Page 65 of Price of Angels

Then it was over, and it was only glowing embers, and Michael had her in his arms again, and they were damp and hot and clinging together under the covers.

Holly knew, as sleep bore down on her, that her initial bargain had been such a stupid, childish thing. How naïve of her to think she could walk away from him like this was a business deal. She’d be in love with him, before it was all over.

Maybe she already was, she thought, before she drifted off.

Eleven

She woke to bright sunlight against her eyelids, and slowly opened them, squinting. It was morning, early judging by the slant of the cold rays filtering through the windows. She was sore all over, and tired, her limbs heavy with fatigue, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. She was still snuggled down in Michael’s bed, the covers tucked beneath her chin. But Michael was no longer beside her; he sat on the edge of the bed, massaging his scalp with his fingers, working his hair up into disarray in what struck her as a habitual morning behavior.

All of this she noticed with a fast glance, and then she sucked in a breath, when her gaze latched onto the wings.

From the base of his neck to the base of his spine, spanning the entire width of his back were two massive feathered, folded wings, their roots at his shoulder blades, their tops curving up over his trapezius muscles, the pointed tips falling softly at his hips. They were rendered in gorgeous detail in black and gray ink, a tattoo that seemed alive, ready to lift and stretch, and blot out all the light from the window. In magazines, and in the locker room while the other girls changed out of their uniforms after work, she’d seen wing tattoos, most of them small and cartoonish. These were nothing like those. Stunning, graceful, textural…she thought she might feel the fibers of the feathers if she touched them.

And so she did. Holly sat up and leaned toward him, laying her hand against one wing, and feeling only the smoothness of his skin.

His back tightened beneath her touch; he stiffened all over.

“Michael, they’re beautiful,” she said with reverence, letting her index finger trace the shape of one feather. When he didn’t respond – he didn’t pull away, which she took as encouragement – she scooted closer, and let her fingers keep wandering, tracing. “Did it hurt?”

His head shifted toward her, so he could see her over his shoulder. “Yeah. It bled a lot.”

“Worth it,” she said, smiling. “They’re so pretty.” She let her head fall against his back, so her cheek was pressed to the warm, tattooed skin. “Do you have any others?”

“Nah, only those.”

“Those are enough.”

He made a grunting sound that she thought was an agreement. “You hungry?”

“Starving.”

He found a long-sleeved shirt and old cotton sweatpants for her to wear. They swallowed her up, the legs of the pants puddling around her ankles, the sleeves hanging off the ends of her hands. She pushed them back, folding them up three times, pushing them to her elbows, and then gave him a quiet smile, to show him that it was fine, and she was happy and could make do. Her hair was in messy knots on her shoulders and her makeup had been smudged last night; there were traces of mascara on the pillow, smell of her soap between the sheets. Looking at her, as she adjusted the sleeves one last time and asked if he had eggs that she could cook them for breakfast, Michael was gripped by the urge to throw her down on the bed and have her all over again.

He didn’t do it, of course, but the fact that he wanted to frightened him a little.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling on a shirt. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

She didn’t need showing, though, leading the way down the hall back to the kitchen, legs of the sweatpants folding around her tiny feet and making scuffing sounds against the carpet. Such a little thing, he reflected, staring down at the top of her head from behind, able to measure the span of her waist with one hand. She carried herself with the quiet confidence of a larger person, though, as she went into his kitchen and opened up the fridge. Everything about her movements was easy and unhurried. There was nothing proprietary about the way she pulled out the carton of eggs. Not a woman taking over, or feeling entitled, no. Just someone who was at ease with him now. They’d been as close as two people could get, and now she was comfy, and relaxed, and her eyes were affectionate as she looked at him and asked, “How do you like your eggs?”

“Scrambled.”

Another smile. “Me too.”

He got down skillet and spatula for her, two plates from the old widow’s collection that he set on the counter beside the stove. Then he started the coffee. For years, he’d bought his morning cup of black at whatever gas station or doughnut shop was most convenient. At home for Christmas one year, Wynn had fussed at him. “You know how much money that wastes?” he’d demanded. Michael had felt guilty. He was the sort of man who ought to make his own coffee, and so he had ever since, and had plenty of filters and dark roast for the machine.

While it brewed, he propped a hip against the counter and watched Holly work.

Her small hands were familiar with this routine: cracking the egg, catching the drips, tossing the shells, washing at the sink. When she picked up the spatula, she made quick, practiced strokes through the yellow puddle of eggs.

Smudged makeup and all, her face was pale and beautiful, with her sloped nose and her smooth cheeks. There was something peaceful about her, a contentment that radiated outward, and slowly covered him, lowering his blood pressure. She’d been that way from the first time she’d slid into his booth at Bell Bar. How someone with her past could find peace, he didn’t know. Maybe, after all she’d been through, the simple acts of taking an order or making breakfast were a rare joy.

She glanced over at him as she plated the eggs. “You’ll have to let me cook you dinner sometime.”

He shrugged. “I always eat.”

“You eat greasy bar food,” she said with a little laugh. “I meant a real dinner. From scratch.” She handed a plate to him, expression full of hope and longing and question. “Do you like lasagna? I make a pretty good lasagna.”

He took the plate, but didn’t pull it toward him right away, lingered so they both held it, so he could imagine he felt her touch through the china. “Yeah, I like lasagna.”

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