Page 29 of Of Angels & Absolution

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess that’s me.”

“I’m not talking about that kind of ignorance,” he says. “Have you ever even met a gay person before?”

“No,” I admit. “I grew up Catholic, and then I was homeschooled.”

“For the record, I’m not Catholic,” he says. “But as you can imagine, there’s not a lot of ice hockey teams in Arkansas, so here I am.”

“He’s being modest,” Annabel Lee says. “His family moved here from up north and basically created the entire hockey program at Thorncrown for him.”

“For my dad,” he corrects. “But honestly, I don’t mind the religious stuff. It’s refreshing when people say what they mean instead of pretending they’re cool while wishing you don’t exist. I dealt with enough of that petty bullshit in Shallow Creek.”

“And now you deal with the Sinners,” I say. “They all play hockey? And like men?”

“Even Salem,” Annabel Lee says. “The hockey part, not the men. She’s pretty badass, to be honest. Her family threw some big fit about them not having a women’s team, and instead of creating one, they caved and let her play on the men’s team. Can you imagine?”

“I really can’t,” I say, my palms getting itchy at the thought of all those collisions, the fights, violence.

The blood.

“Okay, back to your problem,” Manson says, picking up a fortune cookie from the pile in the center of the bed. “If a Sincero is missing a tongue, it wasn’t them, which means it was… the Hellhounds?” He glances at Annabel Lee, but she doesn’t react.

“It’s fine,” I say, feeling suddenly self-conscious and stupid for coming down here. The Hellhounds will think I’m a rat even more than they already do if I pull someone else into this. After the picture of Angel, I naïvely assumed it wasn’t the boys leaving the messages. I should never have involved anyone else in my problems.

“What do you mean, it’s fine?” Manson asks, looking at me like I’m crazy.

“I can take care of myself,” I say. “I’m not afraid of the Hellhounds.”

“Um, hello, you should be,” he says. “Do you know who they are? You don’t want to mess with them. Tell her, Annabel Lee.”

“Or maybe they don’t want to mess with me,” I say. “Maybe they should be afraid.”

“Girl, no,” Annabel Lee says, giving me a pitying look, like I’m a child who got bullied at school and is vowing to take on the whole class on the playground tomorrow. “They have an entire gang at their back. You really don’t want to get involved with my family. Hell,Idon’t even want to be involved, and they’re my family.”

“I know, but it’s okay,” I say. “Trust me. I can handle it.”

I can’t explain to them why I’m not afraid, why I’m smiling. I must look insane. Their expressions confirm it. But I know the guys won’t hurt me—not in the ways these two think.

They might be angry, but I realize as I sit there that some part of me knows they will protect me. They meant what they said when I gave myself to them. They might humiliate me, push me beyond my limits, corrupt me until I’m as sick and sinful as they are, but they won’t let anyone else hurt me. Only them.

They cut off a Sinners tongue for me. And though that should make me sick, and in a way it does, it also makes me feel all warm and cozy inside.

Because they are still mine. My boys are still mine.

Manson and Annabel Lee exchange glances before he turns to me. “Look, I support anyone’s right to delusions of grandeur, but unless you have a secret identity as a superhero, I don’t think you can fight all the bad guys in Gotham,” Manson says. “So, what exactly is your plan to ‘handle it’?”

“Not in Gotham,” I say, standing from the bed, ignoring the hiss that comes from one of Annabel Lee’s crates. “But in Faulkner? Yeah. I can handle them.”

nine

The Merciful

The visit with Annabel Lee renews me, and I head back upstairs after thanking her for lunch and telling her that her room is lovely. After cleaning my door, I lock myself in my closet before prying the sole from my clog to take out the burner phone I ordered online. Not only did the information I found out—that it likely isn’t the Sinners messing with me, but my own friends—inspire me to dig deeper, but the guilt of hanging out with someone besides Eternity has me on edge. I can feel the truth just beyond my fingertips. I just need to get a little closer.

“Hey,” drawls a familiar voice on the other end of the line when I charge and dial. “How’s my favorite little psycho?”

“I need a job,” I says. “Can you get me in on Friday?”

“For you?” he asks. “Always.”

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