Fallen Angels 01 - Covet (48 page)

He was going to find out who she was.

And he was going to do right by her.

Just as he had done right by his mother.

Those fuckers in that Camaro had been the first three men he'd killed.

“Are we done, children?” Eddie snapped. “Or do I need to spank your asses until it'll be next winter before you can sit down again.”

Jim tilted his head and glanced over at Adrian. The bastard looked no better than Jim felt. “Truce?” the guy said through bloody lips.

Jim inhaled as deeply as he could—until pain stopped his ribs from expanding any more. Well, hell. He might not be able to trust either one of them, but he needed help—and he had a tragic expertise in working with people who were shits.

“Yeah,” he replied roughly. “Truce.”

“Okay, I love you. And I'll be home later tonight. Be good for Quinesha. What?” As Vin drove them over to the residential part of town, Marie-Terese listened to her son speak and got choked up. His voice was so near and so far. “Yes. Yes, you may. I love you. Bye.”

She hit the
end
button on her phone and stared down at the screen, waiting for Vin to ask how the conversation had gone. It was something her ex had always done. Anytime she got on a phone, whether it was a telemarketer or the housekeeper or someone for him, Mark had had to know everything.

Except Vin didn't ask and didn't seem to be expecting her to fill him in. And the space was...nice. She liked how it gave her the power to choose, and it spoke volumes about respect and trust and all those things she hadn't gotten the first time around.

Thank you,
she wanted to say. Instead, she murmured, “He wanted ice cream. Guess I'm a horrible mother, huh. Probably going to spoil his dinner. He eats early. At five.”

Vin's hand covered hers. “You are not a horrible mother. I can assure you.”

As they went by a bus stop, she looked out of her window. The people standing in the Plexiglas box all stared at the M6 while Vin drove by, and when another group of pedestrians glanced over at the car a little later, she had a sense that everywhere Vin went, he drew eyes of envy and awe...and greed.

“Mark liked nice cars, too,” she said for no particular reason. “He was a Bentley man.”

God, she could remember riding in those cars of his. He'd gotten a new one every year as soon as the fresh models came out, and in the beginning, she had sat in the passenger seat beside him with her chin up and her hands stroking the leather. Back then, when people had stared, her chest had swelled with pride that the man who owned the car was hers, that she was a part of some exclusive club of luxury that barred everyone else, that she was a queen with her king.

Not anymore. Now she saw the ogling faces as nothing more than people caught up in a fantasy. Just because you could drive or sit in a fancy BMW didn't mean you had the winning lottery ticket in the life sweepstakes. Turned out she had been far, far happier when she'd been on the hard sidewalk rather than the soft bucket seat.

Far better off, too, considering where she'd ended up.

“But I am a bad mother,” she murmured. “I lied to him. I had to.”

“You did what you needed to in order to survive.”

“I'm going to have to keep lying to him. I don't want him ever to know.”

“And there's no reason for him to.” Vin shook his head. “I think a parent'sjob is to protect their kids. Maybe it's old-school, but that's the way I feel. There's no reason he has to go through what you've been suffering with. That you've had to deal with it is plenty.”

The thought that had been percolating in her brain on and off since she'd been with Vin the night before resurfaced. And she couldn't think of a reason not to say it out loud.

“I did something to survive, but sometimes I think...” She cleared her throat. “I'm a college graduate. I have a degree in marketing. I could have gotten a job.”

At least, theoretically she could have. One thing that had stopped her had been the fact that she hadn't been one hundred percent confident in her fake ID. If she'd actually put in for real work, she wasn't sure whether her social security number would have come up as someone else's.

But another driver of her choice had been something darker.

Vin shook his head. “You can't look back and cross-examine everything. You did the best you could with where you were—”

“I think I wanted to punish myself,” she blurted. As he looked over, she met his eyes. “I blame myself for what my son was put through. I picked the wrong man to marry and that was my fault—and I feel like my son suffered. Being with those...men. I hated it. I cried every night it was over and sometimes I was physically sick. I stayed with it for the money, true...but I was hurting myself deliberately.”

Vin took her hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it fiercely. “Listen to me. Your ex was the asshole in this—not you.”

“I should have left him earlier.”

“And you're free now. You're free of him and you're not doing that...other shit anymore. You're free.”

She stared out the front window. Except if that was true, then why did she feel so trapped still?

“You've got to forgive yourself,” Vin said roughly. “That's the only way you're going to get past this.”

God, she was so self-involved, she thought. Assuming everything those men had said back at the duplex was true—and given what she'd seen in Devina's eyes she'd be an idiot to think otherwise—Vin had just found out tonight that he all but murdered his own parents.

“You, too.” She squeezed his hand. “You need to do the same.”

The grunt that he made was a stop sign and a half, and just as he'd respected her privacy, she respected his: As much as she wanted to get him to talk about that what he'd been told, she wasn't going to push.

Leaning her head back against the rest, she stared at him as he drove them along. He was quick and comfortable behind the wheel, his brows low and his lips tighter than usual as he concentrated.

She was so glad that she'd met him. And grateful that he'd had faith in her when it had mattered so much.

“Thank you,” she said.

He glanced over and smiled a little. “What for.”

“You believed me. Instead of her.”

“Of course I did.”

His answer was just as steady as his hand on the wheel, and for some reason that made her tear up. “Why are you crying?” He pushed a hand into his jacket and took out a pristine white handkerchief. “Here.

Oh, love, don't cry.”

“I'll be fine. And better to get the leaks now instead of later.”

After wiping her cheeks with her fingertips, she took the super-soft, super-thin linen square and spread it flat on her lap. She had some mascara on still from how she'd made herself up for church, and she wasn't about to mar the delicate cloth by actually using it—and yet she liked having the thing. Liked running her finger back and forth over the raised stitching of his monogram, VSdP.

“Why are you crying?” he repeated gently.

“Because you're amazing.” She touched the V that was done in block font. “And because when you say things like you love me I believe you, and it terrifies me.” She touched the S. “And because I've hated myself for so much, but when you look at me, I don't feel like I'm so dirty.” Finally, she touched the dP for his last name. “Mostly, though, it's because you make me look forward to the future, and I haven't done that in forever.”

“You can trust me.” His hand found hers again. “And as for your past, it's not what you've done— it's who you are. To me, that's all that matters.”

She wiped more tears away as she stared across the seats at him, and though his handsome face went blurry, she was getting to know his features by heart, so it didn't matter.

“You really should use my handkerchief.”

“I don't want to mess it up.”

“I have plenty of others.”

She looked down at his initials again. “What does the S stand for?”

“Sean. My middle name is Sean. Mother was Irish.”

“Really?” Marie-Terese's eyes watered even more. “That's my son's real name.”

“You two assholes stay here.”

Eddie slammed the driver's-side door so hard, the whole truck rocked, and as the guy stalked over to the Hannaford's entrance, people went out of their way to get out of his.

Jim's balls still hurt. Bad. Kinda felt like he'd rolled 'em in cut glass—

all tingling and painful at the same time.

On the seat next to him, Adrian was rubbing his shoulder, his expression one of disgust. “Bastard telling us to stay here. What the hell—like he's grounding us? Fuck him.”

Jim stared out his window and watched as a mother with a baby in her arms walked by the truck, got a look at his face, and shied away. “I don't think we're fit for visual consumption.”

Adrian reached up and cranked the rearview mirror his way.

“Whatever, I'm gorgeous—wow.

I...”

“Look like shit,” Jim finished. “But at least you could walk straight if you had to. Did you have to go for the jewels?”

Adrian prodded his nose. “I think you broke this.”

“And now I'm probably shooting blanks for the rest of my life. At least your swelling's going to go away.”

Adrian leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. In concert, both of them took a deep breath.

“You
can
trust me, Jim.”

“Trust isn't something you can cold lab. It has to be earned.”

“Then that's what I'm going to do.”

As Jim made a noncommittal noise, he shifted delicately in the seat and his 'nads didn't appreciate the repositioning. After he negotiated a comfortable arrangement, he went back to watching the people in the parking lot. There was a predictable rhythm of them getting out of their cars, going into the store, and returning with filled carts or a couple of bags hanging from their hands. Witnessing it all, he was struck by how great the divide was between him and the rest of the planet. And not just because he was now playing in a paranormal game most of these fine patrons of the supermarket wouldn't have believed was real.

He'd always been separate. Ever since he'd found his mother on that kitchen floor, it was as if his root system had been plucked out of the soil and carried across the road to another plot of earth. His job hadn't helped. His personality hadn't either. And now he was seated beside a fallen angel who might or might not actually exist...who fought dirty.

Shit, it didn't matter if he was sterile. He was never getting a shot at having kids now, and keeping his crappy DNA out of the gene pool was no doubt the nicest thing he'd ever do for the human race. About ten minutes later, Eddie emerged with a cart full of plastic bags, and as he pulled up to the bed and started transferring the shit, Jim couldn't stand his own thoughts anymore and got out to help: All the mommies and dear little kiddies were just going to have to suck it up if they didn't like the way he looked.

Eddie didn't say one word as they worked together, which was a clear indication that whereas Jim and Adrian had kind of made up, Eddie was not on the “Kumbaya” train. Frankly, he looked like he'd had it with everything and everyone.

And no offense, the guy had one bizarre frickin' grocery list.

There were enough containers of Morton salt to deice a highway.

Countless bottles of hydrogen peroxide and witch hazel. Vinegar by the gallon. Lemons. Fresh sage packed in see-through boxes. And four huge cans of Dinty Moore beef stew? “What the hell,” Jim asked,

“are we going to do with all this?”

“Plenty.”

It took them about fifteen minutes to get back out to Jim's place, and the silence was a little less tense. As they pulled up to the garage, Dog's face parted the curtains at the big window. “You need the stuff to come up?” Jim asked as everybody got out. “Just one bag, and I'll get it.”

Jim hit the stairs with his keys in his hand, and the second he unlocked the door, Dog was all about the OMG-you're-backs, running around in circles on the landing with his tail going propeller.

When Jim glanced down over his shoulder, he frowned and patted the dog absently. On the driveway below, Eddie and Adrian were standing close together and Eddie was shaking his head and talking as Adrian focused on a point by the guy's left ear—like he'd heard it all before and hadn't been interested the first time.

Eventually, Eddie grabbed the guy's neck and forced some eye contact. Adrian's lips moved briefly and Eddie squeezed his eyes shut.

After they embraced for a quick moment, Adrian roared off on his Harley. With a curse, Eddie grabbed a bag from the truck bed and clomped up the stairs. “Your stove work?” the guy asked as he came inside and Dog circled and wagged at his feet.

“Yup.”

Ten minutes later he and Eddie were sitting down to two huge bowls of stew—which explained the Dinty Moore.

“Haven't had this for years,” Jim said as he spooned up. “Got to feed yourself.”

“What'd you say to Adrian?”

“None of your business.”

Jim shook his head. “Sorry, wrong answer. I'm part of this team, and I think considering the amount of shit you two know about me, it's time to start returning the fucking favor.” Eddie smiled tightly. “It's a marvel the pair of you don't get along better.”

“Maybe we would if you guys would talk to me.”

The long quiet that followed went unbroken until Eddie put his bowl down so Dog could go to work with what had been left.

“There are three things I know about Adrian,” the guy said. “One, he will always do exactly what he wants, when he wants to. There's no chance of reasoning with him or changing his mind. Two, he will fight until he cannot stand for something he believes in. And three, fallen angels don't last forever.”

Jim eased back in his chair. “I wondered about that.”

“Yeah, we're not infinite—just relatively so. And that can't be ignored when it comes to him.”

“Why?”

“Death wish. One of these days...his luck's going to run out and we're going to lose him.” Eddie slowly stroked Dog's back. “I've shared a lot with that bastard over the years. Known him better than anyone, and I'm probably the only person who can really work with him.