I went back to work on my nail polish and bit back a nasty retort as the tears threatened.
“Will you attend the poker game tonight?” he asked as if nothing important had passed between us.
“Sure,” I muttered.
“Bring your guy. I’d love to meet him.” With that my frighteningly beautiful father disappeared in a blast of black glitter and smoke. He was insane if he thought I’d bring my friend—completely insane.
Chapter 2
“How was the poker game last night?” my best friend Stella asked as we tried to find something edible in the college commissary.
“Dad won.”
“Your dad always wins.”
“He cheated,” I muttered as I grabbed a sandwich and a bag of chips.
“So? He’s Satan.”
“Does anyone have morals here?”
“Dixie, we’re Demons. We live in Hell. What do you expect?” Stella asked logically. The crabby Demon with the unibrow behind the food counter slid a nasty-looking bowl of what could pass for beef stew onto my BFF's tray. Stella, never wanting to cause a scene, accepted the offending bowl and moved on.
She was correct, and I didn’t quite fit in. I never had and Hell knows I tried. I slid my tray quickly past the lunch lady and avoided the rank-looking stew.
"The commissary sucks," Stella lamented as she tried not to gag at the aroma rising from her tray. "I should have gone to college on Earth."
"Agree." I nodded as I made my way through the crowd to a table.
The Demon College looked more like a high school than a college—lockers and all. The commissary looked like a freakin’ high school lunchroom because up until a couple of years ago it had been. Most Demons, if they chose to pursue a higher degree, went to Harvard, MIT, Princeton, Yale, or Northwestern on Earth. From what I understood Angels tended to prefer the party schools. Since my father decreed I wasn’t ready to go to Earth four years ago, he created the Demon College—where my old high school formerly stood. While the education was top notch, the accommodations left a lot to be desired.
“Holy Hell, your boyfriend is staring at you,” Stella whispered gleefully.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I hissed.
“Does he know that?” Stella’s smile broadened as she enjoyed my discomfort.
Glancing around the commissary, I spotted the person I dreamt about on a nightly basis and I debated my next move. Did I stay or did I go? Being near my secret fantasy made me stupid. I’d far rather be mysterious than idiotic. He made me feel hot, cold and tingly at the same time and I’d barely uttered a word to him all year. Go. I would go—just put my tray down and be out of the commissary in a minute flat—or I could dematerialize…but then I could end up anywhere. I didn’t quite have the hang of dematerializing to places I was actually trying to go. Last week I tried to travel to the mall and ended up in my father’s chambers while he was getting busy with his pregnant consort Amanda. Bleach couldn’t remove that one from my brain.
"I'm out of here," I muttered as I started walking. Speeding up my pace, I hightailed it to the tray drop praying to every deity I could think of that I didn’t run into the man of my dreams. In all of my inexperience I was liable to either drool or bodily throw myself at him.
“He’s still watching you,” Stella whispered as she followed close on my heels.
I rolled my eyes. “He’s not watching me.”
“Wrong,” she trilled happily.
“Stella, hush. Someone will hear you.” She was my best friend, and if I didn’t love her so much I would take great pleasure in killing her.
“Oh please.” She waggled her eyebrows and made smooching noises. Pretending I didn’t know her was impossible and I seriously considered dematerializing, but a healthy fear of seeing my father’s naked ass stopped me.
“He is totally gone on you,” she informed anyone within hearing distance—which was everyone—as she chased me. “And you are so gone. . .watch out,” Stella yelped.
I stopped short to avoid running into Vincent van Gogh, my art teacher. Dressed in a purple velvet cape and a frighteningly poofy hat, he was weaving his way toward the open bar. It was Hell, after all, where mixing alcohol and academia was the norm. Van Gogh had a very close relationship with his absinthe. When the great master died he had the choice between Heaven and Hell. He chose Hell, much to my Uncle God’s disgust. Van Gogh, while brilliant and extremely funny when he wasn’t morbidly depressed, was clearly intoxicated. Did no one notice or care about these things besides me? Much was overlooked in Hell, but drunk was drunk.#p#分页标题#e#