The Angel

“You’re in heat, Griff. Big difference. Oh, and number three … Søren says you can’t fuck him.”

Skipping down the steps, Nora left a speechless Griffin behind her. She grabbed Michael and pulled him into her arms.

“Hey, Angel,” she said, kissing him on the lips. “How was the trip?”

“Bizarre,” Michael whispered. “There was a guy in the backseat. In riding boots. We dropped him off at Father S’s.”

“Oh, that was just Kingsley. He likes to inspect the new recruits. Did he hit on you? Ask you if you’ve ever had sex in the back of a Rolls Royce?”

“Um, yeah,” Michael confessed, blushing. “But I didn’t—”

“Good,” Nora said. “You passed inspection. Go say hello to Griffin while I make out with your driver.”

Nora bodily spun Michael, aimed him toward the steps and slapped him on his jeans-clad bottom. Robin, one of her and Søren’s favorite submissives from The 8th Circle, stepped out of the driver’s seat in her chic gray chauffeur’s costume complete with driving hat and leather gloves.

“I love a woman in uniform,” Nora said, giving Robin a long, thorough kiss. From the top of the steps, Nora heard applause. She pulled back from the pretty submissive and saw Griffin clapping and Michael gaping. Michael looked at Griffin, who looked at Michael. Michael looked at her. Griffin kept looking at Michael.

Nora groaned. “Robin, take me back to the city with you.”

“I’m sorry, mistress. Mr. King said I wasn’t allowed. Oh, and Mr. S has a message for you.”

“What, pray tell, is Mr. S’s message?” Nora asked, already dreading whatever message Søren decided to pass on to her through an underling.

“He wanted me to ask you if you still had that note he left for you? The one that said ‘Do not open until instructed’?”

“Yes. I still have it. What about it?”

“He said you still can’t open it.”

Nora nodded. “Fine. Great. Wonderful. You can tell Mr. S that he can take his note and shove it up—”

“Nora?” Griffin called down to her. “Kiss Robin again. I want to get a pic.”

Nora rubbed her forehead. Long summer ahead. Too long.

Nora shook Robin’s hand goodbye, a move that led to booing from the peanut gallery at the top of the steps. Robin got into the Rolls and drove off, leaving Nora alone with a timid teenage boy and a horny Griffin.

Looking up at the blue sky above her, Nora sent up a quick prayer to St. Mary Magdalen, patron saint of ex-prostitutes, and St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes. Her prayer consisted of one word.

“Help.”

Suzanne took a deep breath and whispered one word to herself—”Afghanistan.”

An odd mantra, but it worked for her. She’d been in Afghanistan for the past three months, and in that desolate, broken country, she’d eaten fear and slept with courage. Lieutenant Hatton, the handsome Texan who always called her Red—IED took his right arm. Staff Sergeant Zimmerman, the New York Jew who couldn’t stop flirting with her—a bullet to the sternum. And Private First Class Goran, the shy North Dakotan with a one-year-old daughter back home—a bullet to the brain. His own.