A Want So Wicked (A Need So Beautiful #2)(2)
Author: Suzanne Young

The street outside is silent. Lucy knows better than to use her beat-up old Honda this late. My father has an extra sense, like a dog, that can tell the sound of her engine coming or going. So I assume her friend must have the wheels and is waiting at the end of the block. Lucy will text me to let her back in just before breakfast, sharing with me her secrets—both the exciting and the dangerous ones. I never really know which it’ll be.

Truthfully, I’m a little jealous of her extracurriculars. She seems so . . . alive. But I’m hopeful that the new job I’m starting today at Santo’s Restaurant will not only get me paid, but will also help me meet some quality people. Or I’ll just eat a lot of chimichangas. I’ll be all right either way.

As I get to my room, I’m struck with the oddest sensation, a déjà vu of sorts. I stop, reaching for the doorframe to steady myself. In my head I hear a whisper, or rather the memory of a whisper. The familiar voice is soft, and it warms me from the inside out as it murmurs a name: Charlotte.

Like a dream I can’t quite remember, this déjà vu is more a feeling than something I can describe coherently. It’s sweet and painful at the same time—an emotion that doesn’t make sense. And when it finally fades, leaving behind little more than a dull ache, I climb into bed. My fingers touch something cool under my pillow. Surprised, I slowly slide it out.

It’s an angel, set in a clear stone.

CHAPTER 2

In the morning, I decide that Lucy had to be the one who left the angel figurine under my pillow. She always does that—gives me gifts with no expectation of thanks. After losing our mother, she picked up the slack in the “leaving notes in my lunch bag” department. Although now that we’re older, she spares me the smiley faces.

It’s certainly odd that she picked an angel, since Lucy tries to avoid religion as much as one can in the house of a pastor. But I swear I’ve seen this before, and half wonder if it’s a throwaway from one of her exes.

Well, wherever it’s from, the gift is comforting, as if I now have someone watching out for me. So I slip it into the drawer of my bedside table and leave to shower.

* * *

I stand in the parking lot of Santo’s Restaurant, ready for my first day of work—ever. I’ve never had a job; have never even volunteered before. I’m like fresh meat being thrown to the wolves, but my father thought it would build character. Yeah, we’ll see.

A loud rumble cuts through the air, and I turn to see a hot guy ride by on his Harley, passing me on his way down Main Street. He’s wearing a brown leather jacket and dark sunglasses. For a second I hope he’ll look over at me, but instead he disappears around the corner at the end of the block.

My mouth twitches with a smile, as I consider any hot-guy sighting a sign of good things to come—or at least that’s what Lucy would say. With my fate on the upswing, I cross the gravel parking lot.

The hostess is on the other side of the glass door of Santo’s, wearing a checkered black-and-white dress with lace trim, wiping down and stacking menus.

I’ve eaten here a few times with my dad. Their enchiladas are tasty, their tacos not so much. When my father suggested I get a job for the summer, this was the only place I applied. I mean, the town’s not very big. It was either here or the hot-dog truck on Mission Boulevard.

I take one last look around the parking lot and see a tumbleweed, an actual tumbleweed, roll across the road. I laugh—proof that we live in the middle of nowhere.

A bell jingles when I push the door open. The white Formica counter is crowded with men in tan Carthartt overalls eating burritos and enchiladas. The temperature drops nearly twenty degrees as I step inside, the air-conditioning on full blast. The booths throughout the dining room are mostly empty.

The hostess snatches a menu and walks up hurriedly. “One for dinner?” she asks.

“Um . . . no. I’m Elise. I’m supposed to start today?”

The girl stares at me, her blond hair tied in a messy knot at her neck. “Oh.” She shuffles through the papers on the hostess stand, seeming confused. “I’ll have to grab someone.” She points toward a booth. “You can wait there. I’ll be right back.”

I thank her, and she zigzags around the tables of the dining room toward the swinging door that leads to the kitchen. My stomach turns with anxiety as I go to sit down, smiling politely at several customers when I do. The place is small but comfortable—as if everyone who comes in has known one another forever. I feel like such an outsider.

Suddenly there’s a prickle of cold air across my cheeks, over my arms. A wind that seems to brush my hair aside, although I’m sure it hasn’t moved at all. I glance up and see him—a server in a white button-down shirt, black pants, and black apron. He’s staring at me, his lips curved into a smile.

He murmurs something to the tattooed man behind the counter and grabs a glass of water, tucking a small pad of paper into his apron pocket. Nervousness creeps inside my chest as he walks my way. His grin is lopsided and confident against his tan skin, his black hair cropped short with the front brushed up. He’s stunning.

“Stop my heart,” he says, setting the glass in front of me. “You’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen all summer. I had to give Mario twenty bucks to pick up this table. Hope you tip well.”

“What?” I ask. Did he have me confused with someone else?

“And I swear I’m not just saying that because you’re the only customer in here under fifty.” He gestures toward the other tables.

I look around, making sure his words are meant for me. When it’s clear that they are, I shake my head. “Oh, I’m not actually a—”

“By the way,” he interrupts, holding out his hand. “I’m Abe. Your future love interest.” I wait for him to laugh it off, but instead he sits down across from me. I lower my eyes, unable to meet his dark gaze.

Unlike my sister, I don’t date. Or at least I never have. My father likes to think it’s all of his “wait for the right guy” speeches, but really I just haven’t found anyone who I click with as more than a friend. And Abe doesn’t really seem the friend type, not with an approach like that.

“What’s your name?” Abe asks, putting his elbows on the table and leaning forward.

“Elise.”

His smile fades, and he tips his head back to laugh. “Aw, man. You’re the new server, aren’t you?”