The Halo Effect (Cupid Chronicles) (2 page)

Chapter 2

Noble swung open the door to Gentry’s Tattoo Studio with a vengeance. He’d had precious little sleep and he was in a foul mood. His plan tonight: get in, finish his appointments ASAP, get the heck outta Dodge. If Sweet Cheeks’ kid had that damned radio blaring again, he’d introduce it to the not-so-friendly side of his boot.

“Hey, Noble!” Michael, otherwise known as “The Angel” to his customers, looked up from the young woman’s lower back currently getting inked with one of Michael’s specialties: The über-realistic angel tramp stamp. His three hundred pound girth overflowed the small stool he perched on. His grin and the girly angels he was always tattooing were in complete opposition to his leather-wearing biker dude appearance. Oxymoron was an understatement when it came to Mike. And his eternally grinning mug wasn’t helping Noble’s mood. Luckily, the ever-bubbly Ariel, Michael’s new BFF and the studio’s receptionist and piercing artist, wasn’t in yet for the evening. He couldn’t handle a double-dose of their cheer.

Noble grunted and made his way to his private stock of cold Cokes hidden in the back. He opened the office and flipped on a light. If the owner of this joint wasn’t also his best and oldest friend—practically his only family in the world, really—he would’ve cussed the bastard. Because he should’ve been here running the show while Noble got to sleep in.

But, he couldn’t begrudge Jed any of his happiness. The son-of-a-gun deserved it. And plus, he thought with a sly smile, they were all gonna win when Jed’s cute little wifey came back and became the official studio accountant. Sweet deal.

He sat at Jed’s desk and propped his feet up with a sigh as he popped the top of his soda with a hiss. Yeah, he admitted to himself, he may bitch about the work, yada, yada, yada, but he needed this opportunity to prove himself as a potential business partner. He knew no one, least of all himself, ever considered him to be more than the laidback guy working in the background. Sure, he was cool-headed and mellow most of the time, but he was learning he could flip that switch and run the ship like a friggin’ Nazi dictator if the situation called for it.

He sighed and stared up at the ceiling as self-doubt ate at his gut. He’d probably never have what it takes to start his own gig. That required a level of finesse and brains that he just didn’t have. But he could buy in, and it was time . . . time to be more than just another tattoo artist working for his friend.

He flinched as Michael’s laughter boomed through the wall. Big, bald lovable oaf was like a bull in a china shop. Strange thing was, when Jed and Kyle ran off to get married, Michael had left, too. He’d just disappeared. Noble thought he’d hightailed it to work for someone else or start his own shop. Then, one day out of the blue, he showed up again. Good thing, too, because the customers came asking for him in droves.
I need The Angel for a portrait of my dead aunt,
or
I want an angel that looks like Cameron Diaz tattooed across my ass.
The requests were as bizarre as they were frequent.

Noble ran a hand down his face and closed his eyes. It felt like someone had superglued sandpaper behind his eyelids. He really was exhausted. The mosh pit music pumping out of the house next door had seriously interrupted his Z’s. Was this going to be an ongoing occurrence?

“Noble!”

He shot up, sloshing Coke onto his jeans when Michael bellowed his name from the front of the studio.

“Fuck!” He scrambled for a napkin, finding only wadded up Kleenex. “Yeah?” he yelled back.

“Your appointment’s here!”

Great. Well, he’d tattooed on less sleep before. He stood and chugged the last of the liquid gold caffeine before making his way out to the main floor.

Gentry’s was an upscale studio in the hills of West Austin and it catered to the upper echelon of people seeking tattoos and piercings. Those on the music scene, businessmen, the quietly wealthy of all sorts. Sometimes the not-so-quiet.

Noble quickly realized this was going to be one of those times. Standing amongst an entourage the size of a tiny country was none other than Kristoff the Crusher—the biggest and most feared name in professional wrestling. He absolutely filled up the waiting area, nearly as tall as the ceiling, with a scantily clad, well-endowed woman draped over each arm.

As Noble approached the sea of humanity, he was struck by the thought that the Crusher should have been totally out of place in the studio’s delicate Asian inspired interior and honey-colored walls with the meditative Muzak Jed insisted on playing. But, strangely, the giant man seemed right at home.

Once Noble was closer, the big man peered down and offered him a giant, toothy smile. “Hello,” his Russian-laced voice boomed out. “I am Kris.” He let go of one of his lady friends and extended a hand the size of a baseball mitt as the distinctive scents of peppermint and expensive liquor—Noble couldn’t tell from whom—overwhelmed the incense that usually filled the lobby.

Noble wasn’t a short man at 6’2, but he had to crane his neck to look up. He allowed his own hand to be engulfed, trusting the guy to not break every bone in it. “I’m Noble. So, you’re Kris Russian?” He smiled at the irony of the pseudonym he’d used to book the appointment. He wasn’t surprised; celebrities had used crazier ones.

“Yes.” The Crusher laughed heartily. “Is funny, no?” He wrapped his arm around his lady again, engulfing her.

Noble nodded and glanced around at the stone-faced group surrounding him. It resembled a mini Mafia. Surely the guy didn’t need any bodyguards. What was up with all the muscle? Maybe it was all for show. “So.” He turned back to his client. He thought back to the amount of time booked. Make that his very expensive client. So much for hitting the hay early. “What can I do for you?”

The Crusher snapped his meaty fingers. One of his Armani-clad, Guido-looking cohorts produced a folded piece of paper. “I hear you are one of the best. I vant this tattooed across my back.” He gave Noble a moment to study the pictures. “Is very impressive, yah?”

Noble dipped his head as he tried to envision just how in the hell he was going to get the Russian flag, the Hammer and Sickle, and a Russian double-headed eagle to congeal into a seamless tattoo that didn’t look like one hot mess. Especially since potentially millions of people would see his work on this guy’s back every week when he wrestled on national television.

Fuck
.

Double fuck.

Noble glanced up with what he hoped was a confident smile. “Tell you what, Kristoff. Can you give me a little bit of time to sketch something up for you?” He glanced down at his watch then back up. “Say about thirty, forty-five minutes? Grab yourselves a coffee or whatever and hopefully I’ll have something really special ready when you get back. Papa Turoni’s next door is great. Is that cool?”

Crusher offered another huge grin that rivaled one of Michael’s. “Sure. No problem. We get espresso.” He strode out, his entourage behind him.

Noble shot Michael a look as he made for the solitude of Jed’s office to think through his current Russian dilemma. Michael offered him a commiserating smile as he taped a loose dressing over his client’s finished tattoo.

Noble hustled and got to work, pulling from everything he’d learned over the years as he’d literally slaved his way to earning his reputation. He wasn’t about to let one Russian wrestler best his art. It was all he had. But, if he was lucky, when Jed came home and saw the value in a partnership, it wouldn’t be that way much longer.

If it took all night, this would be the best tat of his life. All hail Mother Russia tonight.

Michael watched in awe as the Russian guy and his massive crew made their exit. He glanced toward Ariel’s workstation. His petite partner-in-crime, as he liked to think of her, had arrived earlier to pick him up but he was busy, so she was straightening up her area while she waited. She looked over and offered him a small grin.

He made his way over to her and smiled into her sparkling, ice blue eyes. “Sorry, Ariel.” He plopped his wide girth onto a stool next to her. “That tattoo was a doozy. We’re gonna be late to our AA meeting. We need to go now. They might’ve already sealed the doors.”

She flitted about her workstation, organizing her piercing paraphernalia; the very image of the sprite many accused her of being with her gauzy blouse and multi-colored beaded necklace. If only they knew how close they were to the truth.

“It’s all right, Michael,” she chimed in her pixie voice. “Gabriel will understand.” She lowered her voice. “After all, an angel’s gotta do what an angel’s gotta do. Right?”

He felt his face flush and looked around to make sure no one had heard her.

She put a tiny hand on his shoulder. “Our secret is safe.” She shot a glance toward Jed’s back office where Noble currently sat. Noble was Michael’s current assignment on Love Detail and Ariel’s as well, as his sort of cupid intern.

“This time,” he admonished her gently. “But you
must
be more careful. We have to maintain our cover. And, more importantly, we have our Commandments. The humans cannot know of our business.” He stole another quick glance. No one was listening. “If Father has to pull us out and our matches are not made, it would be a serious infraction and Love’s loss.”

She furrowed her delicate black brows. “I’m sorry, Michael. I will do better.”

“I know you will. Now hurry up. We need to get going.”

He left her to finish her clean up and went back to his own station to grab his jacket. He didn’t mean to be overly harsh. He’d been tasked with teaching her, not with breaking her spirit. And he’d done his research. He thought he had the perfect idea how to break her in on this case. He’d been doing this job for centuries, and though he’d lost his direction for a while because of his own fearful heart, he’d learned that love was, indeed, the greatest treasure Father gifted to humans
and
angels. It was an honor to watch the fruits of his labor blossom into the wonder of true love destined by God Himself.

But, he also knew how hard it could be. He’d been given some real humdinger assignments over the years. Jed and Kyle, most recently, had been nearly impossible. They’d truly tested the might of his ingenuity and had made him pull every trick from under his halo to beat them at their own stubbornness. But, in the end, they had proven that true love conquers all.

And, Lord Almighty, he would need it all again this time. Because though Michael was not privy to all the intimate details of his human assignment’s histories like Father was, he’d known Noble long enough to know he carried around a wounded heart. Perhaps the heaviest he’d ever had to contend with as a cupid. And that could wreak havoc on an angel’s plans.

Michael pulled on his black jacket, enjoying the distinct, crisp smell of the leather the same way the humans did. He also put on his thinking cap, because if he knew Noble the way he thought he did, on this assignment, he’d have to find a way to unsink the
Titanic
.

Chapter 3

Okay, so she didn’t live a life of luxury. Braelyn knew she still had a pretty good life somewhere in there as she wiped a runny nose and helped her student, Daisy, keep still while the school nurse unclogged Daisy’s feeding tube.

Sometimes being a special education teacher was so, so glamorous.

She wiped some mysterious gunk from her hands on the leg of her pants and offered the children in the classroom around her a smile. “We’ll be done here in a minute. Then we can finish our game.” She aimed pleading eyes at her assistant. “Miss Brittany, will you get everyone settled down?”

Dear, sweet, darling, Miss Brittany used all the mysterious charm God had given her and got the rowdy group of middle-schoolers into some semblance of order in their seats. Braelyn could never do this job without her.

Overhead, the industrial, school-issued clock ticked like a giant metronome. It was close to lunchtime and the kids were getting restless. Braelyn looked down. The nurse was nearly done and water was flowing smoothly through the thin plastic tube. Yeah. She offered the tiny girl an encouraging smile and took a fortifying breath for herself. She really did love her job, even with the stresses and occasional hiccups in her days. Most of her kids were pretty easy to handle. Nothing like what she had dealt with before.

Jeremy, her most mentally challenged student, ambled over and patted Daisy’s arm with a hand that seemed too big for his age. “Hello, Daisy,” he lisped. “I have Oreos for lunch today.” Jeremy had Oreos for lunch every day.

“I know.” Daisy smiled at him. She never seemed to mind when Jeremy shared this news with her every single day even though she was fed formula through a plastic tube and couldn’t taste the chocolaty wonder of an Oreo. Braelyn wanted to weep for her sometimes.

The phone on the wall buzzed. Brittany shot her a meaningful glance. “You get it. I’ve got this.” In other words:
Take a break.
She wanted to kiss her.

Braelyn thanked her and moved to answer the ringing line. On the way, she remembered that during her lunch break she needed to find a plumber to come out to the house and fix her stupid kitchen sink. Her temporary patch job wasn’t holding. If she was lucky, maybe one would come out tonight before she went to the nursing home, her sanctuary in this crazy world.

She grabbed the phone. “Hello? Miss Campbell’s room.”

“Miss Campbell, we’ve got a call for you from the high school,” the front secretary’s monotone voice crackled through the line. “Want me to put it through?”

Well, shoot fire! What now?
She took in her classroom; no one seemed to be paying her any mind. All the kids were wrapped up playing with Brittany as they bounced a bright pink balloon around the room. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Maybe it was something innocent. “Sure. Thanks.”

There was a beep followed by a couple of clicks. “Hello?” she finally said when the line was clear.

“Miss Campbell?”

Uh, oh
. Principal Lyman’s voice—nasally, like he had an eternal cold. This was not a good call. She tried to steel herself for bad news. “Yes.”

“Hello. I’m calling about Tristan. I’ve got him here in my office.”

Her heart rate sped up so fast, it nearly tied her tongue. “Is he all right?”

“Well, he and another young man were caught fighting on the school grounds this morning. So he has a bit of a bloody lip and a few bruises, but the school nurse took a look at him and otherwise he’s fine.”

Her jaw dropped open. “A fight?”

“Yes, Miss Campbell. A fight.” He seemed to be mocking her.
Yes, even your perfect little angel can do something bad like get into a fight.

“What happened?”

“It’s not clear at this point. It’s a bit of your son’s word against the other boy’s. But Tristan says the other boy called him some vulgar names and pushed him so he defended himself.”

“Oh.”

“But,” he interrupted, “either way, we do not tolerate violence of any kind here in our school. We are very clear about the rules in our
Student Code of Conduct Handbook
. So both boys will be disciplined accordingly.”

Her heart rate picked up several more beats. “And exactly
how
will my son be punished for defending himself, Principal Lyman?”

He cleared his throat. “He’s in ISS for the rest of today, then both boys will be suspended for the next three days.”

She didn’t quite know how to respond. She was a teacher in the school district. He was a principal. She owed him due respect. But inside, she was a seething mother who wanted to stand up for her boy. She focused on her bulletin board display of the planets until she had some composure. The blue edging that was beginning to peel. Swirly Jupiter—like a brown gumball. Mars. Saturn’s rings.

“Fine. Tell Tristan we’ll talk about it after school. Goodbye.” She hung up on the man and his nasally breathing. It made her feel better.

As Braelyn drove home after school, she tried to mentally prepare herself to deal with Tristan. No easy feat. She was also giving serious thought to Brittany’s suggestion. She’d finally confided in her assistant about her concerns that Tristan’s behavior stemmed from his loser of a father. Scratch that. She was absolutely certain. But she just didn’t know how to help the poor kid. And that’s when Brittany had suggested trying to get him signed up with Big Buddies of Texas for a “big buddy” or male role model.

“It would be good for him, don’t you think? His dad’s not around at all, right?”

Brittany’s question had been innocent enough. No, his dad wasn’t around. Punk. And she couldn’t believe she’d never thought of anything like that herself. He seemed to enjoy the company of the older men at the nursing home, as much as he whined to the contrary. And going there was certainly good for her spirits. But, perhaps he needed someone a bit younger who could relate to the issues he was facing?

Then, in a rebellious frenzy, her mind summoned a vision of the hottie next door. She firmly pushed the thought away. No way, no how was
that
guy big buddy material. He’d tackled her kid last week, for cryin’ out loud. But, the little devil on her shoulder whispered in her ear,
He was trying to protect you
. Her soft, girly parts sighed in response. She couldn’t help it. And she’d yelled at him and treated him like
he
was the bad guy. She cringed at the memory.

He probably thinks I’m loony toons now.

“I really need to apologize to the man,” she whispered aloud, guilt niggling her.

He was usually at his house when she got home from work in the evenings. Or at least his truck was. On instinct, she pulled into the grocery store parking lot. There was one way to make good with a man. Well, okay, one that could be purchased at the Kroger bakery.

Twenty minutes later, armed with a fresh dozen chocolate chip cookies and a smile, she made her way up to the reclusive, yet hot, neighbor’s door and knocked. She glanced around and noticed he kept the place neat, if a bit “bachelor-ish,” with not a living thing in sight other than the grass in the yard and a tiny spider up in a corner web. Not even a welcome mat.

She knocked again, a little louder. Still no answer. She pivoted as the air brakes of Tristan’s school bus hissed in the distance. She wanted to be home to meet him. She scrambled, wondering what to do with the stupid cookies. She set them down and fished through her pockets. She came up with the receipt from the store for the cookies, her Diet Coke, the chicken she’d bought for dinner, and a box of Tampax.

“Whatever,” she said with a sigh.

She pulled the Sharpie still stuck her pocket from school and scribbled a quick apology for her behavior on the back of the receipt, as well as a thank you for his attempt at rescuing a damsel-in-distress. Hopefully he would appreciate her sense of humor and forgive her.

She tucked the note in the corner of the box and left the cookies on the doorstep, hoping he’d find them before the ants did, and ran home. Oh well, she’d tried.

She stood in the driveway and waited, glancing around at her small yard, proud of her thriving grass, even though she’d just moved in, and her fresh bed of cotton-candy-colored phlox. She was even getting to know some of the neighbors—for better or worse. Mrs. Arnold’s yappy little dog? Definitely worse. Hottie next door? The jury was still out.

Someone’s hickory smoke barbeque scented the cooling Texas evening air. A bird cawed, making her turn to seek it out, having to shield her eyes from the sun. That’s when she finally spotted him. Tristan ambled down the street at his own meandering pace with his iPod earbuds firmly in place as usual. She watched as he approached the mysterious next-door neighbor’s house. Something there seemed to bring him out of his pubescent reverie. He snapped to attention, his eyes focused in on something intently. His steps slowed as he began to pass the garage. From her vantage point she couldn’t see what had her son so enthralled, but the curiosity was killing her.

A sudden roar rumbled out of the neighbor’s garage and settled into the low vibration of a powerful motor. Tristan’s head jerked around faster than his body. He stumbled and fell, landing on the cement just as the man flew from the garage on a big, black motorcycle like something out of a dark mysterious dream.

In slow motion, Braelyn started to run toward them, a cry forming on her lips. It was all moving too fast. Her child was about to be run over and there wasn’t a thing she could do. Helpless, she waved her arms frantically as she ran on legs that had turned to jelly.

Unable to see what was happening behind a row of shrubs, fear clawed brutally up her throat as the threats she’d been running from caught up with her in no time flat. A thousand miles might as well have been one if she couldn’t protect her son.

Oh, God! Please don’t let him be hurt!

As she neared, he was lying motionless, crumpled on his side. Her heart thumped painfully and hot tears sprung to her eyes.

Finally, she could see him fully. He propped himself up on one elbow slowly and turned to stare up through wide, shocked eyes at the man who had jumped off his now side-lying motorcycle. The engine was still running with an idle drone.

Braelyn rushed up as the man lifted Tristan to his feet and they exchanged a few mumbled words.

“You nearly
killed
him!” she screamed as terror threatened to skin her alive. She ripped her son from his grip and scanned him for injury. “Are you all right, baby?” She hated that fear was making her voice tremble.

Tristan didn’t say a word. His shell-shocked gaze never left the man towering above them. Finally, he looked at her. She could see the mortification now written all over his face as her fear abated. He was fine. More than fine. He was his normal, teenage, don’t-touch-me self. He leaned over and picked up his backpack before loping off to the house with a shaky gait.

She looked down at the ground, then over to the neighbor’s bike. Obviously he’d seen Tristan in time to avoid hitting him. She’d embarrassed herself. Again.

He sauntered over and picked up the motorcycle like it weighed nothing and straddled it.

She approached him, her legs still a bit wobbly. “I’m . . .”

He eyed her with those black eyes. She swallowed and tried again. “I’m . . .”

He waved her off. “Sorry. I didn’t see the kid.”

She nodded as he gave what might’ve been a half-
half
smile, making her heart go a little wobbly.

She couldn’t speak. Mortification had left her speechless.

He didn’t seem to care. “I’ve gotta go.” He gunned the engine and drove away before she could finish another thought.

She stood there mesmerized as he zipped down the street like a man on a mission. Then she took a moment to compose herself before walking home.

Tristan eyed her warily as she stepped onto the porch. He must’ve been waiting to see what his punishment was after today. Embarrassed or not, he knew better than to lock himself in his room before she’d spoken to him about his behavior.

“Hey.”
In other words: Am I in trouble?

She took in his split lip and the bruises around his eye. She brushed the hair back from his forehead. For once, he didn’t shy away from her touch. Man, with his dark hair and deep, soulful eyes, he resembled his father more and more every day and it was like a pinprick to the heart every time she acknowledged it.

“Hey.”

He continued to study her face, waiting to see what else she’d say. “So . . .?”

“So, we’ll talk about it later. Come with me to the nursing home tonight? It’s bingo night,” she said to lighten the mood.

She volunteered every week, sometimes more, at Angelic Shores assisting the activities director because she had an affinity for the elderly. But more than that, it helped her feel close to her grandmother again, the only person who had ever really understood her. And working there eased the ache of her passing just a little. She tried to coax her son to participate once in a while to expose him to the importance of volunteerism.

He rolled his eyes. “Do I have to?”

She tilted her head. “Well, considering someone’s been suspended for three days and has nothing better to do with his time, I don’t see why not.”

He sighed heavily. “Fine. But I’m not doing bingo. Mrs. Roth always pinches my cheeks. I’m gonna hang out with the men if I go.”

“Okay. Go get cleaned up.” She watched him slink to his room. “Change your shirt!” she called after him.

She went to her bedroom to clean up as well and thought about the crazy path her life had taken to end up here—to a ramshackle house needing much more than the plumber she could barely afford, her son needing the father who no longer wanted him, and—most importantly—the primal instinct to care for her own in the face of threats. Nobody, especially no
man
, was going to threaten her livelihood, her self-worth or her body. But, above all other things, she vowed that never again would anyone threaten her son. She’d die first.