The guardian angel Zagzagel returns to save another of his charges, this time a young woman selling herself on the streets instead of saving herself for love. This is Book 2 of The Zagzagel Diaries series.
Swear to God . . . .
I closed my eyes, certain, Deena had not meant the thought.
Though Big Papa frowned on reason, I made note to later offer the most valid one I would conjure on her behalf. One never knew with him. Maybe this time he would relish me with praise for my show of compassion. Then again, maybe not. My halo did hang a bit askew, according to the Big Cheese; that is, if I'd choose to don the ridiculous thing, which I never had and, if I continued to have my way, never would.
From my vantage point, perched atop the wrought iron fence a couple of yards outside her john's window, I was privy to Deena's thoughts—and her mood, which radiated as strongly as her john's stench from the situation, both consuming the lavishly furnished bedroom. I only hoped she took him for a pretty penny.
Panties on, she threw on her blouse, buttoning from the top down, while trading blow for verbal blow with the man stretched across the bed. Other than the coyness in his jibes, I was sure from his leisurely repose, he basked from one rather enjoyable evening—thus far.
"I don't care, Tom. I make the rules." After fastening the last button on her shirt, she wriggled some blood-red number up and over her hips. One yank on the zipper and the skirt, which appeared no more than a four-inch strip of leather, was secured in place.
In my entire existence, I'd never witnessed one of my charges adorn clothing this fast. A loin cloth covered more; of that I was certain. The party looked to be just warming up. . . . I settled back on my haunches, preening my feathers.