Page 11 of Pray for the Damned

I wonder if she can tell the good twin is long gone and the evil one sits before her.

“I was going to,” I tell her. “But I decided I needed another drink.”

Her brows tug together, and her lips purse in the cutest look of confusion, but she doesn’t say anything. She just turns on her heel and moves behind the bar.

I watch out of the corner of my eye as she talks to the other waitress, and they both flick confused gazes over here. Emmett only ever has two drinks. It’s some stupid rule he made for himself after the night our father forced us to get drunk for the first time. Honestly, the fact that either of us ever touched a drop of alcohol again after that night is nothing short of a miracle.

She doesn’t hesitate behind the bar like she did the last time she brought Emmett a drink, and I can’t help but smirk. The little siren is getting more confident. If only she knew the devil was sitting in the place of the priest.

Waverly carefully places the glass of whiskey on the table. “Can I get you anything else?”

“How about a date?”

A laugh bursts from her throat, and it’s one of the most addictive sounds I think I’ve ever heard. Waverly doesn’t laugh often, nor does she often give genuine smiles. But even the ones I’ve seen from a distance haven’t compared to being front row.

“Nice try.” She smirks. “Have a good night, Pastor.”

Her hips sway as she crosses the floor back to the bar, and I can’t tear my eyes off her.

I thought my obsession was strong before, but now I’ve had her in my orbit, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let her go.

CHAPTER SEVEN

WAVERLY

My feet are fucking killing me.

After working a full eight hours at the diner, running to the Scarlet Lounge, and then being on my feet for the last six hours in heels, I’m not sure how I’m going to wake up in five hours to pull another shift on my feet.

But I won’t have a choice.

Just like I didn’t last year when I had the flu. It was either work or become homeless again, and I made a promise to myself a long time ago that I would never be in that position again. I dragged my ass out of what I truly thought was my deathbed and did three twelve-hour shifts in a row to make sure that was never my reality again.

The guard from earlier lets me out the front door and looks both ways down the street before his brows tug together. “You need me to call you a cab?”

“Oh, no. That’s okay. I’m going to take the subway,” I tell him, cringing at the thought of walking the three blocks to the station. At least I’ll be able to take my time rather than sprinting.

“Absolutely not,” he snaps and pulls his phone from his pocket.

I stare at him for a second before I shake myself off. “It’s fine. I have pepper spray in my purse.”

He flicks his glare up to me, and I almost step back at the intensity in his eyes. “You’re not taking the subway, Waverly.”

I open my mouth to argue but quickly snap it shut again. I haven’t made it this far by arguing with men that are three times my size and could snap me in half if they really wanted to.

A sleek black sedan pulls up against the curb, and the window lowers, revealing the man I spent the whole night thinking about.

Emmett’s heated gaze locks with mine before he flicks it to the guard behind me. “I can take her home, Brodie.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I rush out.

“It would be my pleasure.” He smiles. “Plus, it will give me a chance to get to know you better, seeing as you wouldn’t give me your number.”

“Thanks, Pastor,” Brodie says from beside me before he crosses the sidewalk to the car and opens the passenger seat door for me.

I open my mouth to argue again, but every argument I manage to conjure is weaker than the last, and at this point the idea of trekking across the city to my apartment seems far more abhorrent than getting into a stranger’s car.

It’s a wonder I’ve survived as long as I have on the run.

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