Page 83 of Wicked Angel
I glanced out the window, pretending to be more interested in the passing traffic than the conversation. “You know, it’s rude to disrespect your elders.”
“Gross. You’re two years older than me, asshat.”
“Three.”
“Not even.”
I looked at her again. Sitting next to me in her black dress, she looked a lot like a woman I might show up at an event like this with, on an actual date. Pretty. Sexy.
I’d given it a solid try to not think of Angeline Delacroix as sexy, but that had gone out the window the moment she stripped off that giant T-shirt in front of me—and I got an eyeful of her in her little panties and bra.
I’d taken off my own shirt and told her to put it on, to try to kill any ideas I might get about seeing her like that. But no matter how much of a sad disaster she was that night, I couldn’t stop replaying it in my mind.
The way she clung to me. The things she said.
Drunk and emotional Angeline was very loose with her words.
Maybe I got a glimpse of how she really felt about me that night. Maybe I didn’t. But the possibility was enough to make me wonder.
Make me want to try to expose her emotions again.
For some reason, her emotions fucking fascinated me.
Maybe because they were so damn foreign to me.
Not only did I not particularly have any, I tended not to keep women around who did. I had no real competency with emotions. Generally, they repelled me because they confused me. They made me uneasy, sometimes triggering rash responses, because I just couldn’t deal. It was like an allergy. You didn’t get a pet cat if you were allergic to cats.
And you didn’t let yourself fall for the cute stray kitten that appeared on your doorstep and bring it into your bed.
I had no idea why I’d invited her into my life. Did I really need a publicist / social calendar organizer / cheerleader person / pain in my ass, any more than I just needed a new band and to keep moving forward?
“I find our relationship confusing,” I told her. “When are you my publicist and when are you my sister’s annoying friend?”
And when are you that girl I can’t stop thinking about, the one who needed me that night?
“Well, that depends.” She gave me a fake smile. “If whatever just came out of my mouth is about to get me fired as your publicist, then I’m your sister’s friend. And when I’m telling you what to do, I’m your publicist.”
“So, basically, you say and do whatever you want, you tellmewhat to do, I swallow it and shut up?”
She pretended to consider that carefully. “Uh-huh. Yeah… that sounds real good to me.”
“Yeah, real good. Except for when you’re making piss-poor decisions… like trailing home a bunch of horny frat boys, and you need me to save you.”
“I don’t need you.”
“You needed me.”
“They would’ve left.” She muttered, “Eventually.”
“You couldn’t climb the stairs.”
“Shayla would’ve come home.”
“You thanked me. You clung to me like a baby monkey, crying all over me.”
“I was crazy drunk!”
“You hugged me when I tucked you into bed.”
