Angels Bleed (Fallen Angels Book 1) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Max Hardy
bookcase.
‘Just so we are crystal, Mr Saul and you fully understand what I need from you. ’ the voice continued, ‘If you do not bring the person responsible for his murder into this room before midnight tonight, the container will explode. Now Mr Saul, I ask you again, do I have your attention?’
1:30 am
The slightly wavering barrel of a gun appeared through the frame of an open door, pointing towards Saul’s head. As it moved forward, slim, elegant fingers with immaculately manicured and painted nails came into view wrapped around the handle. The index finger was wavering over the trigger, its false nail missing, underneath, the real one bitten back to the skin which was red raw and angry. Not quite as angry as she was.
‘Bastard!’ she slurred and pulled the trigger.
A jet of water shot out of the plastic gun in a spectacular arc, splatting straight into a photograph of Saul and Sarah on the far wall of their minimalist living room. Sarah shuffled through the door into the room, waving the water pistol in front of her.
‘Gotcha you knob jockey!’ she exclaimed while raising the half empty bottle of wine she had in the other hand to her lips, guzzling down the contents voraciously.
There was a point, earlier in the evening, when she had looked stunning: dressed elegantly, her hair and make-up professionally done, having spent two hours in a beauty salon getting ready for their anniversary dinner. Now, that perfect porcelain façade which accentuated her elfin features was gone, replaced by a tirade of tears and smears. Bright rouge lipstick now adorned her chin and cheeks, mascara flowing in torrents with earlier tears, carving black shadows into her beauty. Hazel shoulder length hair had been straight and pristine. Now it was tousled and tangled, the ends caked with running make-up. She still wore the fitted scarlet YSL dress, cut low at the front, accentuating the gentle swell of her cleavage, highlighting the slender curves of her hips, her long legs still wearing black stockings. Sparkling Jimmy Choo high heels had been kicked off long ago and replaced with a pair of tatty Uggs. Over her dress, she was wearing a thick cotton dressing gown which was stained with, and stank heavily of a child’s milky vomit, slightly overpowering the subtle odour of the Chanel perfume she was wearing.
Gently swaying, mumbling curses under her breath, she stared at the photo of the two of them, their heads inclined in and cheeks brushing. They were smiling from their eyes, a tacit intimacy evident in the glow from them, not just from the jet of water that she had sprayed. There was a time when they had been happy. Her gaze moved right, to a large canvas portrait over the wall mounted fire.
A fleeting smile wiled its way onto her lips, stopping the grumbles for a moment as she took in the image. The canvas was a pencil sketch drawing of her. She was draped seductively over a table on her back, long tousled tresses of hair cascading over the edge as her head tipped backwards looking out of the picture. Her beckoning eyes were suggestively following those of whoever was taking in the image. She was naked, the sensual placement of an arm here, the bend of a leg there discreetly covering her modesty. She adored the sketch both for what it was and for the moment it captured: the moment she met John, the moment he exposed her soul bare.
That moment was the 3:00pm on Thursday the 2nd May 1996. She was in the last week of the last year on her Performing Arts degree at Newcastle University and was putting together her final portfolio of photographs and images. She needed something alluring to complete the collection so had agreed to be a nude model for the Art class. There had been a fleeting moment of concern about the idea of 30 plus testosterone loaded Art student’s perving over her. Very fleeting, before her naturally
‘Just so we are crystal, Mr Saul and you fully understand what I need from you. ’ the voice continued, ‘If you do not bring the person responsible for his murder into this room before midnight tonight, the container will explode. Now Mr Saul, I ask you again, do I have your attention?’
1:30 am
The slightly wavering barrel of a gun appeared through the frame of an open door, pointing towards Saul’s head. As it moved forward, slim, elegant fingers with immaculately manicured and painted nails came into view wrapped around the handle. The index finger was wavering over the trigger, its false nail missing, underneath, the real one bitten back to the skin which was red raw and angry. Not quite as angry as she was.
‘Bastard!’ she slurred and pulled the trigger.
A jet of water shot out of the plastic gun in a spectacular arc, splatting straight into a photograph of Saul and Sarah on the far wall of their minimalist living room. Sarah shuffled through the door into the room, waving the water pistol in front of her.
‘Gotcha you knob jockey!’ she exclaimed while raising the half empty bottle of wine she had in the other hand to her lips, guzzling down the contents voraciously.
There was a point, earlier in the evening, when she had looked stunning: dressed elegantly, her hair and make-up professionally done, having spent two hours in a beauty salon getting ready for their anniversary dinner. Now, that perfect porcelain façade which accentuated her elfin features was gone, replaced by a tirade of tears and smears. Bright rouge lipstick now adorned her chin and cheeks, mascara flowing in torrents with earlier tears, carving black shadows into her beauty. Hazel shoulder length hair had been straight and pristine. Now it was tousled and tangled, the ends caked with running make-up. She still wore the fitted scarlet YSL dress, cut low at the front, accentuating the gentle swell of her cleavage, highlighting the slender curves of her hips, her long legs still wearing black stockings. Sparkling Jimmy Choo high heels had been kicked off long ago and replaced with a pair of tatty Uggs. Over her dress, she was wearing a thick cotton dressing gown which was stained with, and stank heavily of a child’s milky vomit, slightly overpowering the subtle odour of the Chanel perfume she was wearing.
Gently swaying, mumbling curses under her breath, she stared at the photo of the two of them, their heads inclined in and cheeks brushing. They were smiling from their eyes, a tacit intimacy evident in the glow from them, not just from the jet of water that she had sprayed. There was a time when they had been happy. Her gaze moved right, to a large canvas portrait over the wall mounted fire.
A fleeting smile wiled its way onto her lips, stopping the grumbles for a moment as she took in the image. The canvas was a pencil sketch drawing of her. She was draped seductively over a table on her back, long tousled tresses of hair cascading over the edge as her head tipped backwards looking out of the picture. Her beckoning eyes were suggestively following those of whoever was taking in the image. She was naked, the sensual placement of an arm here, the bend of a leg there discreetly covering her modesty. She adored the sketch both for what it was and for the moment it captured: the moment she met John, the moment he exposed her soul bare.
That moment was the 3:00pm on Thursday the 2nd May 1996. She was in the last week of the last year on her Performing Arts degree at Newcastle University and was putting together her final portfolio of photographs and images. She needed something alluring to complete the collection so had agreed to be a nude model for the Art class. There had been a fleeting moment of concern about the idea of 30 plus testosterone loaded Art student’s perving over her. Very fleeting, before her naturally
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