Dante took a cloverleaf exit ramp and stopped at a red light. He had dealt with hundreds of girls just like Angel, and not once had he felt like this. The near by street sign read Frank Road. Angel turned her face away from the door. But why? “No,” he corrected, turning to look at Angel. “I’ll be out in the living room. More scars, even more noticeable than those on her front, sliced their way across her back. She had been beaten to a pulp, broken, thrown out, sold, and used. Dante slowed the car as he drove past them. “Sit,” he requested more than demanded, nodding to the couch next to him, to which Angel replied by promptly by sitting at the far end of the love seat, that was perpendicular to the couch. He pointed over her right shoulder, “you’re with him.”
Angel looked over to a black Cadillac. But, why lie? Her eyes narrowed into a glare, but she sat as commanded when Dante walked back out of the room.
