My Guardian Angel

My Guardian Angel

By

Evangelene

My Guardian Angel

Romance/Erotica

Evangelene

Copyright
©
2014 by A. Christina Orfanoudakis

All rights reserved.  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced. Stored in or introduced into the retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written consent of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.  This is a work of fiction.  Names, Characters, Places and incidents either is the product of the author’s imagination or is used factiously and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead. Business establishment, events or locales is entirely coincidental.  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction. 

The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situation. It is intended for a mature audience. 

The great Cover Art is by: 
www.damonza.com

My Dreams

The wind was howling, as the heavy rain hammered at the windows, making them rattle.
I was lying on my bed with my blankets barely covering my eyes. As I looked out the window, a bright flash of light came across the dark sky. The lightening lit my room only for a few seconds and then vanished just as quickly. A loud thunderous clap followed making me jump.

I used to love the rain, but not anymore.
I closed my eyes hoping for sleep to come. I waited, but it never came. That’s when I heard it, two deafening blasts. One right after the other. I slowly crawled out of bed and headed towards the window. I peeled back my curtains. The heavy suede slipped through my fingers. I could feel my heartbeat racing. The next-door neighbor’s lights were on. The sound was so alarming; I knew they might need help.

We had just moved into the area and I didn’t know anyone yet.
My parents were off touring Europe. My brother, who was supposed to watch over me, had left to see his girlfriend, telling me to be a “good girl”. Yes, granted, I was sixteen-years-old, but I still felt uncomfortable alone in a new house and a new neighborhood.

I put on a pair of jeans and crept downstairs. I was worried that something had happened to them.
Before I knew it, I was outside drenched by the rain. I ran across our lawn to the neighboring house. I ran until I reached their door. The porch light was on and so were the lights in the living room. I peered through the windows to see if I could see inside, but I couldn’t. The curtains blocked me from seeing anything.

I rang the
doorbell, but no one came. If the lights were all on, then someone had to be there, right? I waited, my nervousness now getting the better of me. I began to swear at how stupid I was and how stupid my brother was for leaving me alone. I rang it again, but this time I put my hand on the front door. It opened with a soft creak. Some sort of old school jazz music was playing in the background. I inched forward slowly.

“Hello?” I said, my voice cracking from my fear.
“I'm your new neighbor, Kassia. I heard a loud sound and thought you might need some help.” I waited, but still nothing.

I moved gradually through the hallway passing a staircase.
The music was getting louder as I headed towards the kitchen. I could see pure white tiles lining the floor. My eyes were drawn to a deep red liquid, which had etched itself through the tiles’ grout. My breathing became erratic. I suddenly knew what I was looking at. My mind froze but my body kept going. The pool of blood was now getting larger; that’s when a small knocking sound came from behind me. My breath hitched and I turned around. My eyes zeroed in at the front door. If I run now, I could be back home and safe. I picked up my pace, but a small sound came from behind me. Underneath the staircase was a small cabinet, which I hadn’t noticed before. I reached for the handle and opened it.

I was startled out of my dream, well more like a nightmare. Post-its were stuck on my face. Fuck, I must have fallen asleep writing again, I said to myself as I peeled off each Post-it. My computer screen was still on and the famous aquarium screensaver scrolled across my desktop.

Damn it! Every time! Every
fuckin’ time, I always wake up at that point. I was never able to see past the cabinet door.

It was raining outside.
I guess the sounds of the rain must have triggered my dream.

“Kassia?” My brother’s voice startled me.

He had a key to my house and made it a regular routine to pop by whenever he wanted, especially after that night. It may have been seventeen years ago, but my brother never really forgave himself. I had told him so many times that it wasn’t his fault, but he still carried it with him.

“You’re still writing?”
he asked as he walked into my office.

“Yeah, I was inspired
,” I lied.

I was in the middle of a seriously annoying writer’s block.
They happened rarely to me, only because I never forced my stories to come, but this one was killing me. My editor was on my back, which pissed me off and he knew it. I was not the type of writer who worked on a deadline. When the story came, it came. I was longing for the days I was an anonymous eBook writer, whom no one really paid any attention to. The freedom back then was unbelievable and I only understood it years after I became popular. The pressure to churn out books was becoming too much. The more popular my books got, the more I thought about my stories and the words I used, making me second-guess myself constantly.

“You’re lying to me
,” he said as he took off a Post-it I hadn’t seen.

“Whatever.”
I shrugged my shoulders. He pulled on my office chair, rolling me through my hallway to my bedroom and flipping the chair onto my bed.

He was strong and tall and I rarely messed with him.
Well, I used to when I was little. Whenever he didn’t play with me, I made sure he paid for it.

How you ask?

Well, I would hurt myself and then blame it on him, making my mother punish him. He learned quickly how to deal with me. You see, he was older than I was by seven years. I would never tell him to his face, but I looked up to him. Whatever he did, I wanted to do too. He was a source of strength, on which I had become dependent.

“Listen! You little shit, go to sleep!
The reason why you can’t write is because all you do is stare at that stupid computer screen,” he shouted.

He worked as the head personal trainer for the New York Giants.
So he was well paid, fit and good looking, meaning he was a man whore. No woman was ever really able to rein him in, but boy did they fuckin’ try.

“You can leave now, Darios.” I shooed him away.

“I’ll leave after I eat. I'm starving. Training those guys took all day.” He walked out of my bedroom and headed down my hallway to my large spiral iron staircase, which led to my spacious kitchen, which was two floors down.

When I first started writing
, it was a healing tool my therapist had suggested I do, to help me cope with what had happened. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. When I finished my first book, I sent it out trying to find a publisher, but no one wanted me. I then tried to find myself an agent, thinking I could easily get one since I thought my story was great. That failed too. After countless rejections, I decided to venture out on my own. Self-publishing wasn’t easy. I had close friends who helped me edit my work, but still mistakes would happen. Paying a freelance editor wasn’t in my budget. I did the best I could, gaining more experience, as each book was published.

At first
, my book didn’t sell well, even though I got rave reviews from those who bought it. By my third book, sales began to snowball. It felt nice. My work had finally received the attention it deserved. It was hard to be proud of myself, since I felt like I had no real talent. In my eyes, all I did was string words together and nothing else.

I had three different series and a few independent books.
My three series had gained a lot of popularity and now were in the works to becoming movies and cable TV shows. All the money from my writing allowed me to buy a nice brownstone in Harlem. I loved my home. It was nestled on a tree-lined street with local bakeries and upcoming restaurants. The area was now growing with affluent families and business people trying to make it in New York. Most were transplants, unlike me who was a born New Yorker. New York was like no other place in the world. That’s why I loved it so much.

I stood up from my bed and headed downstairs to the kitchen.
As I walked down each floor, I could see my floor to ceiling library. I had them built into each floor. Yeah, that’s exactly how much I read. It was a form of escapism. It was George R.R. Martin who said,
‘a reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one.’

I finally reached the last step and saw my brother hunched over my stainless steel refrigerator, looking for food to eat.

“I know you cooked. I can still smell the food,” he said with his body nearly inside my fridge.

“It’s at the bottom of the fridge.
I made chili,” I said, as I took a bottle of water I had on my counter.

“Why don’t you just kill me?”
he grumbled, as he took out the Tupperware and placed it on the counter next to the microwave.

“Forgive me.
My psychic powers were out of whack. Had I known you were coming, I wouldn’t have cooked at all.”

He took out a plate from the cabinet and began to scoop out the food
onto the plate.

“Bite me!”
he retorted.

“I have. Remember
?” He glared at me and I smiled and winked. He had a scar on his arm because of me. What? Don’t judge me. The man wouldn’t play with me.

The microwave dinged and Darios took out the plate and placed it in front of him.

“So?”
he said, forking his food.

“So?” I said back.

“What’s going on?”
he asked, placing his fork full of food in his mouth.

“Nothing much.” I stayed
tight-lipped.

“Nothing much?” He rolled his eyes. “I'm your
Brother, you know this, right?” I shrugged. “Is your latest book giving you a hard time?”

I sighed heavily and an eruption of words came out.

“Yes! My stupid editor is pushing me too damn hard and the words don’t seem to want to come out. The screenplay is killing me. Thankfully, my agent is helping me. I’m scared and nervous that it will flop and not live up to the readers’ standards. My deadline is looming close and I'm going to miss it and the fucker is being too much!” By the last word, I was ready to stand up, call my editor and wring his neck. My old editor had retired and they gave me this new douchebag, who didn’t understand me at all.

“You’re the writer. They make money off of you, tell him off or tell them to find someone new.” My brother kept chewing his food.

“I wanted to give him a try, see if he would be a positive influence on me. Plus, I didn’t want to seem like a bitch right away. Yes, I'm having trouble with the latest book and he keeps telling me which only makes it worse.” I took my bottle and drank the last of the water.

“What’s it about?” he asked.

“It’s not so much as ‘what’s it about
,’ as much as how do I make it into a three book deal? He wants three books and I can only make this into two. He doesn’t get that the storyline and the characters will suffer otherwise. So the third book has now become the bane of my existence,” I whined, annoyed that I got myself into this stupid predicament.

“You know he only wants to make his mark using you.
Ditch the guy or your writing will suffer.” Darios had finished his meal and stood up, taking the plate to the sink.

“I guess
,” I said meekly.

“You must be tired. There’s no way my little sister would let a jerk
-off like him step all over her.”

I shrugged at his comment. “I'm exhausted.”

He moved closer to me and patted me on the head.

“Come with me to the gym tomorrow.
Work out your frustrations with some boxing, then call the fucker and tell him off. You know it would make you feel better.” I slid off my stool and headed upstairs. “I’ll be here at ten to pick you up. Be ready!” he shouted after me. I reached the second floor and I could still see him downstairs getting ready to leave.

“Oh
, Darios?” I called out.

“Yeah?” He nudged his head to look up.

“Dishwasher!”

He rolled his eyes and marched back into the kitchen, taking the plate out of the sink and placing it into the dishwasher.

“Night!” I shouted, as I reached the third floor.

“Night,” he called out, closing the door behind him.