Johnny Angel

by DeWylde, Saranna

  Johnny Angel

  By

  Saranna DeWylde

  Johnny Gallo died Christmas Eve 1965. He's waited all this time for a shot at earning his wings and redemption. He's finally assigned a case, one Sofia Willoughby who choked to death on a mouthful of gingerbread. He has to make her see that not only does she have a reason to live, but to keep the hope of Christmas in her heart all year long.

  Sofia Willoughby has to be the world's oldest virgin. It was never the right man. Not even with her ex-fiancé. When Johnny appears in her living room, she knows why. She was waiting for him. He's The One. Too bad he's dead.

  There's more at stake for both of them than their earthly desires and it will take a Christmas miracle to give them a Happily Ever After. Fortunately, a meddling Christmas spirit may have just the thing for a fairytale ending.

  Copyright © 2012 by Saranna DeWylde

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission

  of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  All characters appearing in this work are fiction or in common usage. Any similarities between persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Cover Art and Design by Emmy Ellis

  For RaeAnne Fox

  One of the kindest women I’ve ever had the good fortune to call my friend.

  Acknowledgements

  Big thanks to the Intergalactic Princess Jenna McCormick. Words can’t begin to express the gratitude I have for this woman. She inspires me every day and keeps me sane. If you haven’t read her, you should. She’s got this space pirate and I’m madly in love with him. Only Jenna could write a heroine worthy of stealing him from me.

  Thanks to my crit group Madonna Bock, Sally Berneathy and Derek Dodson. They’ll each get their own book and dedication from me one of these days.

  Thank you to MK Meredith for telling me about the gift you give yourself.

  Finally, thank you to everyone reading this. I wouldn’t be able to legitimately interact with all the voices in my head without you.

  Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, Blessed Yule, Happy Hanukah, Joyous Solstice, and anything else you may celebrate, from my family to yours.

  Chapter One

  Death by Gingerbread

  Sofia Willoughby choked to death on a mouthful of gingerbread the day before Christmas Eve.

  It occurred to her this was not how she’d planned to go out. Of course, she hadn’t planned the extra fifteen pounds on her ass either, but such was the way of Fate and men. Even those of the gingerbread sort.

  She clawed at the table for her cell phone, but the lack of air made it difficult for her to control her fingers. Sofia was comforted by the fact she didn’t have any pets—they wouldn’t be using her dead body as a buffet when the landlord finally came to investigate the god-awful stench coming from 13C.

  The circumstances of her death stung more than the choking and that was saying quite a bit considering it hurt like hell. Sofia was alone, with cheeks crammed full like a squirrel gathering for the winter. There’d actually been enough in her chops to feed two squirrel families for the entirety of the cold season in Siberia. Yes, a mouth crammed full of gingerbread, no make-up, plushy snowman slippers on her unpedicured feet and a DVR player full of Christmas romances to be watched alone. Pitiful.

  A pair of worn Doc Martens came into view and Sofia thought for a moment she’d been saved! The pressure on her chest ceased and the oddest sensation tingled through her.

  Until she realized she wasn’t looking at the Docs anymore, but her own gingerbread padded ass. Yep. Sofia Willoughby was officially, unequivocally, and eternally dead.

  Wasn’t that just a bitch?

  She supposed it didn’t matter much; she hadn’t scheduled anything else for the next year. Work, night school and weekends at home with her face buried in an ice cream trough. Sophie didn’t see how that was going to change in the foreseeable future and she should count her lucky stars she’d died before she put on any more weight. She had horrible visions of being cut out of her apartment and lifted down to an ambulance on a crane while still stuffing pastries in her mouth…

  “Are you done feeling sorry for yourself?” a deep voice asked her.

  She couldn’t see the owner of the voice, but screw him. What did he know about it? “No. Do you see the way my ass looks in those pants? It’s like dueling cantaloupes.”

  “I like how your ass looks in those pants,” he said as if he were admiring a work of art in the Louvre rather than her rear.

  “Are you the Devil?” Sofia demanded. He had to be, who else would take such glee in her misery and the roundness of her gingerbread stuffed hind parts? Then there was the whole showing up as she’d died thing. Not a good sign.

  “Not by a long shot. Now, stop wallowing and get back in your body. You’re not done yet.”

  “What happened to go gently into the light?”

  “Fuck that.” He snorted.

  Sofia found herself slammed rather unceremoniously back into her body. She was still choking. God, it felt like she’d tried to stuff a chocolate-covered porcupine down her throat. Sofia coughed and horked, working the thing up her throat until finally it erupted from her mouth in lumpy 3D humiliation.

  She discovered that those Docs she’d seen after kicking the proverbial bucket hadn’t been some near death hallucination because she spat her mangled ball of gingerbread all over them.

  “Really, Sofia? I just had them shined,” he growled.

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up, her watery eyes barely focusing on the strange man in her apartment. The first thing she noticed was that he had hair that reminded her of John Travlota in Grease. In fact, everything about him reminded her of that movie. The way he dressed, the black t-shirt with the pack of Marlboros rolled up in his sleeve, the chain on his wallet, the way his jeans were rolled up. His shoes weren’t Docs after all, but some other kind of boot she didn’t recognize.

  She also noticed he was huge. Shoulders like a linebacker and the rest of his body could have been carved out of stone. The stranger had a face that could have belonged to any model, with hard, angular planes and black-fringed eyes that weren’t quite green, but weren’t blue either. He was so hot, she was sure something in the immediate vicinity would melt. Most likely her knickers.

  And his tattoos. They belied the semi-wholesomeness portrayed in the film. There was a topless Bettie Page on his bicep wearing a Santa hat and what on first glance had appeared to barbed-wire around the bottom of his bicep was in actuality Christmas lights twined around barbed-wire. What was next a flaming reindeer skull on his back with a banner that said “Mother?”

  He was still hot and she was probably still hallucinating.

  Too bad she had to die to get a man in her apartment. Sofia wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover he was simply a figment of her imagination. After all, what man really had eyes like that? She must be high.

  “Back to your old self, then?” he demanded, a blue-black brow arching with his question.

  “No, you’re still here.”

  “You didn’t scream, that’s good.” The man nodded his approval.

  “Why would I scream? And my throat’s sore anyway. Choking on a gingerbread man will do that to you. So assuming this isn’t a hallucination, who are you and what are you doing in my apartment?” She asked this as if there was going to be some acceptable answer that didn’t end in crazy. She’d been dead. He’d shoved her back in her body. But that wasn’t even the most unbelievable part. He was hot and he was standing in her apartment. That wa
s full-on Santa Claus territory.

  He crouched down on the balls of his feet and he was almost eye level with her. “My name is Johnny Gallo. And I’m your Clarence.”

  “I thought you said your name was Johnny?”

  “You’ve been watching Christmas movies all week, right? It’s A Wonderful Life? Yeah. Clarence. The almost angel who has to help someone to earn his wings.”

  She raised a brow and her nose wrinkled. “You’re an angel? I’m going to have to call bullshit on that one, sir.”

  He sighed as if she were the dumbest of all creatures. “You weren’t listening, Sofia. I’m not an angel yet. In fact, helping you? That’ll just keep me from taking a trip downtown if you know what I mean. I’ve got a long way before I can earn my wings. I was…” he sighed again, “am a bit of bastard.”

  Laughter bubbled up and she surrendered to it, honking like an angry goose. “This has to be real. Only in my life would this happen. I get a self-admitted bastard angel who’s on the fast track to Hell and he’s supposed to help me? You can’t even help yourself. I think I’ll just take the white light and the harp now, thanks.”

  His eyes rolled heavenward. “See? See?” he demanded of the ceiling. “I’m honest and this is what I get. And You wonder why I don’t want to do it. I wasn’t cut out for this angel gig.”

  Sofia remembered what he’d said about going downtown. If he didn’t help her, he’d go straight to the Devil. She exhaled heavily. She couldn’t have that on her conscience.

  A tiny voice in the back of her head reminded her that he was paying for his actions in life. If he went to warmer climes, it was what he’d earned. Regardless, of that, it couldn’t hurt to hear what he had to say. Could it? They were just words, but Sofia knew firsthand that words could be sharper than any sword.

  “So Angel-boy, if I help you get your wings, what do I get out of it?”

  “A happy, fulfilled life?”

  “Something more immediate, I think. I’m still not buying that you’ll be able to help me improve my circumstances. You want to go all Ghost of Christmas Past, you’ll see there weren’t any memories worth keeping.”

  “I’m dead. I can’t give you anything. If you want winning lotto numbers, that’s another department. I’m in Christmas.” He shrugged and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

  “Yes, you can. I want one favor.”

  “Again, open-ended deals are another department. Downstairs.”

  “Not from your department, Angel-boy. You. Personally.”

  “I’m not authorized—” The lights on the Christmas tree in the corner suddenly blazed to life. “Fine. One favor,” he agreed.

  Sofia knew she was going to regret this. She knew it as sure as all that gingerbread was going to give her a pimple on her chin. Because she hadn’t really wanted a favor. She wanted one night with him. Sofia didn’t want to die a virgin, but it seemed a little sacrilegious to demand sex from an angel. Even if he didn’t have the wings just yet. That would probably earn her a spot “downtown” as well.

  “Deal. So what do I have to do now?” She rubbed her hands together, ready to dig in to the task at hand.

  “First, clean the vomit off my boots. Then maybe brush your teeth?”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. “Sorry. My bad.”

  “No big deal. Choking to death is messy.”

  Thank heaven for small things. She tried to imagine his reaction if she’d asked for sex right out. With her breath stinking like gingerbread and a ball of the partially digested stuff on his boot. Definitely not sexy, but par for the course in her life.

  Her face flamed even hotter and she was sure she was the color of Santa’s suit when she bent over the angel’s boots. Sofia may have been a virgin, but that didn’t mean she had no experience with men. She’d been in this position before, on her knees. She’d been told she could suck-start a John Deere. So of course, her healthy imagination took over and flooded her awareness with images of doing just that to this angel.

  There was no doubt about it. Sofia was going to Hell.

  Chapter Two

  The Road to Hell is Paved with Chocolate

  Johnny Gallo knew he wasn’t angel material. He’d been a bad seed from day one. Here he was trying to earn his redemption and all he could think about was seducing his charge. He was a first class bastard.

  He didn’t think angels were supposed to be concerned with earthly desires. Yet, the fires of his earthly desire were about to consume him whole.

  Sofia Willoughby was more beautiful in the creamy, rounded flesh than she’d been in the viewing mirror. She was perfect. From his vantage point, with her bent over his boots, the view was incredible. The deep vee neck of her t-shirt gaped and the swells of her breasts bounced with every motion.

  His mouth went dry and arousal slammed into him hard and fast. Johnny hoped she didn’t look up at him with those big, dark eyes. If she did, Johnny didn’t know what he’d do.

  But it wouldn’t be good for her or for him.

  Well, it would be really damn good, at least until it was over and they both had to pay the price.

  “I think they’re clean.” He almost choked on the words.

  “You did say you just had them shined.” She continued to work and her braless breasts continued to bounce, tempting him further.

  “Good enough. Places to be. People to see. Memories to dredge up. Let’s move it along. And, uh, you should get dressed. You don’t want to find your Fate in your pajamas.”

  Or not find it, because your Clarence can’t keep his dick on a leash.

  She stood up, but that made it worse. The way that damned shirt clung to her breasts. A draft of cold air whipped through the room and her nipples tightened to hard points. Heaven was just fucking with him now.

  Bunch of assholes.

  “I’m going to regret this,” she said, hands on her hips.

  “You and me both, sister.”

  “You’re not very angelic.”

  “I keep telling you, I’m not an angel.” Most definitely not an angel.

  “I know that. But you should dress for the job you want.”

  “So, you’re saying if I want the angel gig, I should start thinking like an angel?”

  “Yeah.” She nodded.

  “I see. How come you haven’t taken your own advice?”

  Her mouth snapped tight like a rubber band and she lifted her chin in obvious defiance. “That would be a little creepy, don’t you think? Sitting around playing house by myself, talking to kids I don’t have and the perfect man who doesn’t exist?”

  She didn’t wait for him to answer her, but stomped off to the bedroom.

  He was never going to make it through a whole night of this. Let alone a week. Maybe, just maybe, he’d take her back to a good memory in the past and it would spark something to life and they could both go on about their business?

  Yeah, he knew he had his head firmly buried in cotton candy clouds, but he had to believe this was all going to work out. He’d help her live her life with Christmas and love in her heart, and be on about his business.

  Of course, when she emerged from the bedroom, his hopes melted just like that same spun sugar did in the rain.

  She was still wearing that damned t-shirt, but she’d put on a bra which had enhanced her cleavage and hourglass figure. Her jeans had to have been painted on with only a brush and prayer. But this time, it was her mouth that he was sure had to be a sin. Her lips had been painted the color of Red Hots, the little candy used for buttons on gingerbread men. Which made him think about her undoing his buttons with her teeth.

  She immediately noticed his scrutiny. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

  He was quick to shake his head. Maybe that would rattle this foolishness out of his belfry. “Nothing. You ready?”

  “I guess. How do we do this? Do I hold your hand?”

  You could hold something. Damn it. Stop it, Gallo. Get a gri
p on yourself. Yeah, a grip on yourself… Who was the dumbass who’d trusted him with this woman’s Fate?

  Her question was actually a valid one. This was his first time out of Purgatory. He’d done the flight simulations, but he’d never actually moved through the stream of time.

  She answered the question for him by wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her delicious body tight against him. “I don’t want you to drop me.”

  “Close your eyes,” he advised.

  Then, finally, something went right. The magick ignited instantly and the world around them was smeared away by unseen hands. Colors flowed like spinning too fast on the Merry Go Round.

  But when the strains of Burl Ives’ Have A Holly Jolly Christmas echoed in his ears, they were unceremoniously ejected from the stream and hurled to the snow-covered ground.

  It would figure he’d land right on top of her and conveniently, or not so conveniently, between her thighs. He was still very much aroused by her previous, albeit unwitting, display.

  She smelled of cinnamon and gingerbread. Scents he hated, yet somehow on her, they made his mouth water.

  Sofia was so soft beneath him; her curves making him wish he wasn’t supposed to be the good guy. But as a self-admitted bastard, he wondered how far he could push the line before he crossed it.

  Her crimson lips parted and she drew in a shaky breath. Her sooty lashes fluttered closed and that was all the invitation he needed.

  Nothing in the world could have kept him from those velvety red lips in that moment.

  Except the familiar slam of a screen door and a woman’s voice calling his name. Those sounds echoed into the afterlife with him and not a day passed that he hadn’t heard them clanging in his consciousness like a gong.

  “Damn it,” he grumbled and untangled himself.

  “What happened? This doesn’t look like my life.” She brushed herself off and got to her feet.