Page 42 of Her Dark Angel

Headlights approaching from down the road capture my attention. I lift my eyes from the chipped wooden floorboards beneath my black flats as a vehicle pulls up along the curb in front of my house. The passenger window rolls down to reveal Nash sitting in the front seat.

With a huff, I hoist my black handbag up on my shoulder and march down the pathway. The crunch of leaves diverts my attention to where Mrs. Jones is standing in her front yard raking up leaves under the large oak tree in the middle of her property. Her kind eyes meet mine and she smiles, offering a wave with her wrinkled hand.

I slow my pace and return the gesture. “Good evening, Mrs. Jones.”

“Good evening, Kinsley.” Her eyes travel to the black Porsche 928 S parked on the street. A warm smile lights up her face as she turns back to me. “He’s a good-looking young man.”

My eyes widen in surprise. In the four years I’ve been living in this house, I haven’t spoken more than a few words of greeting with Mrs. Jones. We both have an understanding that we greet each other to be polite and friendly, but that’s as far as it goes. Hearing her call Nash Beck good-looking is the last thing I was expecting to come from this conversation.

“Uh, yeah, he is,” I murmur, fighting to keep my lips turned upright in a smile.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

I’m not sure if a woman of her age keeps up to date with the entertainment industry and what’s hot in music currently, so she may very well have no idea about my fake relationship with Nash. Unless she has seen it on the six o’clock news, but that might be a stretch considering she is out in her garden around that time every night.

“He is,” I reply and shift on my feet. “Well, I better get going…”

“Of course,” Mrs. Jones says, her smile still firmly in place. “Be safe, and have a good night, Kinsley.”

My insides soften at her words. It’s nice to know that although I don’t converse with my elderly neighbor about the weather or whose lawn is better in the street, Mrs. Jones is kind enough to be concerned for my safety. It’s more than I could say for my parents.

I wave at her as I continue down the pathway to Nash’s awaiting car. “I will, Mrs. Jones. Don’t be out too late, okay?”

The older woman chuckles as she goes back to raking her pristine lawn. “Of course, dear.”

Nash’s eyes are on me as I swing the passenger door open and slide onto the cool leather seat. The scent of his woodsy cologne and nicotine invade my senses, as well as the all too familiar scent of whiskey. Glancing around at the interior of the car with its sleek black dashboard and fancy inbuilt radio I haven’t seen in most ordinary cars, I don’t need to be a rocket scientist to know it’s expensive.

“You’re late,” I say to Nash and turn to face him. His wild curls are a mess around his face and what appears to be purple bags are forming under his eyes. While he looks handsome in black jeans, a white T-shirt that allows his tattoos to peek through the thin material, and silver rings and necklaces as accessories, he also looks… exhausted. Drained, even. “I can smell whiskey. Have you been drinking?”

He blinks at me. “Yes. And?”

“You can’t be drinking and driving, Nash.”

Nash huffs as he pulls away from the curb and heads toward downtown Los Angeles where Matt’s restaurant is located. “I know. I just got caught up with something, that’s all. To say I’ve had a long day would be an understatement, so I needed a drink.”

I peer over at him. “How so?” Shadows move across his handsome features as we drive past streetlamps, making him appear more haunting than he already is.

“It’s not something I want to talk about, little devil.”

I fold my arms over my chest and turn in my seat to face him properly. His newly healed knuckles are white as he grips the steering wheel and his eyes are laser focused on the road. I’ve seen what this man will do when pushed hard enough, but I’m not afraid of him. I never have been.

“Nash, we have twenty minutes until we get to the restaurant, and you’re going to tell me what’s on your mind whether you like it or not.”

The corner of his lip quirks up for a millisecond before it drops into a thin line. “God, you’re fucking stubborn. Has anyone ever told you that?”

I shrug. “All the time. Now, spill.”

Nash rakes a hand through his hair and grunts. “Fuck. Fine. But don’t think you can push me like this any time you want, little devil. You caught me at a good time.”

Triumph courses through my veins at how easily he gave in to my nagging. I thought I was going to have to put up more of a fight considering how well he can bottle up his emotions.

He sighs and relaxes into the seat, his shoulders slumping and his grip on the steering wheel easing slightly. “Our music producer at our label dropped the bomb on us today that they’ve planned a surprise Dark Angel concert in one week at the Memorial Coliseum. It’s the biggest venue the band will perform at. But we only have one week to form a setlist and sell out every seat in that stadium.”

My eyes widen at his words. “Holy shit. That’s good, right? If the label thinks Dark Angel can sell out a venue in one week, then this whole facade must be working.”

Fucking hell, that was quick. I expected to see results from this fake relationship in a couple of months, not three weeks.

“Yes, it’s good, but it’s also a fucking nightmare.”

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