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202 pages, ebook
First published April 17, 2013
”Everything was different. His…heart was open wide—dangerously wide, vulnerable to everything. It was okay. His open heart was a good wound.
"He'd told himself earlier that he'd try to save her if he could. That was no longer true, he realized.
He'd try to save her even if he couldn't."
They used to joke about it back in the day—if they wanted to know if a guy was troubled or self-destructive in some way, they just needed to check if Angel thought he was hot. Bad boyfriend radar, they called it. Because if Angel was attracted to a guy, it meant he was probably wounded or feral, a doomed thug with a hurricane for a heart. It meant that she could love him, but never save him.
Did she realize she was expendable?
Arturio was one of Cole’s favorite men. Cole went into her bedroom and grabbed her red jacket. She followed him in. He tossed it at her. He wanted her to put it back on. Arturio was beyond safe—he wouldn’t think of laying a finger on a job, but Cole didn’t want him looking at her all the same. He told himself it was to protect Arturio, make him not think about his dead wife, but it was more than that—his asinine feeling of protectiveness and possessiveness kept knocking him off his game with her. It wouldn’t do at all. He had to be ready to sacrifice her, sacrifice them both.
Borgola liked seeing them play topless most of all. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that, but the night was young. Cole would try to prevent it, but if it came to it, Angel would play topless. She was made of strong stuff.
He never went for the hookers. Not that he was some boy scout—there was nothing he loved more than a woman on her knees, begging to be fucked or whatever, but he only loved it if she loved it, he only enjoyed it if his dirty talk or clever fingers had brought her to that point—not money or drugs or threats. What kind of man wanted to be with a woman who didn’t desire him?
He did have callouses on his fingers. He did know how to use them, and she’d love it.
He couldn’t believe it, just the miracle of her, inexplicably, unknowably perfect.
He wanted to know because he wanted to know everything about her: he wanted to know the gum she chewed, the shows she watched, her candy bar preferences, what her grade school art projects looked like. He wanted her secrets and her soul, and she wouldn’t give up any of it. She was worse than a goddamn Fenton Furst.
“I told him I let the johns pick the songs. And then he asks me what songs they like to make me listen to while they do me.” White Jenny snorted. “What did you say?” This was good. Angel could feel the tension lightening. “I didn’t know what to say. In my mind, all I could think of was like, We are the Champions?“ White Jenny snickered. “We are the Champions?” Macy said, “You didn’t tell him that.” “No. I just said, not Dancing Queen by ABBA” They all burst out laughing. Nervous, crazy laughter.
They knocked on the ceiling and Jenny dropped down with the packs. The three of them changed into black cat suits, complete with black facemasks and boots and belts with a shit ton of hardware.
He loved women with secrets. He loved to break them open. A foolish indulgence.
He had sandy brown hair and a scruff of a beard, and his tux fit just a little tight across his muscular shoulders, but what she mostly noticed was his gaze—it burned intense and gem-like behind his thick-rimmed glasses. Brainy and brawny, like a fair-haired Clark Kent.
She looked away and that's when he caught it -- the nearness of the truth. She simply shrugged. "What do you like about the game?" he asked. "Don't." He knew he should respect that, but something dark in him pressed on. He grabbed her chin, turned her face to him. Crossing the line now. He always knew when he was crossing the line. Knowing was never the problem. "Tell me."