Page 53 of Price of Angels

Passion.

The archangel was awake.

As he turned toward the shower, he had a fast, indistinct glimpse of the wings inked into his back.

Holly felt a lightness in her chest. She’d had maybe an hour of sleep, but physical exhaustion was no match for the swelling hope that filled all her dark corners.

Her immediate future was no longer a mere play at survival, awaiting the moment her family caught up to her. For the first time ever, she could think about her future ashers.

Michael had done that for her. Simply by promising, he’d changed the course of her whole life.

She had no idea how to thank him for that.

“Holly, table six is yours,” Vanessa said as Holly passed her coming out of the kitchen. There was a deliberate coldness to her voice. She refused to make eye contact. She, along with the other girls, continued to blame Holly for Carly’s death.

Holly felt a fast stab of grief, regret, guilt. “Okay.” Her voice dimmed in her throat.

But then she was out on the floor of the bar, amid the din of chattering lunch patrons, and she reminded herself that it was only a few short hours until dinnertime, and Michael’s appearance.

The guilt wasn’t going anywhere, but it could live in one of her mental storerooms, alongside her countless other regrets.

There was a familiar, slender dark-haired silhouette at table six by the window, Ava Lécuyer managing, as usual, to make jogging pants and a shapeless sweater look elegant.

Her mother sat beside her. The beautiful biker queen with the golden mane: Maggie Teague.

And across from them, a woman in office clothes with a sleek red bob that Holly had seen a time or two, one of the other old ladies.

Holly took a fortifying breath and approached their table with a bright hello.

Ava glanced over, gave her a bare smile of recognition.

Maggie said, “Hi,” as she flipped through her menu, one eye on the redhead, pretty features tight with concern. “We’re going to have Chardonnay” – she gestured between herself and the redhead – “and–”

“Ginger ale?” Holly guessed, looking at Ava.

Another small smile, this one surprised. “Yeah, that’d be good.” She turned to her mother. “Merc and I are in here a lot,” she explained.

“Oh, bless you,” Maggie said to Holly. “He must drink y’all out of Johnnie Walker.”

Not expecting a friendly overture, Holly smiled. “We keep an extra case on hand.”

“Smart.”

A thought struck her. A fast flare of nostalgia, the kind she felt for something she’d never had, and probably never would. What would it be like, she wondered, to be one of these Lean Dogs old ladies? There were women in Knoxville who looked down their noses at the biker wives, but even among those snobs, there was a certain amount of awe and respect. Maybe even fear. These three women at this table, they could strike fear in people, thanks to their connections. What must that feel like, Holly wondered, desperately, to be a woman capable of making others afraid?

She guessed she’d never know. Michael wasn’t offering to tattoo his name on her, after all, just utilize his professional skillset.

Regroup.

“I’ll be right back with your drinks…”

Her breath caught in her throat. On the sidewalk outside, beyond the deeply-tinted window, stood her husband.

“An engine is like a woman.”

“I’m dying to see where this goes,” Mercy said.

On the other side of the picnic table, Aidan gestured for him to be quiet, his attention still on his young pupil. Carter Michaels had never done one thing mechanical in his life, but Aidan was convinced he could make a mechanic out of their newest, youngest prospect.

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