Page 28 of Angel

“Seriously though, babe, how are you?”

“Not good, if I’m honest.”

I am so close to telling her about my encounter with Angel, but something is holding me back. It’s as if it’s a treasured memory marked ‘for your eyes only’ and I am guarding it in a locked vault in my mind.

Instead, I tell her about the unwanted gift, and she gasps.

“No way! No wonder you hot-tailed it over here. I know where you live.” She shivers. “He demonstrated that pretty well, don’t you think?”

“Which is why I moved fast.”

“Do you think he followed you, assuming it’s a he, of course?”

“No. I kept checking the mirror, and no car followed me here.”

“Well, that’s a relief. The last thing I want is Freddy fucking Krueger showing up at my door. I’ve got a lot on my plate already without adding a freaking serial killer to the list.”

“You and I both.” I sigh. “Who do you think murdered Giovanni?”

“It could be anyone. Los Angeles is full of would-be serial killers in my opinion.”

She chews on her lower lip.

“Have you called the cops?”

“No.”

I met Bethan when I first came to Los Angeles five years ago. We waited tables together and formed a strong alliance against the sleazy manager of the Pie factory. We roomed for a while, and then Bethan met Todd Rivers, and he knocked her up with twins before admitting he already had a family in Delaware.

Needless to say, Bethan has sworn off men, only using them to satisfy her physical urges, and her mom is desperate to see her married off pdq because that is what is expected of a woman. Her words, not mine.

Bethan gulps her wine and leans back in her forest of scatter cushions.

“You can stay here. The twin’s room is empty. We can drink our troubles away and chat shit about every man who did us wrong.”

“That sounds exactly what I need.”

True to her word, we do just that. Bethan orders pizza and cracks open at least two bottles of wine. The muffins she baked earlier don’t last the evening as we comfort eat ourselves into a food coma.

It must be midnight before she yawns and points me in the direction of her kid’s room, and as I head into the shower, my mind is a little woozy after alcohol and sugar corrupted it so badly.

As I exit the shower, I have only one destination in mind: the bottom bunk bed of her son Aidan.

“Sophie.”

I jump as a soft, husky voice wafts toward me, and as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see him. Standing by the window, framed by moonlight, like before, his leather jacket his armor, the skeleton mask obscuring the lower part of his face.

My breath catches; the bandana wrapped around his head both hot and forbidding, and my legs shake as I whisper, “Angel?”

He nods, staying where he is, his tone husky and soothing.

“You called again.”

I swallow hard, my blood hot, my pulse flickering as the alcohol causes my inhibitions to wake.

I advance slowly, and he hisses, “Stay where you are.”

“Why?”