Lips of an Angel (Neon Moonlight)

Chapter 1

RALEIGH

My fingers furiously smashed the buttons on the Switch controller, lobbing a banana peel behind me to throw my best friend off his tracks. Angel squirmed in the corner of my eye, and I smirked.

“You’re so going down this time!”

Right on cue, Angel removed a hand from his controller and touched the tip of his middle finger to his nose twice.

“No way, absolutely not!” I laughed without taking my eyes off the screen. I—well, Yoshi— was in first place and entering the final lap. Next to me, Angel repeated himself, dressing it up with a wiggle. “You always do this when I’m about to kick your ass,” I protested. “I’m not falling for it again.”

My gaze never broke from the game, but Angel’s squirming threatened to distract me. At the edge of my seat, I twisted and turned the controller like it would make a difference. Angel’s last-ditch attempt to throw me off included a spiky blue shell, but he was too late: I was across the finish line and watching Yoshi do his victory dance in the replay by the time it smashed into me.

Angel shot to his feet and threw his controller to the couch beside him. “I hate you,” he signed. He dashed down the hallway to our shared bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

I laughed, lounging back on the old couch that groaned under my weight. It wasn’t the comfiest, but it worked. We hardly spent any time on it anyway. I discarded my own controller onto the refurbished wooden coffee table and slid my phone from my pocket.

A minute of mindless scrolling through social media later, Angel reappeared. “You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re a cheater,” I countered. I didn’t need to look up from my phone to know what he was signing. After fifteen years, I’d gotten pretty good at reading him.

“You try playing with a full bladder and see where that gets you.”

“Dude, I know you do it on purpose.”

Angel, realizing I wasn’t going to fall for his shit, gave up his indignation with a grin and returned to his seat next to me. A new text appeared at the top of my screen, and an involuntary smile tugged the corner of my lips.

Angel whacked my arm with a pillow to get my attention. “Is that your ATM?” he signed.

“Will you stop calling her that?” Heat prickled up my neck, and I tugged on my collar. “That makes me sound like a gold digger.”

“So what do you give her in return for the designer clothes and Rolex watches?”

“Mind-blowing sex.”

Angel’s electric blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “So you’re a sugar baby then?”

“No, I’m no?—”

I froze mid-sentence. What was the right word for Kali Forbes? She wasn’t my girlfriend, but she wasn’t not my girlfriend either. Even though she traveled to Vegas on business often, she lived in California, so we’d kept things casual over the years. We hadn’t felt the need to put any labels on our relationship—we were content as we were. But other people only saw one thing when they looked at Kali: dollar signs. A wealthy investor, she loved to share, loudly and often. We only met in luxury hotel rooms, and I always left our encounters wearing something with a designer label attached to it. The most recent was a Gucci leather jacket worth over three grand because she had to see me in it—even if she proceeded to immediately tear me out of it.

“Oh my god,” I whispered in realization, “I’m a sugar baby.”

Angel doubled over with laughter. Although it was at my expense, the sound was music to my ears. His laugh was infectious, and I was glad he hadn’t lost it along with his voice.

For his sake, though, I feigned offense. “I’m glad you find this amusing! I’m having an existential crisis over here.”

He tried to start signing, only to break into laughter again. “Is it worth giving up the sugar to not be a baby anymore?” he finally managed.

I pretended to think it over.

Angel gave me a shove. “I can’t take you seriously.”

“That’s part of my charm.”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“Oh, darling,” I said, twirling a lock of his golden hair around my finger, "you say the sweetest things.”

Angel smacked my hand away and shot to his feet. Was he blushing? “Time for work.”

I waited until his bedroom door shut, then I looked down at my phone again. Why yes, I certainly would like to see you tonight . I could sneak away from work by midnight, surely.

I converted my mental reply into a text and sent it. Only once it was delivered did I realize that I should have been showered and dressed for my shift already. Angel came rushing out of his bedroom, hands signing at me.

“I expect you downstairs in ten minutes.”

“Yes, daddy.”

He froze in the doorway, head turning slowly over his shoulder. He pinned me with a look that could kill—and my mouth widened into a full smile. I lived to wind him up. I always had.

As he often did, Angel chose not to address me, pulling the door shut behind him. I rose from the couch to take the quickest shower of my life.

Our modest, two-bedroom apartment wasn’t much, but it was home for us. Angel and I didn’t need much—only each other. The apartment above the bar was nothing more than somewhere for us to shower and sleep, but we’d still figured out a way to make it ours.

Our tastes were quite different compared to most of our friends, but that’s what made us unique. In a world full of Kardashians, we dared to be Addams because who the hell wanted to be normal? That shit was boring. From the shower curtain to the satin sheets on my bed, black was the primary color. I’d bought one of those bathroom mats that looked like blood when it got wet. It was badass—and bonus, it freaked out Angel’s boyfriend.

I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a fluffy towel around my waist, grabbing another to scrub at my hair. Back in my bedroom, I tossed both towels aside then picked out a pair of designer black jeans and a T-shirt and pulled them on, reluctantly adding a blazer over the top. I hated the damn jacket, but Angel was hell-bent on maintaining a professional image, and apparently our tattoos “sent the wrong message.” Never mind that he was covered head to toe in them. We owned a Halloween-themed bar for Christ’s sake; we could bend the rules a little. Passing the mirror, I only stopped long enough to make sure my dark, shaggy hair was somewhat neat.

I descended the stairs, pushing through the door that separated our apartment from the Devil’s Hopyard.

Angel and I had always dreamed of owning a business together, and with the help of his parents, we’d bought this building five years ago, several blocks from the heart of Las Vegas. It had always been a bar, just not a very successful one. While few people had much faith in two twenty-five-year-olds from the sticks, we had worked our asses off to turn it into one of the most successful bars outside of the Strip.

After locking the door behind me, I made my way down the long, dim hallway decorated by framed mugshots of famous serial killers throughout history. Angel hated them, but he loved me, so they stayed. The office was empty, so I continued to the end of the hall and emerged into the front room of the bar.

I scanned the space while I brushed the long strands of bloody, shredded tissue from my shoulders.

The front of house had three bars: one to either side of the room, and the biggest one stretching across the back. They were made from a stunning ebony wood with antique gold accents, both distressed to match the satanic theme of the place. The wood was scratched to hell and the gold looked like it’d never been polished. I’d spent ages getting it to look like that.

The building was a goth’s paradise, a place where Halloween never ended. Faux spiderwebs stretched in the corners, fake blood dripped down the walls, and roughed-up wallpaper gave the illusion of peeled paint. The rustic wooden chairs were still upturned across the tables, and the overhead lights were bright. Skeletons, bats, and spiders—oh my—hung from the ceilings, though at a height that wouldn’t bother most customers. At 6’ 4”, I had to duck under a skeleton rattling in an iron cage to join Angel at the main bar. Jack, one of our bartenders, was behind it, dressed in too-short denim cutoffs and a purple mesh crop top that left little to the imagination.

Jack and Ryder were the two who’d been with us since the beginning. Ryder was our star. He went viral on social media, and customers flocked to the bar just for him. Jack was quieter, though that didn’t mean he wasn’t trouble. He was the kind of cute that meant he got whatever he wanted. Tall, he was lithe with mousy brown hair and eyeliner-rimmed green eyes that could get him out of whatever situation his mouth got him into . He was a damn good bartender, but he was stubborn as a bull and didn’t always make the best decisions.

Such as now.

“The Tanqueray cases are really heavy,” he whined. “At least I remembered to sign for it this time. Don’t I get some credit for that?”

I flipped one of the barstools to the floor and sat down, watching their exchange. Angel’s hands flew and Jack stopped watching, looking at me over Angel’s shoulder and rolling his eyes.

“If you want some credit,” I growled, “then stop ignoring your boss when he’s talking to you.”

Paling, Jack rooted his attention back on Angel, who continued to sign with frustrated, sharp hand movements.

“Sorry,” he finally said, hanging his head. His contrition was mostly for show, but it was better than his earlier attitude. “It’s out back, but it’s a lot. I’m going to need some help.” At Angel’s skeptical look, Jack swallowed and added, “Please.”

Angel threw me a “help me” look—the very one I could never turn down when it came from him.

“Come on, Jack,” I said, sliding off the barstool. “I can help you out.”

Angel caught my arm as I walked past him, but I knew what he was going to say before his fingers so much as twitched. “Don’t worry, I’ll call the vendor.”

He didn’t have to thank me—his bright eyes said it all. They always did, yet I seemed to be the only person who could read them.

After I’d successfully helped our spoiled bartender bring in the cases of Tanqueray that he’d left sitting out in the rising Vegas heat, it was time for us to open. The desert was a funny thing: In the days leading up to spring, the nights were often cool and crisp. However, I learned early on to dress in layers because the temps could soar by mid-afternoon.

After setting down the last case of gin, I turned to Angel, pushing a tuft of sweaty hair out of my face. “Are you ready?”

He nodded, hastily retreating into the office. He often spent his shifts back there unless he was needed for something else, and for the most part I could handle the front of house. The sun was high outside, and I was melting in my blazer. I shed the thing and tucked it behind the bar. Weather aside, I paid a lot of money for my tattoos—they deserved to be shown off.

“Can you manage making drinks and putting that gin away?” I teased Jack. The other four bartenders had arrived and were already setting up behind the counters, while the kitchen staff was hard at work prepping food.

Jack gave me a curt nod and ducked behind the bar. After ensuring everything was in place, I dimmed all the lights and unlocked the front entrance. At the head of the line was a very attractive brunette wearing cut-off jeans and a distressed Hollywood Undead T-shirt. The smile that curled my lips was entirely involuntary. “ID please?”