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There’s just no way around it.
After spending several nights under Angel’s calloused hands, I know nothing else will compare. I’m going to end up hurt without the normal thrill and sense of satisfaction to go along with it.
Doing this was a mistake. I should’ve headed north, back to Kansas, instead of walking the streets of Mission, looking for trouble.
Footsteps creep up on me, and for added flare, I fake another stumble. It wouldn’t be uncommon for a woman to get drunk and try to make it to safety by walking down these streets. It makes me an easier target, not that I would fight them too hard. I don’t want to actually get away from them. I need to be in their den. I need to help the other women they may have.
I smile the second I feel weight pressed to my back, and despite the tears running down my face when I feel the pinch of the needle in my neck a second before a black bag is shoved over my head, I’m actually happy that my wait is over.
Maybe they’ll manage to hurt me enough that Angel will be a long-forgotten memory.
Chapter 21
Angel
I’m always at peace when I’m home.
Well, I used to be.
That restless feeling I’ve had for the last couple of weeks didn’t drop away once I opened my front door.
It lingers, haunts, keeps me from sleeping well, and is like a constant dripping faucet, annoying and beyond frustrating.
It’s her fault.
She did this.
My life was perfectly fucking fine. I didn’t have to worry about anyone. I didn’t have to wonder what they were up to.
It was me, alone, secluded.
I wasn’t checking out the windows without an alert to my security system, wondering if she was going to show up.
My blood didn’t pump harder every time I got out of the shower with what? Hope? That she was going to be sitting on my bed.
I’m disappointed in the way I feel.
And admittedly, disappointed she hasn’t shown her damn face.
I growl at the kitchen counter when I cut it too close and bang my hip into it.
I’m not the type of man to let every little thing bother him.
Well, I wasn’t.
I spent the last two days traveling, needing to get out of this damn house, and even in returning things it still feels off, a little out of place. There’s something I can’t put my finger on, and it’s bugging the shit out of me.
I’m restless, annoyed, wishing she was here just so I could take my frustrations out on her.
“I swear to fucking God,” I mutter when I sit in my office chair and coffee spills on my jeans.
One deep breath in. One long breath out.
I’m not one for using any type of calming techniques. Spilling blood normally does that to me, but there’s no fucking blood to spill right now, and it’s making me antsy.
With a clenched jaw and heavy hands, I pull up my computer program for work. I’ve spent way too long hanging around here, thinking she’ll find me. It’s time to get back to work.
Lauren Vos isn’t a part of my life. She never was. She never will be.
