convertibles and get her the hell out of here. I have no idea where this protective instinct has come from, but I can’t control it.
“Is it too much for you here?” I ask.
“It’s hard,” she admits. “But not because it’s Hollywood. Even Atlanta is hard for me sometimes.”
She’s downplaying it.
“I’ll get us out of here,” I say. When we stop at a light, I scroll through my mobile’s GPS for the best side street to get us off the main road.
I hear a click and zip and look over to see Anna opening her wallet. What the? Tell me she’s not giving money to one of those celebrity home tour scammers. I peer over and see who she’s staring at. An old, homeless woman.
Don’t, I think to myself. That kind of giving act makes blokes like me squirm with discomfort. It’s too much.
“You’re wasting your money,” I say. The woman’s probably a drunk or something.
“Maybe,” Anna whispers. “Maybe not.”
I hold my breath and watch in awe as Anna rolls down the window and the woman makes her way to the car. The way they stare at each other sends a chill down my spine.
“God bless you,” the woman says to Anna as she takes the money. Her aura is clear and grateful, which means she’s not high or drunk, as I’d suspected. Before she can turn to leave, Anna is opening her purse and dumping out all of the money into the woman’s hands.
I’m an outsider watching their intimate exchange, but I can’t look away. I’ve never seen anything like this happen between two strangers. Complete openness. Selflessness. Thankfulness.
I feel strange. The woman walks away and Anna rolls her window up. She seems at peace for a moment, and then she looks back down at her wallet and her face falls.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “That was presumptuous of me. But she—”
“What on earth are you apologizing for?” My eyes roam her beautiful face, her tied-back hair, her swirled badge. She drops her eyes and I realize she feels bad because now I’ll have to cover her expenses. It must’ve given her some sense of comfort to know she could pay for something if necessary.
I tear my eyes from Anna and back to the road when the light turns. My hands tingle, and it’s spreading. My heart is beating entirely too hard as unfamiliar feelings swell to an alarming size, filling every available space of my body and soul.
I’m nervous and excited all at once. I want her. I want Anna with every hot-blooded cell of my body, and I wish I could say it was only lust. Lust is familiar. What I’m feeling is huge and frightening and altogether unfamiliar. I want more than her skin and touch. I want all of her—all the madness that goes along with a female—the small touches and laughter, the talking after the hookup, the phone calls and hand-holding. I want it more than I’ve ever needed sex.
Bugger. Shite. No. This is too much for me. I am freaking out.
And then I nearly slam on the brakes and shout. Up ahead on the boulevard is a shadowy demon spirit. It takes all my control not to panic and bust a U-turn in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard, bunging up every car in my path, but that would draw even more attention. So I keep calm as I speak.
“Legionnaire.” I hold my hand down and point in the direction of the demon whisperer. Anna sucks in a breath and stares around blankly. She still can’t see them! I explain what the spirit is doing. “Whispering to that man in the blue suit. If he comes this direction I’m going to ask you to hide. Be ready to move.”
She slides lower in the seat and we both watch the contact between a man and a prostitute. I wish Anna didn’t have to see this. I’m prepared to order her down to the floor, but when the couple walks off, the whisperer flies down an alley and is gone.
I grip the wheel and grit my teeth to keep from shaking. Bringing Anna into Hollywood was royally stupid. I mumble angrily and get us out of there, wanting to bowl down every slow pedestrian in my path. What had I been thinking? I’d been so keen on wanting to watch her experience life that I forgot about the myriad of negative experiences to be had as well.
When had I ever forgotten that before now? Never. It’s usually the