Page 8 of Angel

I dialed her number again, but the call went straight to voicemail.

I jolted at the sound of her voice.

‘I can’t speak right now; leave me a message after the tone.’

The electronic beep was a gunshot to my heart.

‘Evangeline, don’t do this to me,’ I rasped into the receiver, raw, hoarse, undone. ‘Don’t quit on us. What you’ve done is brutal, but if you come back, we can talk it through. Please. I love you.’

I was begging.

Hissing at the shame of it, I ended the call.

With a curse, I flung the device clear across the veranda, into the suite and onto the mattress.

It bounced, mocking me with its silence.

My brothers followed its trajectory, brows arching before their gazes swung back to me.

Jude shifted his massive frame by the door, his jaw set in a hard line.

‘You’re wasting your breath, brother. She made her choice.’

‘I know,’ I muttered, rubbing my shaking palms over my face. ‘God help me, I know.’

I prowled back inside and sank back into an armchair beside my bed in despondence.

My gaze flicked to my crew.

Jude, ripped, muscled, and handsome, had long hair falling to his shoulders, and loomed at 6’3.

My co-lead vocalist in our band, Six Sinners, was brooding and intense, wise, and had one of the most generous hearts ever.

His voice was legendary in the industry for its growl and cadence, and his musicality was off the charts.

His wife was the beautiful Sofia, a stunning Italian ex-actress who now worked at our charity, The Sanctuary.

Deacon was towering, dark, attractive, with a shock of striking, inky curls.

Of Mixed Kenyan and Australian heritage, he favored tees and jeans, and his saxophone playing almost always brought our grown male fans to tears.

He practiced martial arts whenever he could and was a black belt with multiple awards.

He was also a single dad to Raff, one of the most precocious and smartest nine-year-olds on the planet.

Deacon juggled parenting duties with his ex-wife, Ana De Stella, a stunning, beautiful former model now a world news photographer.

I never quite understood why the pair got separated, because they seemed made for each other, but Deacon had his reasons and stood firm by them.

Bishop was our wild child, always in flannel button-downs, most often open to mid-chest or lower.

He had an aversion to vests and, off stage, almost always wore only shorts and slides, even in the middle of winter.

His hair was a spill of dark tresses to his shoulders, and his ink and accessories were top-notch.

He played the bass guitar like a boss, too, baked like a dream, and was our secret resident nerd.

Levi was our violinist, our philosopher, and our spiritual guide.