Guardian Angel

By SK Sutphen

Joseph Storch has an enviable life. He owns a successful financial services firm, has scads of money, a mansion in the hills, and a beautiful wife. But as the fraud his success is built upon comes crashing down, his life, as he knows it, is over. In a fit of despair, he puts a Glock to his head and prepares to pull the trigger.

That's when his guardian angel appears and tells him not to bother - he will be dead in a week anyway. But, during that week, he can change the destiny of his immortal soul.

Will he change and save his soul? Will he run as he's always done? Is this angel even real? Storch must face the reality of the life he's led, see the people in it for who they are, and balance the ledgers of his life. Only then can he make a choice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9780692160763

Book preview

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

"Don’t bother."

The unexpected voice, deep and musical, makes Joseph Storch pause. His finger edges away from the trigger, as if reluctant to change course. The muzzle of the Glock slides from Storch’s temple where the rim leaves an impression on his skin, a tiny bull’s-eye. He opens his eyes, hesitant to turn in the direction of the speaker.

Joseph, Joseph. The stage set is so routine … so common. Sadness and disappointment etch the word common.

Storch glances around his study, the room his wife, Maria, spent hundreds of hours, thousands of dollars, and two interior designers to furnish. Thick drapes, heavy mahogany furniture, Venetian plaster walls, the far one a peacock blue. OK, so my study seems like every other rich guy’s I’ve been in … but common? His gaze falls on the gun, and he stares at it as if he has no idea how it materialized in his hand. He drops the weapon onto the desk.

You should atone for your sins, not spray blood and brain matter across the wainscoting and Tabriz carpet for someone else to clean up. But you’ve never been good at considering the way your actions affect others.

Who the fuck are you? Storch asks aloud. He looks at the gun, wondering if he should pick it back up. You can’t just show up and start criticizing me.

Of course I can.

The blue wall ripples like a curtain the moment before the reveal. Storch checks the overhead lights. No movement. The vodka remains still in the bottle on the desk. No earthquake. The wall slides open as if through a cinematic special effect. Storch’s mouth drops open.

Across the room stands a

beautiful—

no other word

works—

man. Six feet, muscular but not overly so. Glossy-blond hair. Green eyes. And cheekbones. Like those his first wife spent over $50,000 in plastic surgery to get. The man is dressed in a perfect white suit. And … are those wings? Storch turns away, wipes at his temple, and checks his fingertips. No blood. His gaze drops to the vodka bottle, two-thirds gone.

You’re not drunk, and you’re not dead. At least not yet. I’m Oriel, your Guardian Angel. Why the gun to your head? That’s not like you.

As Storch stares, the man’s features rapidly change. His skin darkens to a deep brown, his hair blackens and curls, his face becomes more African. The angel’s skin lightens again, and the face and hair take on an Asian cast before reverting to the original look, as if trying on different forms to see which might work best for the situation. A gold nimbus surrounds the being and pulses in warm, gentle waves toward Storch, carrying the scent of … roses? Gardenias? Oranges? Chocolate? Cinnamon? His stomach rumbles. "What the

fu—

uh? Atone? I’m not sure what you mean." He looks down, unable to tolerate the light for long. Would sunglasses be rude?

In your case, making amends for doing wrong, for your sins. The angel glides closer; his feathers rustle in a pleasant chime.

I wasn’t thinking that. Storch peeps through his eyelashes at the figure hovering within arm’s reach. He stretches out a hand, but Oriel avoids his touch. "I’ve got enough

shi—

uh, stuff, on my plate. I owe the IRS, my investors, my business partners, my clients, almost every-damn-body I know. Plus I’m looking at federal prison. I was thinking years in a

fu—

uh—

friggin’ cage. Storch sighs and runs a hand through his thinning hair. He rubs the top of his head where the most hair is missing, a gesture repeated many times a day, resulting in an ever-widening bald spot, like growth rings on a tree. I don’t need you to pile on."

The angel glides to a chair at the small round conference table placed at an angle to Storch’s desk and perches as though unused to sitting. Death by your own hand is not atonement.

OK. So what is?

You must use your last week on earth to do something good. Something that makes a difference in someone else’s life. Something you would not normally do. Oriel waves a hand, and the nimbus swirls with the movement.

Last week on earth? Are you shittin’ me? Storch stares at Oriel in consternation, one hand up to block some of the light. Uh, sorry. But I’m dying in a week? How? Why?

The time and date of your death is fixed at birth. It cannot be changed. The angel shakes his head, and the nimbus eddies, emphasizing the negative.

Storch mulls this over. If I’m dead next week, they’ll all be splitting the life insurance policies and rejoicing.

Paltry sums compared to what is owed, Oriel sniffs. Not good enough.

Storch blinks. Not good enough for what? He frowns, puzzled. Angels are messengers, I know that much, and he wants me to do something good. His face clears. Are you here to save my immortal soul?

Oriel looks pleased. The light softens to pastels of gold, pink, and purple.

Storch drops his hand. Why me?

Your past is finished. Your future doesn’t exist beyond next week. God has granted you an opportunity to change the destiny of your soul. He doesn’t do this often, and I’ve been sent to assist. The angel stands and glides to the fireplace, where he rests one hand on the mantel. The wood glows, as if each fiber is a single light.

Why now?

You asked. God answered your prayer.

Not me. I don’t pray.

True. But you did when you had the gun to your head.

Storch thinks back. His eyes widen. God help me, he says slowly. "But … I don’t need a fucking angel. I need an investor with some damn deep pockets."

Oriel ruffles his feathers, and a discordant sound fills the room. Golden notes fly into the air in irregular patterns before dying away.

Storch drops his gaze and stares at his hands. An angel when I need money. Like so many damn things in my life. He picks up the bottle of vodka, pours a healthy shot in his glass, then downs it. This is a buncha bull crap. Here I am, arguing with a so-called heavenly being. You’re such a cliché. Storch refills the glass and toasts.

I am no more a cliché than you. Oriel raises his hand and ticks off fingers. Short, balding, divorced. Company imploding from greed, mismanagement, and the market crash. Blonde trophy wife number two having an affair with the pool boy.

What? Storch half rises. That bitch. He sits heavily. "The

f—

uh, friggin’ pool boy?"

The angel nods. Can’t get much more cliché than that.

I oughta kill ’em both.

"That is not what God has in mind."

Yeah, well, he ain’t answering my prayer either. Go find someone else to harass. Storch waves his glass at the angel.

I can. Oriel straightens, a benign expression on his face. You still have one week. He moves away from the fireplace toward the blue wall, then turns to face Storch again. Gordon will be arrested tomorrow. Your business is laundering money for Saudi arms dealers.

You gotta be fucking kidding me, Storch says in a tone filled with suspicion.

Language. Oriel waggles a disapproving finger like a metronome. The light around him intensifies, then abruptly goes out.

Storch walks to the wall, where he runs a hand over the Venetian plaster, cool and smooth to the touch. He shivers and moves to the fireplace. The mantel is also cool. Bereft. That’s the c-note word to describe what he feels. Storch says it out loud. Bereft. He slaps the mantel. Fuck it. I’m not buying into this shit.

He returns to the desk. Joe, you gotta stop drinking so much. The vodka bottle hits the trash can with a thud, landing on a stack of paper. Storch sorts through some of the paper on his desk, shoving several documents, along with the gun, into his briefcase. He slams the lid three

times—

I am not dying in a week. I am not doing anything good. Gordon is not getting arrested tomorrow. At last, the lid catches and holds.

Chapter 2

The next morning, Storch takes one step into the kitchen and squeezes his eyelids shut. He fumbles in his inside jacket pocket, drags out sunglasses, and puts them on. The large room’s windows face the garden, and light glints off the stainless-steel appliances, the top-of-the-line range, and the Italian marble countertops. So fucking bright. Has it always been like this? His head throbs in time with his heartbeat, which seems especially fast this morning, as if his heart is gathering speed to make a break for it.

Is my wife home? Storch asks Marisol, the cook and housekeeper.

A petite woman with smooth, toast-colored skin and dark eyes, she has her long, black hair braided and wound around her head like a crown. She is dressed in a teal gym

outfit—

zippered jacket and loose

pants—

with tennis shoes to match. She owns many such outfits in different colors and wears one each day. Maria tried to get her to wear a maid’s uniform, but Marisol ignored her requests, and Maria gave up.

Si, señor, she says as she hands him a cup of coffee. I checked. The shades are pulled, and her eye mask is on. She will sleep for quite some time, perhaps the whole day. A good thing. I can get much accomplished.

Storch nods. The bitch better enjoy her beauty rest. It might be her last in this house. Got any Advil?

Marisol pulls out a drawer in the island and produces a bottle.

He takes a sip of the coffee, grimaces at the heat, and holds out his hand for the four pills she dumps in his palm. He gulps those down with more coffee.

A long night? I see you are starting your day in the dark glasses.

Yeah. I’ll probably be late again tonight. I don’t think it’s going to be a good day.

Gotcha, Marisol says. She goes to the laundry area off the kitchen and returns with a stack of folded sheets and towels. You be careful, señor.

Thanks, Marisol.

Storch has not slept well, his dreams a mishmash of men with wings, guns with wings, and money spilling in torrential amounts from some type of conduit. I have got to stop drinking so much. Got to. Now I’m hallucinating angels. I’ll get Connie to call and make me a doctor’s appointment. Could be a brain tumor. Didn’t I read somewhere about hallucinations being a form of seizure? What was his name? The angel’s finger wags in his mind’s eye. Oriel. I wonder what that means.

He downs the rest of the coffee to banish the vision. His cell phone rings. The car service is outside. Storch grabs his briefcase from his office and walks out to the car, where a young man dressed in black holds the door for him. He grunts in response to the man’s greeting and climbs in.

It doesn’t take long for the car to get stuck in the Los Angeles traffic, and Storch uses the time to browse the Wall Street Journal. He avoids any thoughts about the so-called angel, but finds himself thinking about the number of people he wronged through the years. A hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand? He rubs his face and stares out the window at the cars on the 405. I’ve really been an asshole. A rich asshole now, but an asshole regardless. The driver slams on the brakes and apologizes, but the movement is enough to jolt Storch out of his reverie. Fuck it. I’ll be out of here shortly, so it won’t matter. Not dead, because I’m not dying next week.

Storch moves with the flow of people into the lobby of his headquarters, S&S Financial. A nod to the guards, and he is in his private elevator. He takes off his

sunglasses—

the headache has

eased—

and admires the dark wood floor and paneling with the brass trim. So common, he hears the angel say again. Go away, you little fairy, his pleasure gone and irritation in its place.

He stomps past the receptionist’s desk toward his office, passing those of the other members of the S&S executive team. These offices, outfitted in traditional décor, ring a center set of cubicles for the administrative support staff. The cubicles’ sharp edges and pale walls are dotted with colorful abstract paintings or wall hangings. The combination suggests a modern yet careful approach to money management. Storch arrives at his executive secretary’s cubicle, larger and separated from the others by a frosted partition wall. It faces his office, the better to intercept unwanted visitors and their interruptions.

Storch stops. Where’s Gordon? he snarls at Connie.

Not sure. Should be in soon.

Call me the minute he gets in. The minute.

Gotcha, boss, she replies. Her long fingers, nails painted a soft pink, continue