Page 46 of Of Angels & Absolution

I stomp up the stairs to her dorm a few minutes later and bang on the door. She opens after a second, peering out the crack like she thinks someone is here to rob her of her preciousinnocence, the one she never had. She was probably rubbing it out thinking about me the whole time I was thinking about her. I just never knew it until now because I was too busy stewing in my own shame.

“We’re going to see the guy who can hack into the files,” I say. “Come on.”

“Now?” she asks.

“Yeah, now,” I say. “What, you got a date?”

“No,” she says, scowling through the crack at me. “Don’t you? It’s Saturday night.”

“I don’t fuck after games,” I say, which isn’t entirely true, but she doesn’t need to know my habits. If she cared that much, she could put up her own damn cameras and watch me.

“Okay,” she says, opening the door to let me in. “Just let me get ready.”

I step inside her homey little room, lit by a couple candles and a stained-glass flower lamp on her bedside table. Soft Christmas music playing from a small speaker in the corner next to her teapot, and her teacup sits upside down with the saucer, as if just washed, beside a tin of cookies. The room smells sweet and buttery, like baked goods. Her cat stands from where he was curled up on the handmade blanket, against the teddy bear I gave her when we were kids. He stretches his back in an arch before hopping off the bed to prowl over and wind himself between my feet.

Suddenly I feel crude and out of place in the soft, cozy little haven she’s made for herself. It’s everything she always loved, everything our parents wouldn’t allow her at home. Mom wanted to hire a decorator, make sure the art on the walls was sized and spaced correctly, that it complemented the décor, that each item in the room had purpose and beauty and didn’t create a sense of clutter. My father insisted every room be presentable in case someone from the church stopped by, as if they wouldinsist on looking into the bedrooms. And so, our bedrooms looked like the rooms a church elder would imagine for a child, not the rooms of actual children.

Now, Mercy’s room is all her own, full of quirky, girlie things. She’s embraced her feminine, but not in the overly pink, sparkly art Mom put up when she was little, or the overly flowery, frilly things she chose when Mercy became a teen. This room looks like the inside of a cottage where an eclectic, old woman lives alone in the forest rather than the dorm room of an eighteen-year-old college student.

This time, when Mercy steps into her closet to change out of her flannel nightgown, I look away. I picture the bruises on her knees from where she knelt for me, and I have to adjust myself.

“Why can’t we go to Nate Swift?” she asks from behind the door. “Manson says he’s the best.”

“Manson probably wants to fuck him,” I say, annoyed that she dropped another man’s name, like she trusts him more than me.

“That doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

“Baron’s just as good,” I snap. “Besides, Manson plays hockey with the Sinners. You shouldn’t even be talking to him.”

“According to you, I shouldn’t be talking to anyone.”

“If you chose someone better to talk to, I wouldn’t object,” I say. “Manson has connections with the Disciples through the team. Nate’s family has their own connections. You can’t trust any of them. The Dolce kid isn’t from around here. He doesn’t have any loyalties except to his own family.”

“What about Annabel Lee?” she asks. “Am I allowed to talk to her, since she’s a North?”

“Yes,” I say grudgingly, though Annabel Lee is a wildcard even in Angel’s family. There were even rumors she was hanging with one of the Sincero boys at one point. But that’s for Angeland his family to deal with. It’s not our business, and I respect that they handle things in their own way, and it might be different than ours.

Heath and Eternity were different from us too. Their mom grew up in the trailer park on the east side of town, and even though they didn’t, they were always a little rough around the edges, seemingly oblivious to the rules of polite society that our parents instilled in us—forks on the left of the plate, spoons on the right; use your manners; don’t talk about money, politics, religion. Eternity could pocket mascara and candy at the store while we were right beside her, and we’d never see her do it. Heath could also shoplift without batting an eye, while Angel, whose parents were professional criminals, always balked at the idea.

So maybe he’s the wildcard in his family, not Annabel Lee. Maybe that’s why we all fit. We didn’t belong anywhere else, not even with our families, but we always belonged with each other.

For the first time, I really think about what we’re doing, the implications if we find something. If what Mercy said is true, and we can find Eternity, what happens then? Will we all be together, belong to each other, like we did before?

I get the distinct sensation that I’m being as naïve as Mercy. There’s a reason Eternity disappeared, and it wasn’t just because she got in the wrong car on the wrong day. A reason none of us ever saw her again. There’s a reason she never came back, and a reason no one ever tracked her down. And maybe those reasons are bigger than any of us—big enough to swallow people like the river swallowed the body that washed up a month later, the one they claimed was Eternity. Big enough to bury us the way we buried the secret of what happened that day. We’re more likely to find our own graves than hers; more likely tojoin the list of people who disappeared from Faulkner than find someone else who did.

But I’m not letting Mercy do this alone, so if she disappears, I’m disappearing with her. Whatever happens, at least this time, we’ll be together.

fourteen

The Angel

I pull up to the diner and enter through the back, heading upstairs and bypassing the doorman, who knows better than to fuck with me. Inside, I make my way from one stage to the next, working my way through the themed, private rooms in Infernal Vices, one for each of the seven deadly sins. The girls are all hot as hell—the powerful clientele who frequent the exclusive club doesn’t pay to see ugly—but Dad picked a good variety. There’s something for every inclination, from girl-next-door types to tattooed, leather-clad baddies; girls who appeal to rich, upstanding deacons like Saint’s dad to hardened criminals like the head of the Skull and Crossbones, an ugly-ass old man with big fish lips and small, dead eyes who’s in Pride tonight.

I do my last dance in Envy. The new girl on the pole is like her room—green. She’s sexy though, and I get to do myMagic Mikeroutine for a group of panting onlookers. Most of them are equal opportunity horndogs when it comes to watching us perform. If their trophy wives caught them at our show—hell, if they were questioned under oath—the politicians and high-powered attorneys and judges would claim they were picturing themselves in my shoes. That they were envying me as I roll my hips sensuously between Gloria’s thighs.

But if they didn’t have to give the expected response, if they told the truth, half of them would admit they’re wishing I was on top of them. It’s no coincidence that Gloria’s most popular routine is the one where I join her on stage. Eventually, men who can have anyone get bored of only having women.

Even though I’m not interested in dudes, I can’t deny the rush of being on stage, untouchable, admired, desired.

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