Chapter Fifteen
Gabriel
I almost kissed Darcy last night.
If I’m being honest with myself, I almost did more than kiss Darcy last night.
I wanted to. I wanted to press my thumbs into the swell of her hips and tip her backward to the floor.
I wanted to trace that line of salt I painted down her throat to the valley between her breasts.
I wanted to drag my teeth along her skin.
Sink between her spread thighs and see if she tasted like smoke everywhere.
She sat there on my shitty rug with her pretty pink mouth wet from the tequila and her eyes blown wide and I almost took something that I have no business wanting.
I can’t figure her out. I keep expecting to catch her in a lie, but she shows me another truth instead.
“Fuck,” I groan, face down on the pullout couch in the office, a spring poking me in the rib cage and a rogue piece of cushion half-way in my mouth. I need to sort out whatever these feelings are. Preferably, I need to wrap them in cellophane and send them to the bottom of the ocean.
My wings depend on it.
Fuck. My wings. Not only did I show them to Darcy last night—parading about shirtless like some fucking peacock, God help me—I told her the truth about the thin ice I’m skating on.
One more strike, and I’m out. My wings will be removed, and my future as a Guardian will be gone with them.
I’ll be relegated to some bottom office of the department, forced to file paperwork and change watercooler filters for the rest of eternity.
There are worse things, I reassure myself. If you lost your wings, you’ d be fine.
But it doesn’t feel like it. For so long, protecting others is how I’ve defined myself. I don’t know what I’ll do with myself without that. Without my wings.
My wings, which are currently lazily draped over me, one covering my face from the sun that filters in from the window, the other barely brushing the floor. They don’t usually break free of their glamour in my sleep, but I guess I don’t usually drink myself into a coma.
I roll onto my back, awkwardly pinning them beneath me. I stretch my arms wide and yawn into the early-afternoon sunshine. One quick glance at the clock on the desk confirms my suspicions. It’s already half past noon.
I sit up in bed and listen for Darcy. I could have offered her the office pullout last night, but the same dark impulse that had me set my mouth against her wrist wanted to see her in my bed. It satisfied some ancient, primordial part of my brain that wants to see her comfortable. Taken care of.
I drag myself out of the death trap of a bed, then shuffle to the door. I’m hesitant as I creak it open, not eager to have my kneecaps bitten by the hell beast.
But I don’t have to bother. The apartment is empty.
The bottles from last night have been cleared away, and the lime corpses I left on the floor are gone, too. It looks like last night never happened. That it was some tequila-induced, frustration-laced fever dream I cooked up.
My bedroom is in a similar state. The bed is made with the pillows placed carefully on top. The only indication that Darcy was in this room at all is the slight smell of her perfume that lingers. Cloves. Oranges. Something darker.
That, and the Post-it note stuck to the lampshade on the night-stand.
I wander over and peel it off.
Cracked glasses, it says.
It takes me a second, but I piece it together.
It’s another part of her vision. The information she promised me for crossing off another item on her list. I kept her from telling me last night partly because it didn’t feel right, but also because I didn’t want things to feel transactional.
I was the one who split myself open and told her about my mistakes.
I was the one who suggested tequila. I was the one to bend my mouth to her skin and work the taste of her against my mouth.
I crossed so many damn lines last night, I don’t even know which one to be pissed off about.
But leave it to Darcy to uphold her end of the bargain, even when I’ve been a monumental asshole. She’s more honorable than I gave her credit for.
She’s still trying to do the right thing, I muse. Maybe this whole time, she’s just been trying to do the right thing.
I sigh and slip the tiny piece of paper in the back of my jeans.
Wet pavement. Cracked glasses.
No more games. If this is truly my last chance, I need to stop looking at Darcy and start looking at what’s in front of me.
Turns out, I can’t look at Darcy at all.
Because Darcy is avoiding me.
It’s been five days, and the only time I’ve seen her is a quick glimpse by Frank’s shop. I quickly tossed the keys at Jessie and hightailed it down the street, but by the time I got there, she was gone. A bunch of dried red rose petals in her wake, and an infuriating smirk on Frank’s face.
“She’s not here,” he said as soon as I walked in, a box of leftovers from the bar in my hand. Plenty of protein and fiber, because Frank always forgets to feed himself something that’s not microwaved in a cup. “She went out the back with her dog and her flowers.”
I placed the Styrofoam down on the counter and watched Frank descend upon it like a ravenous bird. “I didn’t ask about Darcy.”
He laughed at that. “You didn’t have to.”
I don’t like being ignored. And for reasons I don’t exactly want to investigate, I especially don’t like being ignored by Darcy. Which is why I’m stomping around the bar, muttering under my breath, and restocking glasses like they’ve personally offended me.
“What’s with the face, sour grapes?” Nate leans on the bar in front of me, sliding a small bowl of pretzels back and forth. “Is your girl-friend mad at you?”
I would swap out his drink for a Shirley Temple if that wasn’t exactly what he ordered for himself as soon as he walked in. I guess he’s in the mood to be a shit-stirrer today and ordered accordingly.
“Darcy isn’t my girlfriend.” I snatch the pretzels from in front of him, but Nate just grins. I realize my mistake a second too late.
“But we are talking about Darcy.” Nate grabs the pretzels back, picking out the broken pieces first. “Everything seemed fine last week when she followed you up to your apartment.” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“Were you watching us?”
“Uh, the whole bar was watching you, buddy.” He tosses a pretzel in the air and catches it between his teeth. “You two are more entertaining than those old Orioles games you keep showing over and over.”
“What else am I going to show? The Orioles didn’t make the post-season.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’m sure as shit not turning on the Yankees.”
“I got it, Gabe. Listen. My point still stands.”
“Is there a point?”
Nate leans closer. “Dude,” he whispers. “You like her.”
I snort. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
He flicks a pretzel at my face. “Yes.”
I am a thousand-year-old being with ancient power thrumming through my veins. I have seen terrible, wonderful things Nate cannot even begin to conceive of.
And yet here I am, arguing with him about a girl.
I rub the back of my neck. “It’s a work thing.”
Nate’s forehead creases in confusion. “Does she work for a distributor or something?”
I rearrange bottles and try to think of a way to explain this without spilling the secrets of the afterlife. “Not exactly,” I hedge. “She, uh—she works for the competition.”
Nate stares at me. “The Irish bar two streets over?”
“No.”
“What competition are you talking about? You run a—and don’t take this the wrong way, bud—you run a perfectly average dive bar.”
Indignation straightens my spine. “Why are you here so often, then?”
“Because I can score free drinks, obviously.” He crams another handful of pretzels in his mouth. “So, she works for the competition, whatever that means. Okay. How does this impact your crush?”
“I don’t have a crush.”
He rolls his eyes to the ceiling with a sigh. “Okay. Fine. How does it impact your relationship?”
“There isn’t a rel—”
“For fuck’s sake, Gabe. Never mind! I give up!” He tosses me his empty bowl, then reaches over the counter and grabs one of the beers I have stocked to the side. “You don’t deserve my advice.”
“I’m sorry. When were we going to reach the advice portion of the conversation?”
He gives me a scathing look. “I’m done with you. I’m going to go charm a beautiful woman who will appreciate my conversation.”
I snort. “Unlikely.”
His eyes dart over my shoulder, and a smirk tugs at one side of his mouth. “Or maybe I’ll go charm your beautiful woman.”
I turn so fast my neck cricks.
Darcy is sliding onto her usual stool, her black wool jacket folded neatly over her lap.
Heartburn that feels a lot like subdued rage fizzles and pops, climbing up the back of my throat.
I’m halfway around the end of the bar before I realize it, shoving Nate out of the way so hard, he knocks over a stool.
“Hey!” he shouts, laughing, but I’m focused on Darcy.
Darcy, who isn’t mine.
Darcy, who has ignored me for the better part of a week.
Darcy, who is sitting on her stool in my bar without a care in the world.
Darcy, who is studying a menu even though she never uses it.
As soon as I’m close enough, I reach over her shoulder and grab it. “I thought I told you that you don’t need that.”
Her lips part in surprise. “Why aren’t you behind the bar?”
“Why are you here?”
“At your … bar?” Her eyes dart around the room, and she pulls the sleeves of her sweater over her knuckles. She’s not wearing black today but a muted green instead. It makes her skin glow. “I wanted a drink. I thought I’d try—”
“Where the hell have you been all week?”
That roiling feeling in my chest gets worse. Waves, crashing over one another.
“I’ve been here.” She says it like a question, like she’s not sure how to answer in the face of all my banked fury. I don’t blame her. I don’t know what to do with this mess either.
Nate thinks I have a crush, but it’s not that.
Crushes don’t feel like this. Like I can’t look directly at her without being mad about it.
Like I don’t want to look anywhere else either.
Like there’s a live wire shoved beneath my rib cage, lighting everything up.
Like I want to kiss her stupid and shake her senseless in the same damn breath.
It’s not a crush. It’s a goddamned fixation. It’s damnation with long legs and thick eyelashes and skin that tastes like salt and tequila and bad fucking choices.
“I haven’t seen you.” And God knows, I’ve been looking.
She turns to face me fully, the outside of her knee pressed up against my thigh. She searches my expression and something in hers clears. “Gabriel,” she says slowly. “Did you miss me?”
Fuck me, I think I did.
“No,” I answer instead. Yes. “Listen, if I made you uncomfortable the other night—”
“You didn’t.”
“If I took it too far—”
“I get it.” She smiles and I can’t help but notice how brittle it looks. It barely reaches her eyes. “It was just a couple of body shots between friends. We got carried away. It doesn’t have to mean anything. I’m not—I’m not holding you to anything.”
I frown. “I still think I should—”
“It sounds like you’re gearing up for an apology,” she interrupts.
She keeps her voice level, her expression fixed, but her eyes tell a different story.
Her pupils expand, and I swear shadows swirl in the whites of her eyes.
“And if you apologize,” she clarifies, “I will take you through the floor, Gabriel. I don’t care who is watching or what they see. ”
I don’t know what it says about me that my dick immediately gets hard.
I clear my throat. “All right.”
“Don’t say sorry to me. Not about this.”
“Okay.”
She nods. “Okay.”
“Good.” I shift my body so my elbows are resting on the bar, my lower half hidden. “So if you weren’t avoiding me, you were …”
She blinks and her eyes clear. The shadows recede. “I was just taking some time for myself. Exploring the town.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Crossing things off your list?”
She beams at me. “Yes, actually. I carved a pumpkin. I think it turned out pretty well, all things considered.” She tips her chin up, proud. “I used a butter knife.”
She says it like she’s used some foreign, magical tool and not a utensil that’s found in every kitchen, everywhere.
“I thought I was supposed to help you cross things off.”
I sound like a petulant child. Like a toddler who has had his favorite toy stolen away.
Her smile fades. “I haven’t forgotten.” She looks down at the bar, thumbing over her sleeves. “Items for information. I know where we stand.”
I rub my hand over my mouth. None of this is going to plan.
I don’t even know what the plan is, but it sure as shit isn’t Darcy folding in on herself.
I grapple for something to say that isn’t accusatory.
“I want to add something to your list,” I bark out, my mouth apparently operating independent from the rest of my body.
Darcy’s eyes dart to mine. She’s suspicious, and she has every right to be. I’ve been an asshole. Hot and cold and everything in between.
“You do?”
“Yeah, uh—” I push off the bar and swing around the far end, ducking beneath the partition. “Meet me out front tomorrow morning. I have somewhere I want to take you.”
“Back to the boat ramp?”
“No.”
“A shallow grave?”
I snort. “Also, no.” I grab a glass from under the bar. “Be here at four.”
Her eyes widen. “In the morning?”
That tight, impossible feeling releases its hold, and I’m finally able to take a breath. “You don’t need sleep, Darcy.”
“It’s the principle of the matter.”
“We’ll make it work.”
Darcy huffs some more, muttering something under her breath about infuriating, bossy bartenders. My smirk trips into a grin, and I grab the tequila as Darcy’s elbows land on the bar. Her chin is cradled in her hands, and her pout is so damn cute I want to bite it.
Fuck.
“If you’re going to take my menu, can you at least make me something to drink?”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
Nate’s wrong. It’s not a crush.
It’s far worse.