Page 7 of Her Dark Angel
I say with a huff, “Look, I don’t like the idea of this deal our managers made any more than you do, but I came to see if this—you—was worth agreeing to the stupid idea.”
Nash rolls his eyes. He likes to do that a lot. Asshole. “What’s your name again?”
My arms fall to my side and my fists ball tightly at his fucking audacity. “Are you serious?”
“Or would you prefer blondie?” He quirks a challenging brow at me.
I would prefer to be anywhere but here to not have to deal with his attitude, but my impulsiveness had other plans.
“Kinsley,” I say through gritted teeth. My palms are beginning to sting from how deeply embedded my nails are, but I ignore the pain. Just more pale white scars on my palm that’ll serve as a reminder of my bad habit. “But my friends call me Kin.”
Nash licks his lips, his eyes traveling up and down the length of my body for the first time since meeting him. He takes in my baggy blue jeans and white sweater. The intensity of his two-toned eyes makes me swallow hard. This man is intense, to say the least. Everything he does is with purpose and without fear.
“Kin…” he drawls, meeting my gaze again. “Sounds like sin. Are you a sinner, Kinsley?”
What the?—
“What does that have anything to do with what we’re currently talking about?” I snap, a bite to my tone.
What the hell is his problem? You can’t just ask a stranger a question like that.
A wicked grin spreads across his face, showcasing his perfect teeth—which is odd considering how much drugs and alcohol he consumes, and the number of times he’s gotten into fistfights. How does he maintain his appearance with a lifestyle like that and still look like he’s just stepped off the cover of a Calvin Klein underwear shoot?
“I can see the darkness lurking beneath your eyes,” he says cryptically, his eyes meeting mine. “I know because I have the same darkness in me.”
Fuck. How can he read me so well?
I have spent years trying to simmer the darkness and hurt lurking within my soul so no one would ever find out what happened to me. It took years to learn how to mask the trauma from onlookers. How did he see through my facade after just meeting me?
“Tell me, does the darkness nip at your ankles when your back is turned? Does it threaten to swallow you whole when you’re alone in your room, lying awake at night? And has it been close to pulling you under to the point you almost let it consume you?”
I swallow hard. He’s hitting too close to home with that assessment, but I’m not going to tell him that. I barely know this guy, so there is no way in hell I’m going to reveal the deepest part of my soul to him. He doesn’t deserve it anyway, no matter how much darkness we share. I’m not going to ask about his, so he doesn’t need to know about mine.
“That’s none of your business,” I spit, but the waver in my voice and the way some of the syllables crack is blatantly obvious. “Can we get back to the topic at hand?”
Nash huffs and reaches for the carton of cigarettes on the desk in front of him. I watch as he flicks open what seems to be a custom black lighter with red angel wings etched into the base, matching the tattoo on his back, and lights the stick, ember flecks catching my eye as the edges of the thin white paper burn away.
I glance at the ink covering his right arm as he leans back in the chair. A detailed image of the Grim Reaper on his forearm flexes as he lowers his arm and blows out a puff of smoke. The flames around the symbol of death make the design appear more menacing as it mixes with the acrid air.
My heart races and I want to gag at the smell of the smoke circling around my head, but manage to swallow it down.
Time and place, Kin.
“Fine. What is it that you want to talk about?”
Finally, we’re getting somewhere.
“If I can trust you,” I say, uncurling my fists. “I want to know that if I agree to this deal you’re not going to fuck me over.”
He raises a brow at me. “Fuck you over? Now, why would I do that?”
“Because you’re… you. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”
He feigns hurt, placing his hand over his heart. “Ouch, that fucking hurt.”
“Am I wrong?” I challenge, tilting my head to the side. When he doesn’t answer, I know I’ve hit the nail on the head. “If we go ahead with this contract, it’s only for six months and then we can go our separate ways.”
Nash waves his hand in the air as he takes another puff of the cancer stick. “My manager told me all of this.”