Wounded Angel (The Earth Angels) - By Stacy Gail Page 0,12
most people have an underlying belief that those who find themselves preyed upon by others somehow wound up that way because they were stupid or careless. I was neither, then or now, so you and Jacob can get that thought right out of your heads.”
“No, Ella—”
“What’s more, while I appreciate your concern, it’s not necessary. After everything I’ve gone through, I’d like to think my survival instincts have been honed more sharply than most. I’ve got my eye on Nate da Luca, and he’s not going to take me by surprise. I can and will take care of myself, both against him and anyone stupid enough to think I’m an easy mark.”
Jacob’s eyes bulged. “I teach you a few techniques and you think yourself a trained killer.”
Ella froze from the inside out. “I am a killer. I’ve done it before and I have no problem with doing it again.”
Chapter Four
Chicago was colder than the backside of hell.
Huddled in his duster, Nate’s ass felt like a block of ice as he sat on a bus bench on Michigan Avenue, his hands kept warm by the Venti coffee cup he held. Thank God he could fortify himself with a heavy dose of caffeine and sugar. Otherwise—thanks to his aversion to the cold and a night filled with weird dreams—his misery would have been complete.
He stifled a yawn and tried to pull his brain out of the fog of fatigue. After the hell Ella had put him through, he’d had high hopes of enjoying a restful sleep for the first time in what felt like forever. But no. No sooner had his head hit the pillow than he was once again dreaming about a giant faceless man in a cathedral-sized snow globe. The color-stealing glow of a full moon beamed down to spotlight this being that resembled a waxwork waiting to be sculpted. Sometimes the faceless man was silent; at others he was downright verbose. Last night he’d been in a chatty mood, and as always Nate was left wondering how he could talk without a mouth.
“Don’t look my way, abomination. I’m not ready yet.” The voice came from everywhere to echo all around the glass room, though it was like no voice Nate had ever heard. Like a demented mix of squeaking brakes and fingernails on a blackboard. “I hate that you can see me, while I cannot see you. Don’t look my way. Don’t look my way.”
Nate had awakened chanting the phrase, suffering the dual miseries of a king-sized headache and the sensation that he hadn’t slept at all. It had been this way for weeks now and he was officially sick of it.
He glanced up at the frosty blue sky beyond the towering buildings, urging the sun to hurry the hell up and turn the heat on. The manmade canyon around him testified to how many people lived and worked in the Windy City, but to his way of thinking it was a mystery why so many lived in a place that had to be second only to Siberia when it came to the cold. It was the beginning of April, for God’s sake, yet here he was watching his breath vapor out in front of him. Back home in Atlanta, the azaleas were blooming. Here, with the Wrigley Building behind him and the flag-studded Michigan Avenue Bridge in front of him, there wasn’t a hint of green anywhere unless he counted the muddy greenish-brown of the Chicago River.
Damn, he hated Chicago.
Ducking his chin into his coat, he pretended interest in his smartphone as a redheaded woman rushed past. The thought of accidentally bumping into her crossed his mind as she made her way toward the Wrigley Building, but in the end he stayed where he was. He didn’t feel the need to get an up-close and personal peek at her. Unlike the impulse he’d followed by deliberately crossing paths with Ella Little, the idea of doing the same with Gabrielle Litte left him flat. Which was odd; he usually had a soft spot for redheads. But for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on, it just didn’t feel right.
Gabrielle Litte had been working at the historic Wrigley Building for seven months now, pulling the seven-to-three shift as a janitorial manager. As far as he could tell, she’d never missed a day and her arrivals were better timed than the clock up on the historic building’s tower. Supposedly she was a transfer from northern Kentucky, had few friends, no