Angel's Mafia (gxg) ✓

XLVIII | Monsters In The Light

@supercollide

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ANGEL

THE CLUB IS LOUD, NOISY, WITH PULSING NEON LIGHTS AND THE SCENT OF SWEAT AND WINE mingling together.

It gives me a headache as I breathe in the taste of bare skin and hot flesh and blackberry merlot.

I came here alone tonight, and no one knows I'm here, not even Dominic. Even though he's my oldest friend, there are still some things I can't say. It's been a year since Cade died, and the people who say that time heals are liars. Because this wound, this aching, throbbing wound in my heart? It still feels as fresh as it did the moment Dominic told me the Reaper killed her.

I don't know why I'm here, if I'm being honest.

Revenge, maybe. Hatred. To get drunk.

Any and all of the above.

It's not like I expect the Reaper to be here, at one of his clubs. He's much too important for that, after all.

So as I order a drink from the bartender, I'm thinking not about vengeance, but about Cade. How did she die? Was it in pain? Was she screaming?

I feel particularly morose today. Her death has haunted me longer than anyone else I've ever killed. Of course, I've never loved someone and had them die because of me.

What hurts the most, though, is that she thought I never loved her.

It's that she thought . . . she thought I betrayed her because I never cared.

But it's not true. I was willing to run away with her.

We were even ready to rescue her . . . until the news came out that she was dead.

All I can think about is the moment on the rooftop, when she thought I set her up for the Reaper's men.

When she cried out to me with tears in her eyes, I should have told her. But then the Reaper's men came rushing in and I . . . well, I let her assume. I let her assume the worst of me.

I down my drink in one go. I want to get blackout drunk today.

A woman sidles up to me, gently brushing her manicured hands over my tattooed forearm. My first instinct is to brush her away, but . . . it's been so long. What's the point of denying it anymore?

She must be around thirty, and she has dark brown skin with long braids that twist above her head. She is slender and beautiful, like a model, and she wears a tight violet dress that hugs her cleavage. I try not to stare at her chest as I swallow another sip of vodka.

I wait for her to start flirting, to say something like, "Hey, baby."

But all she does is look deep into my eyes and lick her full lips. "Let's fuck," she says. I raise a single eyebrow. Blunt, honest. I can appreciate that.