A Want So Wicked (A Need So Beautiful #2)(2)

I point my sister toward the garage as I go in the opposite direction, tiptoeing past my father’s partially open bedroom door. There’s no snoring or other obvious signs that he’s asleep, so I say a prayer to not get caught. Which I immediately realize is kind of wrong, but it’s too late to take it back.

When my older—and much less responsible—eighteen-year-old sister gets into trouble, my father usually groups me in with her punishment. Sure, I’m an accomplice, but I don’t think it’s entirely fair. I’m not the one sneaking out. Besides, Lucy is going to be a senior. She should be able to go out after dark. The restrictions of being a pastor’s daughter, I guess.

I get to the keypad at our front door and type in the disarm code, wincing when it beeps. I listen, and when the house stays quiet, I give Lucy the thumbs-up and she slips into the dark garage. I count to ten, about as long as it will take her to get out the side door, and then key in the code again. It beeps, reassuring us that the house is secure—albeit less one member—and then I make the careful walk back to my room.

My sister has been sneaking out since middle school, but it wasn’t until last year that my father got hip to her activities—which was hard to avoid when she was brought home by a police cruiser at two in the morning. It’s part of why my father wanted to move us here—to give us a fresh start. Since that night, it has been overparenting at its best. Even though I know my father has good intentions.

The street outside is silent. Lucy knows better than to use her beat-up old Honda this late. My father has an extra sense, like a dog, that can tell the sound of her engine coming or going. So I assume her friend must have the wheels and is waiting at the end of the block. Lucy will text me to let her back in just before breakfast, sharing with me her secrets—both the exciting and the dangerous ones. I never really know which it’ll be.

Truthfully, I’m a little jealous of her extracurriculars. She seems so . . . alive. But I’m hopeful that the new job I’m starting today at Santo’s Restaurant will not only get me paid, but will also help me meet some quality people. Or I’ll just eat a lot of chimichangas. I’ll be all right either way.

As I get to my room, I’m struck with the oddest sensation, a déjà vu of sorts. I stop, reaching for the doorframe to steady myself. In my head I hear a whisper, or rather the memory of a whisper. The familiar voice is soft, and it warms me from the inside out as it murmurs a name: Charlotte.

Like a dream I can’t quite remember, this déjà vu is more a feeling than something I can describe coherently. It’s sweet and painful at the same time—an emotion that doesn’t make sense. And when it finally fades, leaving behind little more than a dull ache, I climb into bed. My fingers touch something cool under my pillow. Surprised, I slowly slide it out.

It’s an angel, set in a clear stone.

CHAPTER 2

In the morning, I decide that Lucy had to be the one who left the angel figurine under my pillow. She always does that—gives me gifts with no expectation of thanks. After losing our mother, she picked up the slack in the “leaving notes in my lunch bag” department. Although now that we’re older, she spares me the smiley faces.

It’s certainly odd that she picked an angel, since Lucy tries to avoid religion as much as one can in the house of a pastor. But I swear I’ve seen this before, and half wonder if it’s a throwaway from one of her exes.

Well, wherever it’s from, the gift is comforting, as if I now have someone watching out for me. So I slip it into the drawer of my bedside table and leave to shower.

* * *

I stand in the parking lot of Santo’s Restaurant, ready for my first day of work—ever. I’ve never had a job; have never even volunteered before. I’m like fresh meat being thrown to the wolves, but my father thought it would build character. Yeah, we’ll see.

A loud rumble cuts through the air, and I turn to see a hot guy ride by on his Harley, passing me on his way down Main Street. He’s wearing a brown leather jacket and dark sunglasses. For a second I hope he’ll look over at me, but instead he disappears around the corner at the end of the block.

My mouth twitches with a smile, as I consider any hot-guy sighting a sign of good things to come—or at least that’s what Lucy would say. With my fate on the upswing, I cross the gravel parking lot.

The hostess is on the other side of the glass door of Santo’s, wearing a checkered black-and-white dress with lace trim, wiping down and stacking menus.

I’ve eaten here a few times with my dad. Their enchiladas are tasty, their tacos not so much. When my father suggested I get a job for the summer, this was the only place I applied. I mean, the town’s not very big. It was either here or the hot-dog truck on Mission Boulevard.

I take one last look around the parking lot and see a tumbleweed, an actual tumbleweed, roll across the road. I laugh—proof that we live in the middle of nowhere.

A bell jingles when I push the door open. The white Formica counter is crowded with men in tan Carthartt overalls eating burritos and enchiladas. The temperature drops nearly twenty degrees as I step inside, the air-conditioning on full blast. The booths throughout the dining room are mostly empty.

The hostess snatches a menu and walks up hurriedly. “One for dinner?” she asks.

“Um . . . no. I’m Elise. I’m supposed to start today?”