Things I’ll Never Say Read Online Free Page A

and . . .”
    I set down my fork, all kidding aside. “It’s not my place, as your GA, to absolve or interpret Scripture or elevate one faith over another in your eyes. But I can promise you that the Big Boss
is
love.”
    Guests pore over menus labeled “Predator” and menus labeled “Prey” as Sinatra sings “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” over the speakers. I’d swear Ol’ Blue Eyes is taunting me.
    Meanwhile, Quincie has scooted her chair closer to Kieren’s. They’re underdressed — him in black jeans, boots, and a shiny black western-style shirt, her in a flapper-inspired red sheath, antique rhinestone jewelry, and platform wedges. I wonder what they’re whispering.
    No, I don’t care. I’m not hovering. I even asked the hostess not to sit them in my section. Quincie’s a teenager. Of course she needs space. And maybe, as long as I’m here among mortals, I do need to get a life of my own.
    Before my chat with Quincie, I swung by All the World’s a Stage, the costume shop down the street, for a pair of faux black wings to wear with my short-sleeve black leather shirt, pink-plaid-accented black leather pants, and hot-pink oxford shoes with black laces.
    The dining room staff was encouraged to wear Valentine’s colors, and everybody else’s wardrobe is heavy on bloodred.
    I’ve just refilled a guest’s glass when Jamal strolls by, carrying a carnivore taster and wasabi deviled quail eggs. “Nice threads, Josh,” he says. “We match.”
    â€œMatch made in heaven,” I shoot back, continuing to the service station.
    He ducks his head with a half grin, holding eye contact.
    Crap. Quincie’s right. We do flirt all the time. It’s even possible that I — subconsciously, mind you — made an effort to match him tonight, having previewed his outfit of choice earlier this afternoon.
    â€œBehind you,” Mercedes warns, raising her tray as she pivots past in a Betty Boop–inspired strapless, backless red micro-mini that shows off a garter belt blinged out with candy hearts.
    Pausing to watch Jamal deliver the
primo
course, I take stock. He’s nineteen and from Lubbock. I’m one of the Big Boss’s newbie angels, created after the first atomic blast in 1945. But by heaven’s standards, I’m the equivalent of a twenty-year-old . . . twenty-two tops. I wouldn’t be the first guardian angel to fall in love with a human, but that seldom ends well. Still, there’s a big difference between “seldom” and “never.”
    A hand waves in my line of vision. “Joshua?” It’s Sergio, the restaurant manager. “Check your station. Glasses empty, plates to clear. Table eleven is waiting on their check.”
    I snap to, taking full advantage of my dimples to damage-control the situation.
    Obsessing over Jamal is ridiculous. Other than the fact that we both work at Sanguini’s and our names both begin with the letter
J
, we have nothing in common. He is fascinated by Creation, though, based on his studies. . . . Forget it. I’ve witnessed enough star-crossed love stories to know better.
    â€œRepent or suffer eternal damnation!” shouts a gruff voice from the foyer.
    From across the dining room, the slight shake of Quincie’s head tells me that this isn’t part of Sanguini’s script. Meanwhile, the hostess is motioning to our werebear security guards to step in.
    I raise a finger, urging Quincie to stay put — not that I expect she will for long — as bouncers Uri and Olek lumber their way through the crowd to the entrance.
    â€œWerebeast lovers!” the jackass shouts. “Demon lovers! God will make you pay!”
    It pisses me off when humans confuse shape-shifters with the demonic. Werepeople, as they sometimes prefer to be called, are children of the Big Boss. It pisses me off even more when morons like this dude