong arms hook under mine from behind and grip me tight.
“Hey there,” he murmurs into my ear. “Where’re you going, pretty girl?”
Pretty girl. Big liar.
I choke down the nausea in my belly and attempt to blink away some of the blackness.
We sink to the floor, and he pulls me between his spread legs with my back against his chest. The kids have dispersed and abandoned us. One hour is usually pushing it, and when that time is up, they run off to do whatever it is that kids do. Their attention can only be held for so long—hence the Oreo bribery.
“What happened?” he asks softly, his arms wrapped snuggly around my middle.
I’m so weak that I’m powerless to move against him. Instead, I try to ignore the lovely feeling of his thumb stroking my belly.
“I got dizzy.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Could it be because I was right?” he whispers into my hair.
I swear he even inhales me. Sicko.
“No.” My weak attempt at a fight is dusted away by his rumbling laughter, which reverberates from his chest through my back.
“Lying is a sin, you know.”
God, he is so weird.
“So is breaking and entering and stalking. I’d say you were guilty twice now on both accounts,” I argue.
The heat from his body makes me more lightheaded than before, and I can’t help that I’ve now relaxed completely against him. My eyes feel heavy, and I just want to sleep. In his arms. Who’s the sicko now?
“Okay, Lark the Lawyer. Those are not sins, baby. Those are broken laws. I could give two shits about the law. But I do care about your safety. Now, cut the crap, and let’s get you some breakfast. Surely there’s a diner around here.”
I feel some of my strength returning, and then I notice them.
His bare feet.
There’s blood on the wood floor. He’s been injured.
“Why are you barefoot?” I question as I sit up to properly inspect his feet. “You’re hurt.”
“Some unstable woman ran off into a crowded street. What gentleman would I have been to let her run off unescorted? There was no time for shoes.”
I roll my eyes and turn in his arms to look at him. Bad idea. His midnight-colored, intense eyes probe beyond the colorful surfaces of my skin. They are attempting a bold effort to peel away layers and find out what’s beneath.
“I told you to leave me alone, but you don’t listen,” I pout.
His eyes drop to my lips, and a growl so low that it’s more a vibration and less of a sound rumbles its way down to parts of my body that haven’t been touched in years. “If I’d have listened, who would have caught your fall?”
I can’t help but lick my lips. The way he stares at them makes me self-conscious. Do I have Oreo crumbs on them?
Another growl, this time louder.
“The floor would have caught me. We’re well acquainted. I pass out a lot,” I tell him like it’s no big deal.
Honestly, I’m used to it. Depression, stress, grief—none of those things feed an appetite. Without an appetite, there’s no desire to eat. When I don’t eat, I faint. End of story. Nobody dies . . .
“No more, Lark. Do you hear me? I’ll make sure you’re taken care of,” he assures me, his gaze still on my lips.
Another lick.
Another growl.
Don’t kiss me, Al. I don’t want you to kiss me.
“For three months. I remember. Glad to have you for the long haul, Just Al,” I snip out sarcastically.
He brings his nose forward until it touches mine. “But I could take care of you oh so well during that time, baby.”
His words are laced with insinuation, and my body reacts against my wishes. His hot, Oreo-scented breath weakens my resolve to push this man away. He’s like a fucking drug. I want to smell him. Taste him. Touch him.
Too bad drugs are lame.
“You can take me to breakfast,” I concede, “but that’s it. Then you take me home.”
He smiles. “Fine, but before we go there, I need to stop at a church and clean up my feet.”
Once I nod in agreement, one of his hands unwraps from my belly and he points to the cracked mirror above the fireplace.
“That mirror makes me want to throw up.”
Al is officially one fucked-up individual.
“You make me want to throw up.”
I’m fucked up too.
SHE WON’T LET me carry her like I insisted upon, but she does allow me to hold her hand. It will have to do for now. The damn woman is like a walking time bomb. My work is fucking cut out for me.
“There’s the church,” she says softly as she raises a slender arm and points to the small building near the corner. “And there’s a diner another block up.”
As if we’re on a Sunday stroll—well, I suppose we are—we take or time making it to the church.
“I’ll wait outside on the steps,” she insists.
Over my dead body.
“No. After that near fainting spell, you need to come into the air conditioning. Just sit on the pew in the back. Lie down, even. This should only take a moment,” I assure her.
She groans in defeat but permits me to escort her inside. As we enter, I scan the gorgeous church to find that it appears we’ve arrived between services, so there are only a few people scattered about. Before I even finish surveying my surroundings, we’re immediately met by Father Lester, a retired Seraph Guardian.
Upon retirement, they lose their wings and once again take on a human form—the cycle a constant continuation until they meet their ultimate death and spend eternity in Heaven. I’ve met him on many occasions when he’s come to HEA Corp for seminars or for board meetings. Since he’s human now, he simply drives his old clunker downtown, no dramatic theatrics there.
“Hello, Father,” I grin upon seeing him.
His eyes twinkle in surprise when he sees Lark beside me. “Hello,” he greets us both with a nod.
“Can you help me in the bathroom?” I ask as I guide Lark to a pew like I promised.
She sits down and buries her face in her knees.
Father Lester’s gaze flickers to her once again, and then he turns on his heel. I follow him down the back hallway, through a set of double doors, and into his office. After he shuts the door behind him, he looks up at me questioningly.
“Who’s the girl?” he asks.
“Lark Miller. My final assignment.”
He waves his hand toward his personal bathroom—the one I know won’t have a mirror.
“What happened to your feet?”
I groan. “My subject is accident-prone. I had to run after her. There was no time for shoes. She’s safe now.”
He nods, and I make my way into the bathroom. After I’ve washed and dried my feet, I walk back into his office. Then he pulls a pair of shoes from the closet.
“We keep things on hand for the homeless. You’re in luck,” he says with a smile.
In the short time since I’ve been here, I’ve felt my strength growing. “Thanks, Father Lester.”
His eyes scrutinize me. “Lark is pretty. Don’t become attached, Alpha.”
I nod immediately. I know the rules well. “Of course not, Father. Just keeping her safe.”
He purses his lips into a fine line before saying his last piece. “If the temptations of that woman become too strong, come see me. The SG want you, and you deserve to be a part of the elite. I’ve seen your files, son. I know how hard FA is—trust me. It nearly killed me, but I remembered who I wanted to be, not who I was before. Keep your eye on the prize. Those wings will be yours.”
