70. Levi
LEVI
Of all Violette’s outfits, I’m certain my favorite is the t-shirt and sweatpants of mine she’s wearing now.
They’re way too big for her, hanging off her like she’s dressed in a tent, but my cock thickens in my jeans regardless, and I’m forced to readjust myself the moment she begins sauntering like a cat towards the Buc-ee’s entrance.
Azrael gives me a knowing smirk as he walks beside me. I have to suppress the urge to reciprocate because, for some godforsaken reason, the more time I spend in his presence, the harder it is to hate him and ignore our too-numerous-to-name commonalities.
Violette claimed to have glamoured his near seven-foot form closer to my six-foot-four height to those around us, though to me, he still wears my t-shirt and gym shorts like a sausage casing cut too short.
I catch up to her before she reaches the door so I can open it for her. She arches a brow at me as she passes through the threshold. “Thank you, human.”
A few of the men in the nearest check-out do double-takes, but for the most part, no one seems to be paying us any mind.
That is, until Azrael walks in behind us and every woman in the place rubbernecks to gawk at him. A handful of them throw me a cursory glance before they resume drooling at the God of Death with his clean-cut, dark Mediterranean Superman looks.
Azrael makes a beeline for the bathroom; the slides on his feet—my slides—make a soft thwack, thwack, thwack across the shiny white floor.
Violette, on the other hand, turns 360 degrees, lips parted in awe as I sidle up beside her. “There’s so much stuff.”
I scan the vicinity, lasering in on the security cameras and attempting to guide her in a direction away from them—towards the bathroom.
“Come on, princess. Why don’t you go use the bathroom, while I grab something to wet that pretty beak of yours.”
Violette’s gaze—glamoured to no longer be lilac but brown to everyone but me and Azrael—slides to mine. I nod in the direction of the bathrooms, and she briefly glances behind her to find about a dozen women of all shapes and sizes, children in tow, pouring in and out of the bathroom entrance.
When her gaze returns to mine, anxiety tenses her brow. My heart squeezes, and I have the urge to hold her hand and escort her to the bathroom. But because that would likely end in the police being called, I settle for closing the distance between us and brushing my nose and lips over her forehead.
“I’ll be waiting for you right here, sweetheart.”
The moment Violette exits the bathroom and strides towards me, I finally exhale the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Azrael, already holding an armful of shit we don’t need, is busy perusing a variety of coffee mugs and tumblers with a shrewd, narrowed eye like that of a diamond dealer.
My stomach swoops, and my heart swells when Violette tucks herself into my side. “Everything okay?”
She nods. “Yes, I’m just not a huge fan of crowds. And this is all very... overstimulating.”
Thankfully, I don’t have to shout or roam across the store for Azrael to hear me. The byname pops out of my mouth before I can think twice about it because broadcasting the name Azrael isn’t exactly inconspicuous.
“Az.”
Azrael turns toward us wearing a slight look of surprise.
I tip my head in a ‘come here’ motion. He promptly sets down the bedazzled tumbler he was inspecting before joining us.
His eyes shift to Violette, concern pinching his brow.
To my dismay, the sincerity in his voice makes my wall crumble a little further. “Are you alright, little seraphim?”
She nods as I lead us to the check-out counter. Azrael tosses his armful of crap onto the counter: a couple neck pillows, a blanket, a bobblehead, and no less than three Christmas onesies featuring ass flaps—the kind that unbutton just at the rear.
I can feel the elderly cashier woman’s eyes on us as I look between Azrael and the pile of shit she’s scanning at a sloth-like pace.
“Do we really need matching onesies?”
Azrael straightens, looking oddly self-conscious.
“Well, I... I just thought that it might be nice, since we ugh... Well, you know... Being on a road trip and all... As friends and paramours... And um…”
Some soft squishy thing in my chest twinges as the realization hits me. Violette nudges me in my side as if to alert me to the obvious.
The God of Death is fucking lonely.
And for some reason, I care...
I actually find myself nodding and shrugging nonchalantly.
Instead of stabbing him.
“Cool.”
Azrael clears his throat, looking more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him—even more vulnerable than when I blew half his face off. “Awesome.”
The word sounds new coming from his mouth. Like it’s the first time he’s ever said it. It gives me the sudden urge to laugh at the wildness of all this. Perhaps I would if it weren’t for the geriatric woman in bifocals scrutinizing us.
“That’ll be $186.29 whenever you’re ready.”
“Can you add $90 to pump twelve, please?”
I reach into my back pocket to pull out my wallet when Azrael steps in front of me, blocking the cashier.
Wearing an excited look, he pulls out a square, tooled-leather pouch peppered with strange-looking gilded runes embossed on both sides.
My inner nerd’s eyes widen with excitement as he pries it open to reveal…
Nothing.
It’s empty.
Drawing in a breath for patience, I clap him on the shoulder.
“It’s okay, bud. I’ve got this.”
Bud? I’ve never called anyone ‘bud’ in my entire fucking life.
Just as I move to step around him, a wad of hundred-dollar bills about two fingers thick appears within the pouch’s fold.
Wearing my best mask of indifference, my gaze lifts to his.
He gives me a lopsided grin. “My treat, bud.”
More than a little flabbergasted, I don’t bother to protest when he turns to pay the cashier. With a wink, he proceeds to offer the entire wad of hundreds. “Keep the change, Ethel.”
And now the whole fucking line behind is watching.
So much for inconspicuous.
Azrael moves to lead us to the exit, only to be stopped short.
“Now, just wait a dang minute.”
Something that must be akin to stage fright has heat crawling up my cheeks because now we’ve got just about the whole fucking store as an audience.
Azrael stops in his tracks to face her as she waves a counterfeit pen at him. “What-yew-think I was born yesterday? I’ve had the wool pulled over my eyes before, boy. Won’t happen again.”
Her aged, liver-spotted hand uncaps the pen with a flourish and proceeds to slowly swipe the first bill before raising it in the air to inspect the streak of ink with narrowed eyes.
She harumphs as her brows lift in reluctant surprise.
Swipes another. Holds it up. She hums, gaze narrowing distrust despite the evidence before her.
There’s a line of people on either side of us, searing the likenesses of our faces into their memories.
Fuck.
Me.
“You have a good night, ma’am.”
With one hand on the small of Violette’s back and the other on Azrael’s shoulder, I guide them towards the door and to my truck, grinding my teeth the whole way.
Violette silently climbs back in the truck, followed by Azrael as I pump the gas, heaving a sigh of relief to see that his shadow is still seated in the back—glamoured to all but us.