The Dark Prince (The Dark Light Series)(42)
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SUBJECT: (none)
Dark Light,
8 months
Align with the Dark or Die
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Ugh! Seriously? So now messages at my job? I get the freakin’ point. A bunch of threatening messages is not going to sway my decision. And can they be any more predictable? First, Dorian cancels our plans for some unknown reason and now I get some asinine cyber threat? Just not my day.
Out of sheer annoyance I hit the ‘Reply’ button and begin to fashion my own email.
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SUBJECT: Real original
Dear Dark Assholes,
I get the point. Showing me that you know how to log onto a computer and utilize Google must’ve taken some pretty keen strategizing on your part.
Really, really cool trick. Now leave me the hell alone.
-The DL
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I hesitate before pressing ‘Send,’ knowing that I am just provoking them and asking for trouble. But hell, I don’t care. If they want to harass me for simply living, then they can get a taste of their own medicine. Soon after I have sent the message, I receive an ‘Undeliverable’ notice in response. Oh great. Seconds later, I get another email from Dorian.
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SUBJECT: STOP
Gabriella,
Don’t ever do that shit again. I’m serious.
-D
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The fuck? How did he know? It doesn’t even surprise me. Something obviously has crawled up his ass and his attempt at reprimanding me just makes me even more annoyed. I power down my computer without responding and rejoin Carmen on the sales floor for the remainder of the evening, desperately trying to forget all forces of Dark, Light or other.
As I am counting the register after closing, I receive a text message from Morgan, asking me to swing by the grocery store and pick up another package of taco shells. I lock up the store for the night and jump in my trusty Honda and head for the nearby market, which lucky for me, stays open late. The aisle housing the Mexican cuisine features an array of products and brands. I choose one at random, and when I turn to head for the register, I nearly collide with a broad chest clothed in navy blue pinstripes.
“Uh, um, excuse me,” I stammer, taking a step back to gather myself.
“No, excuse me,” a deep baritone croons.
I look up to give the gentlemen an apologetic smile and am struck senseless by the mere sight of him. Smooth tan skin with not even a shadow of stubble, dark slicked hair, and striking blue eyes. He’s tall with broad shoulders, draped in what I can only imagine is an expensive designer tailored suit. I can tell he’s a good bit older than I am, maybe mid 30s at the most, but as handsome and dashing as he is, no man 10 years his junior could compete. Now I know what the term ‘debonair’ means; he is the living embodiment of it.
From what I can see in the few seconds our eyes lock, the man emanates class and elegance, causing an unwelcomed pulsing below to break me from my musings. I quickly flash him a nervous grin and all but run to the checkout to mask my flushed cheeks. Wow, I must really be craving Dorian. Other than him, I’ve never been so sexually affected just by a simple glance.
I race home, trying to escape my embarrassingly erotic reaction to the painfully handsome stranger and the image of his enticing smirk as he watched me exit. Shit! Something was off about that man. Something I’ve seen before. Felt before. I can’t be certain but a deep-seated instinct is telling me that whoever- whatever- he is, he’s dangerous. And I was dangerously drawn to him. I shake my head, trying to dispel my guilt-mixed desire, and make my way inside to my friends and many needed shots of tequila.
“Gabs! You’re home!” Jared slurs, enrapturing me in one of his famous bear hugs. Looks like he’s already beat me to it.
“Hey, Jared! I missed you, buddy!” I greet him, equally enthusiastic. I make it a point not to bring up Tammy’s condition. This night is about fun, and anguish mixed with hard liquor is not a good combination. “Where’s Aurora?”
“She couldn’t make it but this really isn’t her thing anyway,” he shrugs nonchalantly. “Definitely our thing though.” He gives me a little nudge of his elbow and returns his attention back to loading his plate.
Platters of tacos, nachos, salsa, guacamole, and condiments crowd our dining room table along with a pitcher of margaritas. I toss my purse and head to the kitchen to stow the taco shells. When I return to the fiesta, I see that Morgan has on a giant sombrero, a margarita in one hand and is about to belt out a tune on the karaoke machine. Wow. Even Dolce, her pretentious Chihuahua, has on a brightly colored outfit and mini sombrero. Jared, James and Miguel are all lounging on the couches, munching, laughing and talking.
As I grab a plate and a family-sized margarita, I smile at the sight of my friends. It’s just like old times- the five of us hanging out, acting like rowdy college kids. We were carefree, only worrying about the prospect of getting lucky that night or not being too hungover at work or class the next day. This is how it should be. We should get the chance to be young and dumb instead of being bogged down by supernatural crises.