Read Fallen Angels 02 - Crave for Free Online

abstinence movement, was all she could say.
    “Wait, building?” the therapist said. “You‟re not staying in some building, are you?”
    “Oh, no. I‟m at a hotel for the time being. Work is taking me out of town. Up to Boston, actually.” Because it was time for the second battle with her nemesis.
    And goddamn it, she was going to win this one.
    “Devina, this is such good work.” The therapist clapped her hand on her knee and smiled.
    “You‟re living apart from your things. You‟ve made a breakthrough.”
    Not really, considering that she could be anywhere in the blink of an eye.
    “Now tell me, how‟s work? I know last week was rough.”
    Devina‟s hand found her bag and she stroked the soft leather. “It‟s going to get better. I‟m going to make it better.”
    “Your new coworker. How are things going with him? I know there‟d been some initial friction.”
    Friction? Yeah, you could say that.
    She thought of her and Jim Heron in the parking lot of the Iron Mask, him buried deep inside of her, her riding him hard. In spite of the fact that she hated him with a passion, she wouldn‟t mind a little more private time with him.
    Devina straightened her spine. “He‟s not going get the vice presidency. I don‟t care what I have to do, but I‟ve worked too long and hard to have some guy barge in and take what‟s mine.”
    Seven souls. Seven chances for good or evil to win. And the first one had gone to the other side. Three more went in favor of Jim Heron and she was not only out of a “job,” but the angels took over the Earth and each and every one of her souls were redeemed.
    All her work for nothing: Her collections gone. Her army gone. Herself…gone.
    She stared at her therapist. “I will not let him win.”
    The woman nodded. “Do you have a plan?”
    Devina patted her bag. “I do. I absolutely do.”

    After the session, Devina took herself north and east, casting herself into the air as a dark shadow and winging her way through the night. She coalesced on Boylston Street, across from the Boston Public Garden, where the weeping willows over the pond were just greening up.
    27

    J.R. Ward
    The demure brick box of the Four Seasons Hotel took up nearly the entire block, between its entrance, porte cochere, and windowed restaurants. Although the exterior was quite plain, the interior was all warm wood and elegant brocade, and there were always fresh flowers.
    She could have just flashed up to her room, but what a waste of an outfit: her Escada lizard-print pants and Chanel blouse were stunners, to say nothing of her Stella McCartney trench.
    And what do you know, only her second night here and already the doormen and front-desk staff called out greetings as she swept into the lobby, her Louboutins clipping on the marble.
    Which served to remind her of what she already knew: Of all the suits of illusioned flesh she had ever worn, this one—of a brunette woman with legs that didn‟t quit and a set of breasts that made human men trip over their own tongues—was the one that fit her best. Even though technically she was a sexless “it,” experience had proven that her arsenal of weapons was best wielded by a manicured hand.
    Plus she liked the clothes for women better.
    The fucking, too.
    Her suite on the top floor had a magnificent view of the garden and the Boston Common, and a lot of grand rooms—as well as excellent room service. The bouquet of roses was a nice touch and supplied gratis.
    Which was what you got when you paid thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars for digs.
    She walked through the sitting room and the master bedroom to the marble bath. On the counter between the two sinks, she put down her bag and took out the sweatshirt she‟d taken from that MMA octagon. The hoodie was the color of fog and a size double-XL. Found at any Wal-Mart or Target, it was one of those anonymous garments that could have been worn by any man, something that was easy to find, easy to