Page 40 of Her Dark Angel

The sun is setting outside when my Motorola MicroTAC rings on the couch beside me. With a groan, I slip the cherry between my lips and grab the phone. “What do you want?”

“Well, hello to you too.”

I close my eyes at the sound of the little devil’s sweet voice. For some reason, it comforts me in my turmoil more than I thought it would. “Little devil, is there a reason why you’re calling me?”

“Yes, actually,” she answers. Loud voices sound in the background and I frown. She must be at work. “We haven’t been sticking to the ground rules the past three weeks.”

Releasing the bottle of Jack, I grip the cherry between my fingers and take a long drag before blowing out the thick smoke. “How so?”

A pause.

“Well, we haven’t gone out on a date yet. I vividly remember telling you that one date a week would be part of the deal and we haven’t done it once.”

I screw my eyes shut and rub at my temple. A pounding headache is forming behind my eyes that is almost blinding. It’s nothing a little bit of blow can’t fix, though. Or it could make it worse. Either way, I’m still going to do it. “Look, Blondie, I don’t know if I’m in the mood for a date tonight.”

She blows out a sharp breath of annoyance. “Well, I don’t care what you’re in the mood for, Nash. The sooner we get this date over with, the sooner you can go back to doing whatever it is you’re doing. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

My hand squeezes the chunk of plastic pressed against my ear. God, this woman is so fucking infuriating. She is so goddamn stubborn that it drives me insane.

“Kinsley…”

“Look,” she interrupts me, which only makes me more annoyed. “I promise it’ll only take an hour out of your time, okay? I know a nice restaurant downtown I frequent often that can get us in and out quickly. Just… please, we need to do this.”

I exhale a sharp breath, my lips thinning. As much as I would get enjoyment out of telling her to fuck off, I know I can’t do it. She’s right. I did agree to the terms of the ground rules, and the publicity stunt is working, so we do need to keep up appearances. But it doesn’t mean I’m fucking happy about it.

“Fine,” I grunt, and take another drag of the cherry. I’m going to need a lot more than nicotine to get me through the turmoil in my mind tonight. The unexpected dinner plans don’t help either. I stand from the couch, leaving the Jack Daniels bottle behind, and head into the kitchen. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

“Oh, you don’t have to?—”

“Either I pick you, or we don’t go at all, little devil. What’s it going to be?”

I swing the fridge door open and gaze inside, scanning over the random condiments, old pizza boxes and cups of noodles, and the suspicious looking container with an unknown substance inside. When my eyes land on the bottle of Budweiser, images of my dad drinking the same beer flash in my mind at rapid speed, nearly knocking the breath out of my lungs.

Who the fuck bought these? And why are they in my fridge?

My hand immediately clenches at the memory of broken glass on the floor and his harsh words knocking me into submission.

I slam the door shut and palm my eyes with my free hand, attempting to push the memories from my mind. But unfortunately, they’re burned into the depths of my soul.

Kinsley sighs into the receiver, her sweet voice pulling my attention away from my childhood memories. “Okay. Sure. I’ll see you in an hour. But don’t be late, Nash. I mean it.”

“I’m never late, little devil.”

14

NASH

1977

14 years old.

Dad comes home drunk more than he does sober. Whenever he stumbles through the door late in the evening, he always has a beer in hand, left over from drinking at the bar with friends, and his eyes are bloodshot. It’s better when Mom isn’t home because he likes to start fights with her. More often than not it will lead to a screaming match, and sometimes the cops get called by the neighbors.

I tend to stay in my room when they fight downstairs. They like to pretend I’m not in the house anyway, so I may as well act that way, too. It’s easier, really. I don’t want to get caught up in their mess, especially when they have been drinking or doing whatever else it is they do when I’m not around.

But tonight, I made the mistake of watching television in the living room and losing track of time after eating dinner by myself—like I do most nights.

The front door swings open, and Dad stumbles inside with a beer in hand. The crisp rays from the full moon shine in behind him, illuminating his dark wavy hair that curls around his ears. The strands are greasy and flat, just like his mood most days.

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