Page 24 of Price of Angels

“Think of it like being on call,” Michael said. “Like a doctor who gets paged off-duty.”

In the past four months, she’d watched enough daytime TV to be able to understand that reference. She nodded.

“Holly.” An electric current moved through her at the sound of her name on his lips again. The rigid set of his jaw reflected an obvious aggravation, in this moment, and she was proud of herself for seeing the traces of emotion in him. “I thought we were going to talk about you.”

She took a deep breath. “We are.”

“You gonna finally explain why you’ve been sitting in that spot” – indication of her place on the booth with his fork – “trying to talk to me for four months?”

His words stung. What man would question female attention like she’d been giving him? Only the coldest, most untouchable of creatures would have thought she was weird, rather than take advantage.

And in a strange way, his attitude gave her hope. A hope that, once their transaction was completed, he wouldn’t haunt her. He wouldn’t ask for anything else from her, content to go separate ways without a backward glance.

Leaning even closer to him, her hair swinging forward and brushing at the edge of his plate, she dropped her voice to the tiniest whisper. “You’re right,” she said, the words the barest hiss of sound, “I’m running, and probably someone’s hunting me, too. That’s why I’ve been trying to make friends with you.”

He lowered his voice, not a whisper, but a flat, soft sound that wouldn’t carry. “You’re hoping I’ll protect you.”

“No. I want to hire you. There’s three men after me. I want you to kill them.”

Five

They went back to her place, the rented attic loft in the creaky old converted mansion. When she’d told him, at the bar, what she wanted of him, he’d almost choked on his dinner. Almost. He’d thrown down the rest of his Jack, told her to fetch another, and then told her not to breathe another word about it, until she got off her shift, at which point he’d follow her home, and they’d talk about it in private.

She’d agreed, eyes bright, frightened, hopeful, sliding out of the booth to retrieve his whiskey.

Michael hadn’t glanced at her, the rest of the evening, as he sipped at drinks and studied the wood grain pattern in the table. But he’d known where she was, every second of those two hours. He’d felt her presence, smelled her as she breezed past, acutely aware of her every smile and laugh and gesture. She’d surprised him. Truly, completely shocked him, and that was a rare occurrence these days. Her unexpected boldness made her a fascination, a dangerous one.

Finally, she’d come to the table, once the customers were gone and the chairs were overturned on the tables. The bartender had been giving him dark glances, like he didn’t approve of him waiting around for Holly.

She’d still been wearing her work uniform of silk boxing shorts, wedge sneakers, and tank top, flipping her hair over the collar of a light leather jacket not suitable for the weather outside. “Ready?”

“It’s thirty degrees outside,” he’d said.

She’d shrugged. “I’ll be fine. Meet me on the street out front. I’ll be in the Chevy. You won’t miss it.”

And he hadn’t. As he’d sat astride his bike, waiting at the mouth of the alley, he’d been surprised again, this time by the black ’67 Chevelle that pulled out into the street. A gorgeous year for that car, though the paint needed a re-do. Hardtop, mag wheels, what sounded like the original, downturned pipes, the way the chugging of the Big Block echoed down onto the pavement.

Holly was so small, her silhouette looked like that of a child, as she turned left and passed in front of the greasy light of a street lamp. He couldn’t see her curves, from this angle, just her little head, poked up over the window ledge.

She cruised slowly past, giving him a chance to fall in behind her, and then they headed to the mansion with the big circular drive shaded by trees, and up the two flights of steps to the place she called home.

Michael made no comment on the seven door locks; a frightened girl, he reminded himself. And not a stupid one, either, apparently.

She locked the locks again, with a series of clicks, once he was inside; he took the chance to look his fill.

The old attic had high ceilings in the center, sloping down to points in the eve. Streetlamp glow filtered in through the dormer windows, framing the tiny Christmas tree that stood in the center one. She had a bed, a dresser, a rod of hanging clothes in place of a closet. A couch, a cozy chair, threadbare rugs. The bathroom must have been behind the corrugated tin sliding barn door. The kitchenette was tiny, but there were dishes draining on the rack, along with pots and pans. She used the stove, obviously, for something besides storage. It was small, comfortable, warm, and probably had an impressive view from the windows.

But for some reason, it held a certain sadness. Everything tired, frayed at the edges, the shelves sagging just the tiniest, the old floorboards in need of refinishing. The little tree, without ornaments, its colored lights blazing against the cold fogged window glass, evidenced this girl’s attempt to bring something bright into her frightened life. Just…sad.

“Coffee?” she asked from behind him, as she hung up her jacket. When she stepped around so he could see her, he noted the chill bumps all down her arms and across her chest. She was freezing.

“Sure,” he said, not because he wanted any, but because he thought if he had some, she would too, and it would warm her up before she caught pneumonia.

“It’s dark roast.” She crossed to the kitchenette, the swish of her silk shorts loud in the quiet loft. “Hope that’s alright.”

He hummed a sound that meant he didn’t care.

“I’ll just get it started,” she said in a happy voice, as she pulled a filter from a box on an open shelf and dropped it into the top of the maker. The Folgers canister opened with a popping sound. “Then I’ll change.” Questioning glance over her shoulder as she scooped coffee grounds into the machine. “If that’s okay.”

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