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One of my earliest memories is stabbing a cousin with a butter knife at Sunday lunch, and I can’t even remember which one because I’ve tried to kill them all at some point.
Under the next streetlamp stands a girl. No—an angel. Not one of those biblically accurate ones they’d draw on the whiteboard to scare the shit out of us in Sunday school, but one from the movies. The human-shaped, heaven-sent kind with outstretched wings and a halo hovering over flowing blonde hair. She’s also wearing a fuzzy pink jacket and matching earmuffs, but fuck, who am I to question what angels wear these days?
I’m as unlovable as I am untouchable. So why the fuck is she now touching me?
“You realize I’m going to die, right?” She tuts. “Well, you will with that attitude.”
Forcing my eyes open, I wait for my vision to sharpen, and find her at the heart of it, grinning. She adjusts her own earbud. “It’s ‘Dancing Queen,’ by ABBA,” she says proudly, as if she wrote the fucking song herself. “Get it out,” I grunt. “No, it’ll make you feel better.” When met with my glare, she adds, “Seriously, it’s scientifically proven that ABBA songs make you happy. With ‘Dancing Queen,’ it’s because both Agnetha and Anni-Frid are singing the same key—which literally never happens in a duet, by the way—and at a really high register. When you hear it, your brain signals to your body
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“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” I hadn’t meant to say that aloud. Guess death softens your insides, and liquid shit is coming out of my mouth too. Her wings flutter beneath the light as she cocks her head and flashes me a broad smile. It’s like looking at the fucking sun. A bitter amusement filters through me. “You hear that all the time.” “Yes, but tell me again.”
She’s heaven-sent, I’m hell-bound, and here we are, crossing paths in the middle.
My eyes snap upward. “You know, I try to see the best in people, but with you, I really have to squint.”
“Well, Angelo always goes along with Rafe’s plans, doesn’t he? He’s the smarter brother, after all. And you, the Dips’ lackey, have to grit your teeth and do their dirty work.”
The only game he’s ever come up with that doesn’t make me want to suck on the end of a loaded gun is the Sinners Anonymous hotline.
In what sick world do I live in, where I’m relieved to see the man who threatened to cut out my tongue?
haven’t witnessed a murder in a long time, but muscle memory and self-preservation are a powerful combination. They want to drag me down to the floor and under the kitchen table. To pull my knees up to my chest and take my brain away to my happy place. It’s a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and a manicured lawn. Where Sundays are for board games and no one goes to bed angry, and no matter how many times the radio plays Mom and Dad’s wedding song, they always stop what they’re doing, push the living room furniture to the walls, and dance.
His busted knuckles, protruding veins, thick, swollen fingers. I wonder if he punches every man who follows women into phone booths. I can’t imagine hands like these being anything but weapons, and now I’m wondering what else they do.
“You have a weapon?” Gritting my teeth, I pick up my pace, trying to keep distance between us. “What, like pepper spray?” “Like a gun.” I choke out a laugh. I’d think he was kidding if I thought this man was capable of cracking a joke. “No,” I state. “It wouldn’t fit in my purse.”
Fueled by frustration, I tilt my chin and return his glare. “I’m not a damsel in distress, and while I appreciate the concern, I don’t need your help. Besides,” I add, fumbling around in my collar for the cord hanging from my neck, “I have a whistle for emergencies.” When met with his blank stare, I start to feel all itchy, so I give the whistle a pathetic toot. “See? More than capable of getting out of sticky situations.”
and it wasn’t even about how handsome he was. We connected on a spiritual level, you know? I’m a Scorpio, he was a Virgo. He loved ramen; I studied Japanese for a semester in school …”
Some loser who’d gone to Cove on a business trip. Clean record. That’s about all I know, because hitting him too hard too soon was the second mistake I made last night. His head bounced off the sidewalk like a tennis ball, and he was a goner before I could drag him into the cave, string him up, and have some fun with him.
“Anyway, shouldn’t you know all of this already? Denis found Rafe’s banking login for me in ten seconds flat.” My eyes narrow. “Why’d you need that?” “He keeps beating me at blackjack, so I donated a million dollars to the Washington Bird Sanctuary on his behalf,” she says brightly, tugging her keys out of her pocket and jangling them at arm’s length. “And look, they sent me this cute keyring as a thank you!”
It’s rude to stare, especially so brazenly, but jeez, what else is a girl to do?
The irony isn’t lost on me: I can’t escape the girl, even in the middle of the fucking ocean.
Fucking Denis. Though he made good on our pact and cracked me around the head with a pool cue, he didn’t hit hard enough to shake her out of it.
Then another laugh rises from the deck below and blisters my skin, igniting a violent spark beneath my ribs—who the fuck has her laughing like that?
Visconti men don’t need to love something to hate seeing it in someone else’s hands.
