Page 67 of Grim Tidings

I almost kissed Darcy last night.

If I’m being honest with myself, I almost did more than kiss Darcy last night.

I wanted to. I wanted to press my thumbs into the swell of her hips and tip her backward to the floor. I wanted to trace that line of salt I painted down her throat to the valley between her breasts. I wanted to drag my teeth along her skin. Sink between her spread thighs and see if she tasted like smoke everywhere.

She sat there on my shitty rug with her pretty pink mouth wet from the tequila and her eyes blown wide and I almost took something that I have no business wanting.

I can’t figure her out. I keep expecting to catch her in a lie, but she shows me another truth instead.

“Fuck,” I groan, face down on the pullout couch in the office, a spring poking me in the rib cage and a rogue piece of cushion half-way in my mouth. I need to sort out whatever these feelings are. Preferably, I need to wrap them in cellophane and send them to the bottom of the ocean.

My wings depend on it.

Fuck. My wings. Not only did I show them to Darcy last night—parading about shirtless like some fucking peacock, God help me—I told her the truth about the thin ice I’m skating on. One more strike, and I’m out. My wings will be removed, and my future as a Guardian will be gone with them. I’ll be relegated to some bottom office of the department, forced to file paperwork and change watercooler filters for the rest of eternity.

There are worse things, I reassure myself. If you lost your wings, you’ d be fine.

But it doesn’t feel like it. For so long, protecting others is how I’ve defined myself. I don’t know what I’ll do with myself without that. Without my wings.

My wings, which are currently lazily draped over me, one covering my face from the sun that filters in from the window, the other barely brushing the floor. They don’t usually break free of their glamour in my sleep, but I guess I don’t usually drink myself into a coma.

I roll onto my back, awkwardly pinning them beneath me. I stretch my arms wide and yawn into the early-afternoon sunshine. One quick glance at the clock on the desk confirms my suspicions. It’s already half past noon.

I sit up in bed and listen for Darcy. I could have offered her the office pullout last night, but the same dark impulse that had me set my mouth against her wrist wanted to see her in my bed. It satisfied some ancient, primordial part of my brain that wants to see her comfortable. Taken care of.

I drag myself out of the death trap of a bed, then shuffle to the door. I’m hesitant as I creak it open, not eager to have my kneecaps bitten by the hell beast.

But I don’t have to bother. The apartment is empty.

The bottles from last night have been cleared away, and the lime corpses I left on the floor are gone, too. It looks like last night never happened. That it was some tequila-induced, frustration-laced fever dream I cooked up.

My bedroom is in a similar state. The bed is made with the pillows placed carefully on top. The only indication that Darcy was in this room at all is the slight smell of her perfume that lingers. Cloves. Oranges. Something darker.

That, and the Post-it note stuck to the lampshade on the night-stand.

I wander over and peel it off.

Cracked glasses, it says.

It takes me a second, but I piece it together. It’s another part of her vision. The information she promised me for crossing off another item on her list. I kept her from telling me last night partly because it didn’t feel right, but also because I didn’t want things to feel transactional. I was the one who split myself open and told her about my mistakes. I was the one who suggested tequila. I was the one to bend my mouth to her skin and work the taste of her against my mouth.

I crossed so many damn lines last night, I don’t even know which one to be pissed off about.

But leave it to Darcy to uphold her end of the bargain, even when I’ve been a monumental asshole. She’s more honorable than I gave her credit for.

She’s still trying to do the right thing, I muse. Maybe this whole time, she’s just been trying to do the right thing.

I sigh and slip the tiny piece of paper in the back of my jeans.

Wet pavement. Cracked glasses.

No more games. If this is truly my last chance, I need to stop looking at Darcy and start looking at what’s in front of me.

Turns out, I can’t look at Darcy at all.

Because Darcy is avoiding me.

It’s been five days, and the only time I’ve seen her is a quick glimpse by Frank’s shop. I quickly tossed the keys at Jessie and hightailed it down the street, but by the time I got there, she was gone. A bunch of dried red rose petals in her wake, and an infuriating smirk on Frank’s face.