Birdy (Upper Echelon Duet Book 1)

two different sentences pretty much back to back. The first time, I was pulled over for a dead taillight on my Civic and wound up downtown for the six ounces of weed in my back seat. Tommy bonded me out within the hour, only for me to be hauled away when I showed up for court a few weeks later. Six months, one per ounce—that’s what the judge slapped me on the wrist with.
You’d think I learned, right?
Nope. I went right back to doing the same shit like I’d never gotten caught in the first place. Four months later, I was charged again for a similar crime. They got me with weed, cocaine, prescription pills, and various paraphernalia, too. Why I got off with six months a second time is beyond me, but that was the sentencing where the very same judge promised me I wouldn’t get off so easily a third.
They catch me now, and I’m going away for a long time.
End of story.
“I’m not even doing anything I’m not supposed to be doing!” A blatant lie, but what else is new?
Since I followed Tommy onto this depraved path, all we’ve done is lie to her.
Better to lie than starve.
“Estas segura? Because somehow I doubt your checks from La Carreta are able to pay your rent, your bills, my bills, and still leave you money a estar en la calle con ese hombre!”
Once again, she’s not wrong; those checks are pitiful, but I’m not going to stand here and argue about it until I’m blue in the face. It’s pointless, just like the conversation Ángel wants to “finish” tonight.
Nothing is going to come of it.
“Think whatever you want, Ma. I’m out.” Turning on my heel, I stalk through the house to the front door, counting the seconds until she comes speeding behind me to whoop my ass.
I think I make it to five when, surprisingly, I hear her bellow from the kitchen, “No seas tonta, Benita!” Don’t be stupid. “Open your eyes and realize what he’s doing to you.”
I roll them instead. I don’t need to open them or have this elaborate “Come to Jesus moment” she’s waiting for.
I already know.
He’s driving me crazy; that’s what he’s doing. I mean, here I am, walking myself into the inferno despite knowing how it’ll end.
Why?
Because Arcángel was handcrafted by the devil himself. He’s the embodiment of sin and temptation wrapped up in a suave, tattooed package that I can’t resist.
Rounding the front right of the house, I start down the long driveway to the taller two-story building behind my mom’s. Both are duplex style homes—my building is just stacked. We call it los altos. 
His car, that sexy-ass Mansory Renovatio, is parked behind my little Acura, the sight of it instantly quickening my pulse. I can’t see through the tints, but this beast definitely isn’t on, which means he’s upstairs already.
A low wolf whistle breaks through the neighborhood’s silence as I near the stairs. My lips twitch knowingly, but I don’t spare him a glance, keeping up the steps at an even pace. Our eyes don’t lock until I make it around the landing to the balcony.
There he is at the opposite end, propped up on his shoulder against my door.
Hands all casual in his pockets like he hasn’t a care in the world.
If it weren’t for the streetlight between my building and the house next door, I wouldn’t be able to see him. The all-black makes it easy to lose him in the shadows. Black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showcasing all his ink. Black slacks. Black shoes. He’s always encased in the ominous color. It’s part of his signature.
A glimpse of his pearly whites peek through a smirk, another wolf whistle resounding as I start toward him. My heart hammers, but I hold my head high.
“Benita,” he croons his usual greeting, quirking my lips.
“Ángel,” I return, sliding my key into the lock.
I can’t believe he’s here again.
We’re inside my space moments later. I turn on the lamp on the small table by the door while he shuts it and clicks the locks in place. The dim lighting does nothing to dull his gorgeous face.
I’m rapt, eyes glued on his formidable form as I undo my small apron and hang it on the coatrack.
He doesn't move, equally as rapt from his place by the door.  “How was work?”
“Work.” I shrug. “Same shit, different day.”
Ángel slowly nods as if he understands, then crooks a silent, beckoning finger.
No hesitation. I can’t. Everything about his darkness calls to my own, moving me toward him like a moth drawn to the most brilliantly tempting flame. A few mere steps, and I’m close enough for him to sweep up and pin me to the now-closed door. He’s got me suspended, trapped against his hard body, large hands clasping my ass as he crashes his mouth to mine.
Brutal. This kiss is fucking brutal—scorching, impassioned. Ángel has never put his lips on me like this before. That should have been my indication that the rest of the night would be brutal too.
“Me tienes loco,” he mumbles, digging me so hard into the door I can barely breathe. You’re driving me crazy. 
“Same,” I admit, fighting to take the lead from him. “Why are you doing this to us?”
“Me? I’m not doing shit. This right here is all you, mami. It’s all your fault.”
Scoffing against his assaulting lips, I manage to unlatch and suck in a heap of air, the tilt of my head giving him access to my neck, his teeth sinking into the exposed slope. “You’re wrong,” I mewl against the sting, eyes clamped shut as he grazes that sensitive spot beneath my ear. “It’s you trying to change the rules out of nowhere.”
“Fuck the rules, Benni,” he growls. “You know damn well that shit isn’t working for you either.”
“It was working fine. Everything was damn near perfect.” I don’t know who I’m trying to convince more—him or me—but apparently, it’s funny to him