Page 88 of Sixth Sin

Leaning down, I smile. “Why don’t you try me and find out.”

Exactly forty-five minutes later, we’re in a Benz, courtesy of the estate, driving toward West Hollywood. I do my best to fight the smirk begging to break free, but I do a shit a job. What can I say? When things go my way, I’m an arrogant son of a bitch.

Angel stares out the passenger’s side window, refusing to look at me, but I’m not offended. On the contrary, it gives me the chance to take every inch of her in without meeting a scowl. She’s mad, but it’s worth it.

This is my Angel. My Chula Vista cocktail waitress.

The one who caught my eye before Hollywood changed her.

I told her to dress normal. I guess for an heiress this is as normal as normal gets. Dressed in a pair of ripped jeans, black-knee high boots, and a black corset I think is supposed to be a shirt, she’d still stop traffic. At least she somewhat covered herself with a long black jacket.

Which will stay the fuck on.

Finally, she breaks the silence. “Do you plan on telling me where we’re going, or am I supposed to guess?”

“Guessing could be fun.”

“That was a rhetorical question.”

I toss her a quick wink. “Then I think we need to revisit the definition of rhetorical.”

“Fuck you.”

I smile to myself because this feels normal. The banter and sarcasm. This is us. This is our normal. “One more thing,” I say, digging into the back seat and handing her a bag. “Put this on.”

She peeks into the bag, and her jaw drops. “Are you crazy? Hell no.”

I shrug. “Fine, but I’ve got the keys to the car, and you don’t have your phone. It’s a long walk back to Bel Air, rook.”

Angel’s face turns the shade of her lipstick. “Have I ever told you I hate you?”

A smirk creeps across my face as I turn into the parking garage I reserved earlier. “Only every other day.”

After valeting the car, I take her hand as we walk the short distance to our destination. Hidden by darkness, and disguise, no one gives us a second glance.

“Is it true?” I ask glancing at her out of the corner of my eye. “Do blondes really have more fun?”

She whips around, the ends of the short blonde wig brushing across her cheek. “Is this really necessary?”

Instead of answering, I pull her away from the crowd and against a building. “You’re granted three wishes. What are they?”

Her eyebrows draw together. “What?”

“Just answer the question, and don’t think about it. Three wishes, rook, what would you want most?”

“Peace.” After the word slips out, she presses her lips together as if she seems as shocked by her answer as I am.

“Like world peace?”

Shaking her head, she stares at the sidewalk. “No, like calmness. No call times. No fans. No paparazzi. No voices. Just peace.”

“And the other two wishes?”

She lets out a soft laugh. “Grant me the first one, and I’ll tell you the other two.”

Oh, ye of little faith.

Grabbing her hand again, I pull her away from the wall and toward a set of double doors. “Well, rub my lamp, and call me Genie, baby. It’s about to come true.”

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