CHAPTER 1
Elexia
If there is a contest for “Worst Tuesday in the History of Tuesdays,” I’m taking home the gold medal.
It’s raining. Not the romantic-style rain where you kiss someone passionately in the street. No, this is the aggressive, stinging New York City rain that soaks into your bones and makes you question every life choice as you sit in a smoking 2005 Honda Civic next to a dark alley.
“Come on, Bessie,” I urge, turning the key again. “Just one more start. I promise I’ll buy you the premium oil next time.”
Bessie does nothing. She just sits there, dead, her battery likely having given up the ghost somewhere between the flower shop and here.
I shiver, pulling my cardigan tighter around my dark blue dress. “Great. Just amazing.”
I would call a tow truck, but I can’t afford it. Besides, my phone is dead becausesomeoneneeded Buffy reruns and funny cat videos while arranging the floral displays. Charging cable? At home.
It’s fine. It’s just the first time I’ll have to jump a car in the opening scene of a B-list horror flick. The one where the rain ispaid extra to look foreboding, and the girl in the pretty dress and ballet flats is the first to go.
The rain soaks through me, plastering my strawberry-blonde hair to my neck. I pop the trunk for the jump starter when a shout echoes from the side street. My head snaps up.
It’s a guttural sound, wet and painful.
Instinct, honed by years of watching thrillers where the girl who investigates the noisealwaysdies, tells me to run. Instead, I’m peeking around the corner of the brick alcove while the audience in my head screams at me to hide in the car.
Five men in black hoodies crowd a figure on the ground, their boots connecting with sickening thuds. Slamming a hand over my mouth, I duck back into the alcove. My heart hammers like a bird trapped in a cage.
Call 911.With what phone? Bessie is dead. And if I make a sound…
The beating stops.
“Let’s go. He’s done,” one voice growls.
“Should we put a bullet in him?”
“Nah. Boss said to send a message. Leaving him to bleed out in the gutter is the message.”
Wet and heavy footsteps retreat. I wait, counting to sixty. When the engine fades, silence falls, except for the rain.
I should leave. I should walk away.
But the “caretaker gene” is a curse I can’t shake. It’s the reason Ialmostfinished nursing school before…well, before life happened. The reverse karma shit kind of life.
I creep out, my flats splashing in puddles. The man is a heap of dark clothes and blood spilling onto wet concrete.
“Hey.” I crouch beside him. “Can you hear me?”
No answer. I turn him over, and a gasp tears from my throat.
He is…devastating. Even with the bruise blooming along his chin, the gash above his brow, and blood darkening his darkcurly hair, he might be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. High cheekbones. A jawline that could cut glass. Pure muscle beneath his soaked suit.
He groans. His eyes flutter open, piercing, icy blue, slicing through the dark.
“Christ,” he groans. “I wasn’t meant t’go to heaven.”
His Irish accent wraps around me like warm whiskey, traitorous heat sliding down to my toes despite the cold.
“I doubt heaven has this decor.” I glance at the wet bricks. “Dark alleyway chic with rotting garbage isn’t exactly divine.”
“You’re getting wet, Luv,” he mutters, his smile twisted and pained. “Get out of here.”
