“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.
In an attempt to avoid body-slamming the great artist I veered left and unfortunately Stella had the same idea. She slammed into my back, covering what used to be my brand new hot pink Juicy sweat suit in rank beef stew.
“Shit,” she moaned as she tried to remove the potatoes, carrots and meat from my hair and the inside of my hood.
I froze and closed my eyes. As a child I used to think if I couldn't see anybody then they couldn't see me. It didn't work when I was five and I was fairly sure it wouldn't start working at twenty-one, but one could always hope. I also used to think that there were actual people in the TV.
“Hey Dixie.” An insanely sexy voice broke into my invisibility fantasy.
I pried open one eye, and much to my great horror and delight stood the object of my desire in the flesh. The most beautiful man I’d ever seen—Hayden Black.
“You okay?” he asked.
My stomach flipped, my tongue became sandpaper and I felt lightheaded. I shakily tucked my hair behind my ear in a move that I knew looked good on me and came back with a fistful of beef stew. “I’m great,” I lied. The heat crept up my neck and settled squarely on my cheeks. Holy Hell, could it get any worse?
“I’m going to skip the rest of the day and go cliff diving south of town. You want to come?” He smiled a lazy smile that made my breath hitch and all my unused lady parts tingle.
“I can’t,” I stammered. “I have a calculus exam. . .and I smell like beef stew, and I don’t have a swimsuit and I. . .”
“Another time then.” Hayden grinned and my heart skipped a beat. He reached out and ran his fingertips along my jaw line and his thumb across my lips. The shock of his touch jolted through my body and my knees buckled a little. “Another time.”