Flawed Angel (The Fall Book 1) Read online

  Trying to ignore the feeling, I go about helping Ms. Frenchie for the remainder of the day. I help with setting up the makeshift stage in the corner of the room, propping up lights and everything else a band could possibly need. I place banners where they're most visible, lights where they will illuminate the band, and every other little thing Ms. Frenchie can think of. The feeling never fades, however, and my anxiety cranks up a level every hour I feel I’m being watched, making time feel as though it’s going at a snail's pace.

  When everything is in place and it's time for me to head on home, I hesitate at the door, all too aware that whoever has been watching me hasn’t shifted its attention to someone or something other than me.

  "Luna? Everything okay?" Ms. Frenchie questions from within the store.

  "Yep! I'm good. I'll see you tomorrow. In a while, crocodile," I call back before closing the door fully, a paper bag full of cookies tucked under my arm.

  I take a quick look around, once again seeing nothing and no one out of the ordinary and decide to risk it, thanking all that exists in the world that I parked just a few stores down. I briskly walk towards my car, keys in my hand at the ready, and the moment I reach my baby, I'm shoving myself inside and locking the doors the moment my feet are firmly planted inside the vehicle.

  My heartbeat picks up its pace right alongside my growing anxiety; my nerves are completely fried, but I shove it all to the back of my mind in favor of driving safely and getting home in one piece.

  The entire drive home feels like it lasts hours instead of the mere fifteen minutes it normally takes. My spine still tingles with the watchful eyes of my onlooker, but every single time I subtly try to check my surroundings, glancing in all of my mirrors, I spot nothing unusual or anything that gives away whoever is watching me.

  When I reach my apartment, I choose to park in the apartment parking garage instead of outside the building. I stay seated once I find my spot and turn off the car. I remain in my chair, breathing deeply, trying to shake the feeling of eyes watching every move I make.

  After a few breathing exercises - that I'm sure don't work but still hope that they miraculously will - I make my way out of the car, through the parking garage, and to the door to the bottom floor. I climb every step carefully, trudging up all five floors worth of stairs, aware of my surroundings. I’m on edge, primed for anything that might jump out at me.

  My efforts are wasted when I reach my apartment door and nothing out of the ordinary happens. I let myself in and lock the door once I'm safely inside. A sense of unease tickles my mind but the moment I shut the door, the feeling disappears. The crawling sensation up my spine vanishes and my heartbeat slows back down to the normal speed that I'm accustomed to. My entire body relaxes, pent up muscles releasing the tension I hadn’t realized had gathered.

  With my first steady breath in hours, I shake off the feeling and drop my black purse on the side table by the door and plonk my keys in the bowl that sits next to it. I make my way to the kitchen and find my stash of gin. This is a gin kind of night. No wine will soothe my remaining frayed nerves. I find a shot glass and take my goods to the sofa, placing the bottle and tiny glass on my wooden coffee table. I snatch the remote off the table and switch the giant television on, flicking through my movie options until I settle on one of my favorites; The Breakfast Club.

  With my movie playing, I take a shot or two of my beverage of choice and instantly feel my body relax into the giant cushions that cover my sofa. I sink into it, and what’s left of the tension I've felt coiled in my body seeps out of me gradually, every shot of alcohol loosening my limbs.

  After being strung tighter than a bowstring, exhaustion hits me like a ten-ton Mack truck. My eyelids begin to droop, the movie lulling me to a state of unconsciousness.

  Before I fully succumb to my desire to pass the fuck out, a niggling thought breaks through to the forefront of my mind. The memory of Javos' words ring in my ears seconds before my need to sleep wins.

  You will choose a side. It may not be now, but it'll happen.

  Luna

  I groan the second I wake up, placing my hand over my forehead in dismay for the wretched hangover I've been cursed with. I'm immortal, but gin has the same effect on any Angel, and damn did I get wasted last night.

  I peel my eyelids open, blinking quickly to try and get a read on my little alarm clock on my bedside table. Seeing the time has me groaning again. It's six in the morning, and my body clock is sabotaging me. Bastard. But, wait... how did I get to bed?

  I ignore my own question, because my tired mind isn’t in any shape to be thinking back to how I got my ass in bed. Knowing I won't be getting back to sleep now that I've woken up, I drag my legs out of my king-sized princess bed, shifting the white canopy curtain to the side. I swing my legs over the side of the high bed and stand. I'm a little unsteady at first, but I manage to shuffle out the door and towards my black metal spiral staircase that'll land me not too far from my kitchen.

  I make my way down the stairs, gripping the railing tightly, sure I'll tumble down every step if let go. I finally reach the bottom and detour to the bathroom for a much-needed respite for my bladder before heading to the kitchen. I go about my business, wash my hands and slowly drag my feet to the kitchen where my blessed caffeine awaits me for consumption.

  My head is thumping to a record I wished with all I have would quit playing, and my stomach feels like it'll upchuck everything I consumed the night before. All of that is forgotten, however, when I spy Ms. Frenchie's homemade cookies sitting on my counter and the tempting scent of brewing coffee fills my nostrils. I don’t know why food and coffee stave off my nausea, but I’ll be damned again if I’m not thankful for it.

  I pour myself a large cup of java before snatching the plate of cookies off the counter and forcing my exhausted body to the living room, flop down onto the sofa and throw my legs up on the coffee table. I'm thankful for landing next to the remotes so I don't have to move to retrieve them and go about switching on the television and picking a movie that won't make my head pound harder. Realizing I've recorded movies with nothing but up-tempo music and singing, I decide on The Greatest Showman and knock the volume down to one that I can cope with.

  I sit through the entire movie, quietly singing along with Zac Efron about rewriting stars until I'm rejuvenated and awake enough to get a start on my day.

  I get myself ready, squeezing into a pair of tight black, high waisted skinny jeans and pair it with a black, long-sleeved, cold-shoulder, cropped shirt, flashing a small bit of my tattoo covered skin. I plonk a black, wide-brimmed hat on my head and throw a chic tattered dark purple kimono on before I shove my feet into my signature black Converse, fluff my hair a little so the loose waves look more like beach waves and not I-just-crawled-out-of-bed waves, and snatch my black purse from where it had been abandoned the night before. I'm in my car by the time the clock hits half past eight.

  Knowing Frenchie's isn't open for another half hour, I head to Starbucks for a latté seeing as though I’m in dire need of another coffee already. I’m pretty certain I should be hooked up to a caffeine drip or something.

  I'm walking toward the door of the café when a flash of color catches my eye through the window adjacent to the exit. This seems to be happening a little too much for my liking as of late. My eyes dart to where I saw the color, catching another flash around a corner before it disappears. I grip my coffee securely in my hand and follow the unknown source, clueless as to what propels my feet in to motion, but helpless to stop myself.

  I push my way past other coffee drinking folk, weaving in between the chairs and tables that stand in the way of me and the door. I break free of the unusually crowded café for such an early time in the morning, burst out of the glass door, and just about catch another glimpse of blue before it disappears again. I break out into a run, juggling my paper cup carefully, chasing after whatever the hell it is, every turn I make only just catching a glimpse of which way it goes.
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  I follow the mysterious color for what seems like an hour, twisting and turning, running around buildings, no idea where this thing is leading me, but it feels like a compulsion to follow it, whatever it may be. It's as though a thin thread has attached itself to me and the unknown and I'm a puppet following its puppeteer. Not a feeling I'm all too fond of, if I'm being honest here.

  After running in what feels like endless circles, I spot the flash of color one last time before I lose track of it altogether. I'm breathing a little heavier from my exertion at trying to keep up with the unnaturally fast thing. A light sheen of sweat coats my skin.

  I stop chasing after what now seems to be nothing, inhaling steadily to try and control my breathing. As I'm doing so, I take inventory of my surroundings, glancing around where I’ve found myself and come up short.

  I'm standing in the middle of a cemetery and didn't even pay attention to my surroundings enough to notice. How is that possible? I have no idea. Clearly my attention had been solely focused on my mission to unwittingly follow a moving color. But here I am, surrounded by headstones and old statues for those wealthy enough that could afford them before they passed. It seems I'm standing amongst the oldest of the graves. Many of the headstones are made of stone, covered in moss and the plots are overgrown.

  I step closer to some of the headstones, trying to make out the names carved into the stone, but the majority of them are so old that the stone has eroded, and the names are lost.

  With nothing better to do now that I've found myself lost and surrounded by death, I wander through the graveyard, checking each of the stones to see if there are any names left to remember. I walk in circles, coming to the very front of the graveyard where the newest graves lie, marble headstones replacing the battered stone of the older ones. I double back to the older part of the cemetery, something inside me calling to that particular spot on the endless expanse of the land.

  I must have been wandering for a little while until a statue I never noticed before pulls me up short. The statue I'm looking at is carved from stone, looks as old as the other slabs littered around the unkempt grass and sets off chills across my body.

  The statue is of an Angel who holds an uncanny resemblance to a face I look at every morning.

  That statue looks just like me.

  Confusion slams into me from every direction. What the hell is a statue of me doing in a cemetery? One so ancient that there are missing names on almost all of the stones back here. How did it get here? Who carved it? How did I not know about this? I'm at a total loss and my brain is starting to hurt from all my questions it’s shooting at rapid fire.

  I walk around the giant figure, the one with wings, I think bitterly as I circle the detailed masterpiece. She looks just like me, from the length of her hair, to the full lips and sharp cheekbones. She looks just like I did when I was still perched beside Him in Heaven. The fuck?

  I check every part of the stone double of me, even going as far as to climb the block of stone it sits on to get a closer look at the face. Although incredibly old, you can definitely tell it's my face.

  I climb back down, brushing my clothes of the debris that's got caught in the material, removing a random piece of moss that got caught in the rips of my jeans, and huff out a confused breath. I check to see if there's a plaque on the statue, but there isn’t, so I step back to gaze at the thing from further back.

  I'm at a loss. A total and utter loss.

  "This doesn't make a damn bit of sense. Someone clue me the fuck in, yeah?" I quietly call out, tilting my head back until it's facing the gray, cloudy sky above.

  "What do you need help cluing in to?" asks a deep masculine voice from way too close behind me.

  With an undignified shriek, I twirl to face the man with the voice like honey and melted chocolate.

  Don’t ask, it’s what his voice reminds me of.

  I drop my purse in the process of ungracefully spinning around at a speed no person should spin, especially with a hangover that feels like it crawled from the pits of Hell, and almost find my ass buried in the grass with the ferocity of my movements. That’s all a distant worry, however, when my eyes connect with a set of the deepest blue eyes I've ever seen, which is saying a lot considering I've seen a lot of eyes in my time.

  I subtly shake my head, ridding myself of my inner rambling, and focus on the human who thought it wise to sneak up on an unsuspecting woman standing in a graveyard who’s quite obviously in the midst of a crisis.

  The man in front of me is, to put it mildly, gorgeous; hot as sin, bad boy look locked down. His stylish I-just-rolled-out-of-bed hair is black as midnight, tints of a familiar shade of dark blue flashing in the strands when the light hits it just right. He's packing a shit ton of muscle, not enough that he looks like a full-time body builder, but enough that he could certainly throw me over his shoulder with no effort at all. Dark jeans cover thick muscled thighs, a tight black shirt hugs his defined torso and a black leather jacket sits snug over his arms and shoulders. A five o'clock shadow blesses his handsome features, his lower lip slightly fuller than his upper. A crooked nose and a strong jaw, and I'm a puddle in the grass right now. He has a scar running through his left eyebrow and I can see a smattering of tattoos peeking from under his jacket collar. Honestly, he looks like he'd kick a puppy if it yapped at him wrong or pummel a man's face in for sitting in his seat at a bar, but it doesn’t hide that he's sexy as all get out.

  That is, until I remember he's a creep who's chilling in a cemetery and came over to strike up a conversation with me. The real me... not the stone me.

  "Uh, who the fuck are you and why are you hanging out with the dead?" I snap. I’m not one who likes being snuck up on, as I’m sure we’ve all gathered, so I’m a little snarkier than I intend to be.

  Then again, what right do I have to ask someone why they’re hanging out somewhere so grim? I mean, it’s a free cemetery. People can chill here if they want to without being questioned by foul mouthed, mannerless weirdos. Or he could be visiting a dearly departed. That would make more sense.

  "Name's Asher Ryan," he responds gruffly, ignoring my shitty attitude, and holds his hand out for me to shake.

  At least he's polite.

  He stuns me with his next sentence, however. "And you followed me here."

  Luna

  "Say that again," I splutter my request, narrowing my eyes at the handsome creep.

  "You followed me. I tried for, I think it was, a solid hour to get rid of you, and it was only until I reached here that you lost me because I hid behind the mausoleum over there,” he rumbles, his voice doing something weird to my insides. He jerks his thumb in the direction of an ancient looking mausoleum further to the back of the cemetery. How did I miss that thing?

  Wait. I followed him?

  Ooooh!

  With a resounding facepalm, I come to the realization that the flashes of blue that I'd been following was in fact this man’s head of hair, the tinges of blue that's only visible when the light hits it just right. That’s why the color seemed so familiar to me. But that does actually mean... oh Hell’s chariots. I really was following him. I'm the creeper. My, how the tables have turned.

  "I didn't realize it was your unusual hair color I was following, sorry." I cringe inwardly. "I just saw bursts of blue and felt like I should follow wherever it was going."

  I'm envisioning myself head-butting the statue repeatedly at how totally absurd that sounds. I felt compelled to follow you. Really, Luna? That’s the best you got? I'm resigned to know that there's no taking it back, however lame, so I'll just have to own it, even if it does make me sound like I have a few screws knocked loose.

  The man, Asher, just stares at me like I've grown a second head, but his hand is still stretched out, so with a muttered “oh, my bad” I quickly place mine in his and shake.

  The second my skin touches his large calloused hand, I’m stunned when his eyes quickly flash a beautifully unnatural sapphire color befor
e dying down to his more subdued shade of blue. What the hell was that?

  I'm quick to check my reactions, making sure I don't outwardly display that something is amiss. He's not quick enough to mask his reaction, however, though I'm at a loss as to why he'd react at all. His eyes widen ever so slightly but are back to their normal size a split second later with a look of confirmation that I’m not privy to understand. How strange.

  I shake it off when my hand starts getting clammy within his giant paw, so I slip it out of his grasp and don't think before I wipe it on my jeans. Once I'm done, I glance back up at the seriously good-looking guy who's now trying to restrain a smirk.

  "Wiping the cooties off your hand?" he jokes with a raised eyebrow, his scar standing out a little more with the action.

  I'm not in on his joke, so I scrunch my eyebrows in confusion, something I find myself doing a lot of today, and disgust, and reply, "You have cooties?"

  I'm about to wipe my hand a little more vigorously when he snorts and rolls his eyes before telling me, "I'm kidding. You wiped your hand after shaking mine."

  "Ohhh! Oh, no. My hand was sweating, and it was nasty. Nobody wants a sweaty hand." I shrug before bending down to retrieve my purse that still lays abandoned in the grass.

  He nods like that's the most reasonable explanation and my respect for the man notches up a few pegs at his understanding for non-sweat filled palms.

  It’s silent for a little while before he strikes up another conversation, a conversation that has my eyes widening a fraction before I can stop them. “That statue looks an awful lot like you.”

  I’m sure it’s a harmless topic to him, but considering I’m still freaked out over the thing looking like a double image of me, I’m not keen on continuing the conversation so I curtly respond, “Sure does. Weird, right? Coincidences and shit.”