picked up a strand of Angel’s long hair. “I grow up pitty like you.”
No, don’t. It’s too much. It’s a burden. I want to be loved for myself, not for my face and my body.
She wanted the same for Rose, to be loved for the beautiful person she was inside. “Auntie Angel?”
“Yes, Rose?”
Rose spread her hands, as if puzzled. “What you bring me?”
Everyone laughed and Angel sent Matt and Jenny a wry smile.
“This habit of bringing gifts every time you show up is going to have to stop,” Matt said.
“Sure,” Angel said. “Next time. Come on. There’s something for each of you in the car.”
Matt wrapped his arm around her as they walked outside.
Here is where I feel at home, where I’m accepted and loved, completely and utterly. On Matt and Jenny’s ranch, she wasn’t trashy Angel Donovan. Here, she wasn’t Missy’s daughter. In this house, she was a good sister-in-law, a loving sister and a world-class aunt.
WHEN PHIL RETURNED TO the house, Missy still sat at the kitchen table, exactly where she’d been when Angel had left, with her head in her hands, trying to figure out what to do.
“Hey, babe,” Phil said. “Come on.” He walked down the hall to their bedroom.
Missy followed him, less and less happy about their afternoon “dates,” as Phil called them. Why couldn’t Phil ever get enough no matter how often she satisfied him—every night, most mornings and every afternoon?
Her frustration grew. Maybe today she could change that. How? For a woman who knew as much about sex as anyone could, she was drawing a blank. She had to make this work with the man she was about to marry.
When she entered the room, Phil was naked from the waist up and unbuckling his belt.
His pants dropped to the floor. Skinny legs. Small chest. It was hard for Missy to whip up enthusiasm day after day.
Phil’s face turned hard. “Where’s the car?”
Warily, Missy said, “Angel took it to visit Matt.”
She pulled off her blouse and Phil stared at her breasts. She swore he liked them better than her face.
“You shouldn’t have let her take it.” His lips pulled back into a snarl. Phil was angry. Could she use it to charge up the sex?
She dropped her pants and the tiny scrap of red lace of her thong. She turned her back to him and climbed onto the bed, hoping that the sight of her would excite him to new heights.
“Hurry up,” he said. “Get under the blankets.”
She didn’t want to hurry, was sick of hurrying, of giving and not getting. She turned onto her back but didn’t climb under the covers. Instead, she bent her knees and spread her legs. Go down on me, Phil. He never had before. She wasn’t sure what he would do if she asked. She needed satisfaction today.
“Please,” she whispered. Phil, honey, give an inch.
He shook his head, pulled off his boxers and lay on top of her, entering her without foreplay.
He worked on top of her while Missy pictured massive biceps, big penises, large hands rough on her skin, anything to excite herself.
“Do that thing,” Phil ordered.
“What thing?” she asked, trying to spike his anger, trying to spark an unpredictable reaction, hoping he would get a little rough with her.
“Move your muscles inside.”
She did and he shook. His arms trembled and he dropped onto his elbows.
He was done.
“Thanks, babe.” He breathed heavily in her ear.
For a second, she held him close to bind him to her, afraid to let go. Phil, I need you. Angel will be gone soon. Then all I’ll have is you.
In only one more week, they were getting married. Then everything would be fine. It had to be. She had no one else.
Phil rolled off her. “Move, babe.” She did and he slid under the covers.
Missy opened the drawer of the bedside table and handed him a big cotton hankie. “Here,” she said. “Don’t mess my sheets.”
He took it, cleaned himself, handed it back to her and said, “Wake me at four.”
As if she could forget. He did the same thing every day. Such an overgrown boy. A child in a man’s body. What had happened to him when he was a kid?
Missy had asked, but Phil wouldn’t talk about it.
She showered, dressed, then returned to the kitchen, where she stood in front of the window, frozen by her own unanswered needs.
The grass needed mowing.
TIMM SAT IN FRONT OF his computer. There was something he needed to know, not quite sure why he felt guilty delving into Angel’s business.
He was a reporter. Reporters were naturally curious people.
He looked up the bike’s license plate. It had been a Montana plate. His memory was one asset that worked in his favor as a journalist.
Angel owned the bike. Even more curious, he typed her name into an internet search engine and found an article dated nearly three months ago.
Young Man Dead—DUI
Both Neil Anderson’s motorcycle and his girlfriend, Angel Donovan, came away from a single-vehicle accident with minor scratches.
Neil, a promising young student at Bozeman University, wasn’t so lucky. He died on impact when he was thrown and his head hit a tree.
At the autopsy, he was determined to have had a blood alcohol level higher than .08.
Close friends and family of the victim expressed shock, since Anderson never drank and didn’t frequent bars.
The officer who investigated the crash stated that Montana has the highest incident rate of alcohol-related car accidents in the country.
Timm jumped up from his desk to pace. Angel hadn’t changed. He’d watched the impetuous fool try to burn a bike—scratched and dented, maybe, but nearly new. He remembered the party girl she used to be. Clearly she’d gotten the Anderson kid started on drinking. Timm was a fool to like her, to defend her, to lie to Cash through omission.
So, she was burning the bike…because? Probably because it had killed her friend.
Angel was wrong, though. The bike hadn’t killed her friend. She had.
CHAPTER FOUR
ANGEL,
