The guardian angel Zagzagel returns to save another of his charges, this time a young woman selling herself on the streets instead of saving herself for love. This is Book 2 of The Zagzagel Diaries series.
Excerpt
Swear to God . . . .
I closed my eyes, certain, Deena had not meant the thought.
Though Big Papa frowned on reason, I made note to later offer the most valid one I would conjure on her behalf. One never knew with him. Maybe this time he would relish me with praise for my show of compassion. Then again, maybe not. My halo did hang a bit askew, according to the Big Cheese; that is, if I'd choose to don the ridiculous thing, which I never had and, if I continued to have my way, never would.
From my vantage point, perched atop the wrought iron fence a couple of yards outside her john's window, I was privy to Deena's thoughts—and her mood, which radiated as strongly as her john's stench from the situation, both consuming the lavishly furnished bedroom. I only hoped she took him for a pretty penny.
Panties on, she threw on her blouse, buttoning from the top down, while trading blow for verbal blow with the man stretched across the bed. Other than the coyness in his jibes, I was sure from his leisurely repose, he basked from one rather enjoyable evening—thus far.
"I don't care, Tom. I make the rules." After fastening the last button on her shirt, she wriggled some blood-red number up and over her hips. One yank on the zipper and the skirt, which
appeared no more than a four-inch strip of leather, was secured in place.
In my entire existence, I'd never witnessed one of my charges adorn clothing this fast. A loin cloth covered more; of that I was certain. The party looked to be just warming up. . . . I settled back on my haunches, preening my feathers.
Heels on, matching jacket whipped into the air, one arm in— "Damn it, Tom." She tugged on the half of the jacket still in her possession—her john reciprocating the tug with a bit stronger force.
"We don't have to go through this again, do we?"
"Don't we?" His toned mocked hers to the extreme as he tugged harder on the empty sleeve.
Apparently, success didn't equate to class.
She fell against him and, with a huff, squirmed out of the jacket, shoved away, and headed for the door. Her jacket swayed in his grip. "Oh, come on, Deena."
Humans . . . such a complicated lot.
Why hadn't I leapt to her assistance, you ask? Give me a break. At any moment, the former self defense instructor, which resided tucked neatly away, would surface. Trust me. I'd seen this human female in action, many times. Tough was an understatement, but she was no less vulnerable, especially to herself.
"Come on. Just one kiss." With his body, her john barred the door.
Mere feet from him, Deena halted her exit and, without a word, removed a bobby pin from her hair and placed it between pressed lips. Stupid fucker, her only thought.
Once again, her thoughts proved more vivid than her words. Priceless. I'd enjoyed the past twenty-six years over this one. Though she was utterly clueless—as are most humans, don't get
me wrong—a dull moment around Deena was often hard to find. Damned if watching her though, didn't evoke the strongest urge for an old-fashioned bucket of movie popcorn. As always, she put on one hell of a show. Rivaled the great Cleopatra—you know, the queen of 'de Nile'? If only Deena knew.
After smoothing her shoulder-length mane, she gathered and twisted it into a fancy knot behind her head. "Get out of my way, Tom."
"What's wrong with asking for—"
"Enough! We've been through this. Every time I'm ready to leave, you—Listen. I've had enough." Hair in place, she held out her hand, beckoning for her jacket.
Ooh . . . that painted glare could rattle Medusa's serpents.
"Boundaries, Tom. Rules." With an exasperated sigh, she grabbed at her jacket—the tug-of-war rekindled full force.
"You'll swallow, but you won't kiss! Give me a fucking—"
Holy Mother of—She gave it to him, all right. Even as battle-seasoned as I was, I cringed at the force her roundhouse kick inflicted.
Healthy war-wound the side of his temple, her john lay out cold to the right of the door. Whoever had proclaimed heels a disadvantage, didn't know my Deena. She retrieved her inadvertently discarded jacket, flung it over her shoulders, and opened the door. Her disgust-filled expression gazed upon her john with a scornful, final exhale. "I'm afraid we will no longer be doing business."
Martin Powers wanted an ironing board for Christmas. Instead, he got . . . Matthew Kieler, a non-returnable gift, but a gift that kept on giving. A powerful tale of survival, compassion and unapologetic love in the time of AIDS.
