My Broken Angel

By RW Cole

If someone had told me I could magically enter a story world, I would have thought they were nuts.

That was before it happened.

 

Navigating my story world as my heroine should have been a piece of cake, but immediately getting mistaken for a whore and almost killed wasn't a good start.

 

Worse yet, the scenes were out of order because the antagonist, the son of Satan disguised as a deadly gunslinger, hijacked the story and stole my sinfully beautiful Nephilim protagonist.

 

But don't worry, there's two of them, each from different timelines. And I've fallen for them both.

 

While living as my character, Ethan and I must defeat the enemy if I am to escape my story and return to my real life. If we succeed, will the real world be as thrilling after living my fantasy life inside my paranormal romance novel?

My Broken Angel is a suspenseful, heart racing, time travel paranormal romance

• Language: English
• Publisher: RW Cole
• Release date: Nov 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223754237

RW Cole

RW was born and raised in Texas, but now resides a stone's-throw from the shore of Lake Superior, on the last speck of water, at the Northwestern tip of Wisconsin. He writes paranormal/historical romance novels. He holds BS degrees in Agronomy, Psychology, and Metaphysics, an MA in Creative Writing (screenwriting), an MFA in Creative Writing, a Masters in Metaphysics, and a Doctorate in Divinity. Before writing his first novel, My Broken Angel, he worked as a musician, golf professional, and manager for Walmart, Petsmart, and Motorola. When he is not lost in a fictional world, he enjoys camping, fishing, and playing the Frog King at his granddaughters' pretty princes' tea parties.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Idon’t understand why love is so complicated.

It should be a journey. A living fantasy. Me and my man on a Sunday afternoon stroll across a sandy beach—hand in hand, toes in the sand—enjoying a gentle breeze that lifts our hair and lays it back just before another pleases our senses. Oh, and there would be lots of smiling. We’d stop and gaze longingly, our eyes telling everything. I want you. I need you. And I will cherish you for all time. We’d kiss so passionately that his heat would radiate through me. As my heart melts, I’d fall into his powerful arms—to have and to hold—my body and soul forever his.

Our journey.

That’s what love should be.

But real love isn’t like that, Mary, Aunt Rosa once told me while frowning through a lifetime of failed relationships. It’s more like a couple standing atop a slippery hill in a Texas turd-floater, yelling at each other about something meaningless until one of them gets washed down the slope and swept into a river. Then comes the divorce.

She claimed that’s why she never married. That, and she was too busy raising me and running her businesses—a hotel with a restaurant, plus a saloon across town.

I often blame my romantic failures on having no successful role models because it lessens the sting of heartbreak. I lost both of my parents when I was four years old and my grandmother left Grandpa when my mother was young, never to return. Out of anger and resentment, no one talked about her.

In Rosa’s defense, being a bit of a handful as a child, I had kept her busy. However, Grandpa would have gladly babysat me if she wanted to date someone.

My Grandpa was the greatest. His face always lit when I came into view. He often said I had the best smile in the world. I know I got it from him.

If not for his influence, I wouldn’t be a writer. For as long as I can remember, I followed him around, notepad in hand, asking questions about writing stories and begging him to read my newest science fiction attempt. He sometimes seemed frustrated when I interrupted his work. Still, he was proud of me and laughed at my humorous stories.

Over the years I have strayed far from my science fiction beginnings, having gotten obsessed with romance, which draws ridicule from Aunt Rosa. That stuff you write is fantasy love, she often says. She repeated that sentiment earlier tonight at my college graduation party, adding, Create your dream guy, baby girl. Who knows? Maybe he’ll leap out of the pages and come to you.

I suppose there’s some truth in her claims. However, it doesn’t hurt to fantasize.

My knight in shining armor has always eluded me, especially when conjuring him in my stories. I can envision his body, what he wears, and his mannerisms. His silky-smooth southern drawl makes me want to ride into the sunset with him. But, for some inexplainable reason, I cannot conjure his face.

My writing professor said I’m resisting seeing him because I’m afraid he’ll be real and not a fantasy.

Maybe she’s right.

For example, I wrote the following in the library today while brainstorming to capture a more profound sense of my antagonist:

I am never sure if my experiences are visions, dreams, or past life memories. They happen whether I’m asleep or awake, day or night. No matter where I am or what I’m doing, they haunt my ever-waking moments.

Every instance begins with a woman in her mid-twenties with long, blonde hair curled in ringlets. She’s wearing a white nightgown, sitting on her knees between a bed and an open dresser drawer with a man’s clothes strewn about. She’s as still as the tree outside the window to her right.

I sense her fear and panic as she stares at a nickel-plated Colt revolver across her hands—its black handle is the backdrop to a hand-painted white skull. She’s trembling, fighting sobs. A voice booms from the doorway, saying, You shouldn’t have done that.

She glances into a large mirror above the dresser where words cannot describe the beauty she possesses behind those frightened sobs. Paralyzed, tears flood her eyes, spill over, and roll in crooked lines down her cheeks.

It was true, she quietly says to herself. Every warning. Every rumor. All of it. I should have listened to Charlie. To everyone.

He says, I was just starting to like you, while creeping toward her. She hears him rounding the corner of the bed, inches from her. The cold steel of his large knife presses against her throat. His hot breath that once ignited deep passionate nights dances upon her skin as his lips hover above her right ear.

How did everything go so wrong? she thinks.

His left-hand grabs her hair and jerks her head back with a gasp, forcing her to look into his lifeless eyes. She wants to scream, but when she swallows, she feels a sting as the sharp blade pierces her flesh.

He whispers, I think maybe I could have loved you.

You wouldn’t kill the mother of your unborn child, would you? she says, her voice straining between sobs. His right hand answers by pulling the blade into position, and as the sting turns to pain, she knows her life will soon end.

A cocking revolver stops her husband’s deadly hand. She looks up into the mirror and sees him smiling. Then he shoves her against the dresser, laughing.

The mirror shows him stand and turn to the man in the doorway, whose hat stops an inch below the top of the door frame, and the sleeves of his brown duster stretch tight around the biceps as he holds out a revolver. Leave her alone!

Well, well. I didn’t think you had the balls to face me, the killer says and lets out a wicked laugh, taunting while holding an outstretched knife, creeping toward the man in the doorway. You had better shoot me dead, or I’ll gut you like a fish.

The man in the doorway hasn’t seen her behind the bed, leaning against the dresser, her hands covering her bloody throat, but his eyes widen as blood drips from the blade.

As the men lock eyes, she somehow knows the killer makes the hero see flames ignite, dancing and leaping about the room. With wide, darting eyes, he winces from the heat burning his skin. The wood sizzles and pops, sounding a chorus of phantoms taunts as the walls melt to the floor.

The killer smiles at the terror in his opponent’s eyes, watching him panic, searching for an escape. You’re too late, he says, with cold eyes and a wicked tone. Go ahead. Look around. Lizzy’s dead. Now the flames of hell will consume you.

Fire dances in his eyes as the demon creeps toward the hero in the doorway and tries to rip the revolver from his trembling hands but can only pull it toward the floor while his knife starts an uppercut to his enemy’s chest.

A gunshot pierces the silence.

I always get stuck whenever I try to see the man in the doorway’s face and lay my pencil down. I drop my head onto folded arms and roll my noggin side-to-side, asking, Who are you, oh mystery savior?

In bed, like now, every time I think of my story’s hero, I shut down, plopping onto the plush pink pillow that has never failed to comfort me. While lying on my back, staring at the ceiling fan, listening to its rhythmic whirring, I try to imagine what my real-life perfect guy would be like.

My perfect guy is often in the University library, sometimes seated a few tables over. I thought he might have noticed me once. Maybe I imagined it, along with us strolling the sands of love’s never-ending beach with a baby girl atop his strong shoulders.

We have never talked. Probably because I was too shy to approach him and attempt one of the many meet cutes I’d seen in movies. However, today, he spoke to me.

Ignoring the musty library book scent, I’d been stealing glances while he stalked the nonfiction bookshelf like a mountain lion looking for deer. He was a welcome distraction from making tedious notes about Hell’s Half Acre—Fort Worth, Texas’s dangerous past—from which I built my story world. I often wondered if my library time might be better served by researching love spells, but I’ve heard those can go badly.

The moment I became mesmerized by his endless perfection, he rounded the corner. Panicked, I looked down, hoping he’d miss me gawking. As he passed between my table and the bookshelf, I smelled his cologne—a scent that teased visions of making love on clouds.

There came a crash. I glanced to see white tennis shoes floundering. Raising slowly over the wooden table, I screwed my face while investigating what had happened. Half wanting to see, half afraid to discover—

OMG! I said, cringing when I saw he had tripped over my charging cord. Are you alright?

He grunted and rolled over, tangled in the cord like a fly in a spider web, gazing at the lunatic who had plugged the cable across the aisle. I think so.

He didn’t appear to be hurt. His rock-hard body must have prevented injury. Figuring any chance I could have had with him just vanished, I figured I should at least help him off the floor. I scampered to the pole and unplugged the cord.

Yes! I did it! I saved him. Wait, did I save my work?

I wanted to hide my face as I turned toward him. As if that would shield my shame.

Let me help you, I said, offering my hands.

He hesitated, gazing at me with a playful grin. My heart raced. My stomach fluttered.

He noticed me!

Are you gonna try to kill me again? he asked.

I swear I saw an imaginary sparkle in his eye. Wait. What?

Are you a computer cord serial killer?

He reluctantly took my hands.

At his touch, I imagined him kissing me. Laying me back on the table. Planting kisses over my neck. Moving down my chest.

With flushed cheeks, I snapped from the vision and helped him stand.

While he got his bearings, I bent to pick up his books—one on guns of the old west, another about gunfighters and old-west law enforcement officers, and a demonology encyclopedia. This was an interesting development.

Maybe he can help me create my protagonist.

I rose just in time to catch him checking out my butt. I smiled inside. My face felt so hot. I probably looked sunburned when I turned to hand off the books.

Here ya go. I’m sooo sorry about the cord.

Thanks, he said, taking the books.

Before I could ask his name or start a conversation, he walked away. I thought about chasing after him, but that might seem a little desperate.

I’m gonna be alone forever.

LYING ON MY COMFY BED, surrounded by loneliness, I hoped the ceiling fan would do something more than swirl air over me. When that failed to help, I pulled my other pillow over my face and restated the obvious: "I am gonna be alone forever."

It would have made me feel better if me and my perfect guy had talked, at least enough to exchange names. He did like my butt, I assumed.

On the walk to my car and on the drive home, I made a list of possible reasons why he didn’t stay and chat. The top two reasons were: 1) maybe he’s just shy, or 2) he already has a girlfriend.

Oh, why are the good ones always taken?

Though my ship of snagging the love of my life may have been rapidly sinking, a chance encounter at my graduation party might have calmed the waters.

CHAPTER 2

The night before my graduation party, I awoke at about 2 a.m. drenched in sweat. I hated how wet the bed got, especially the pillow. However, dreams like I had just experienced made it worth the laundry time.

My romantic escapade went something like this:

I walked hand-in-hand with my mystery man in an old-west hotel to our room, wearing a glistening wedding ring on my left hand. I think we were in the original El Paso Hotel if my memory of the pictures hanging on Aunt Rosa’s walls serves. He unlocked the door and pushed it open before stepping toward me. He slipped an arm across my back, another under my waist, and lifted me into his muscular arms. As he stepped into the room, his powerful man-thighs let not a tremble as he carried me to the bed. Gazing lovingly, he laid me gently. I tingled as his hand brushed the length of my leg while he straightened and turned to shut the door.

Knowing he would have to undress me, I crawled from the bed and stood. As he locked the door and turned toward me, he stopped mid-step, wide-eyed, looking as if he would devour me like a wild animal. I was okay with that. I sooo wanted him to ravage me.

Our gazes met as my dress slid to the floor. He accepted my invitation, taking a couple of steps toward me.

Out of nowhere, my craving to be ravaged overtook me.

I reached him halfway, threw my arms around him, and kissed him hard. Overcome with want, I grabbed his shoulders and jumped, my legs circling his waist, copying a move I saw in a movie.

He was unprepared for my prowess and tipped to the right. When he caught his balance, my back slammed against the wall, ouching a little. I paid it no mind as our bodies pressed together. A soft moan escaped me as his excitement rose, rubbing against me. The sarsaparilla on his lips made his kisses sweeter.

His legs trembled. He stumbled, catching himself by turning to the wall.

I planted my feet firmly on the wallpaper and laid my head back, my long brown hair swinging as I moved against him—harder, faster—filled with want. His denim pants were all that prevented the coming ecstasy rising from the depths of my soul. Hot and getting hotter, I moaned louder.

Please make—

The door burst open. Aunt Rosa stood in the doorway with a shotgun aimed at him.

I awoke to find myself sweating on my bed, feeling like a mess of sexual frustration. I realized Aunt Rosa would never allow me happiness. Even in my dreams. She had wormed her way into all my relationships. Not with a gun. Her words were always razor sharp. No one’s good enough for my baby girl! was usually her excuse. But I think she just didn’t want to be alone.

Keeping me single must have been her plan.

Needing fresh air to clear my thoughts and cool off, I rolled from the bed. I slid the window open to feel the cool spring breeze wash over me. Freshly invigorated, I climbed into bed to hopefully continue my nocturnal escapades.

MY GRADUATION PARTY was a small affair. Which was unusual because my grandfather, being a famous writer, had a lot of friends and could rarely go anywhere without getting recognized. I do his shopping because trips to the grocery store can take him hours. Somehow, he managed to keep this celebration to just us, Aunt Rosa, and Uncle Jimmy, who wasn’t an actual relative. He had been in my life since I came from New Mexico to live with my aunt. He was also the manager of her saloon.

I can’t stay long, Jimmy said while holding two plates of wonderful-smelling steaks. I reached, pretending I was going to steal one of them. Jimmy laughed and pulled them away as he said, I have family sitting in the back.

Y’all can join us, if ya like, Grandpa said.

Jimmy smiled. "Thanks, but they’re leaving in the morning... and... well, you know."

Yeah, I know, Grandpa said.

I was confused. Was that man-speak for it would make them uncomfortable?

Jimmy’s guests were tucked in the private section. I strained to see through the dim lights. I didn’t mean to pry. Not consciously, anyway, but karma smacked me hard as a familiar face sat at the end of their table.

OMG! No, it can’t be!

My eyes went wide.

My heart raced.

At first, I thought I might be imagining my perfect man from the library sitting next to Jimmy, cutting his steak like a man—rippling biceps and all. Okay, I did imagine that part. I couldn’t see under his blue Oxford shirt. When his perfect, angelic features hit the light just right, it was most definitely him. God couldn’t have made more than one creature at that level of perfection.

Panicking, I realized my dream world was about to crumble beneath me and drop me into a deep, dark pit of loneliness. He and Aunt Rosa were in the same room. I remember thinking, Oh, God! Please don’t let him see me. She’ll run him off too.

I caught myself staring at him and jerked my head back to my family. I couldn’t stop making occasional glances his way, each one getting longer.

His father’s face was partially hidden, but his mother was a beautiful blonde with rosy cheeks and a warm smile. Her red dress looked like it belonged on a fashion cover. I could only dream of owning a dress like that unless I begged Grandpa to buy me one. She didn’t look old enough to have a son in his early twenties. I wondered if it might be a sin to be envious of my future mother-in-law. Presumptuous of me? Perhaps. Hey, one can hope, right? Her image would make for a great future book cover. Likewise, her son was perfect for my current novel. Perfect for my everything! I think he’d have looked even better on top of me.

I have something for you, Grandpa said, sliding a white rectangle box with a red bow my way. His thick cowboy mustache was raised on the left corner, covering his proud smile. But open it when you get home.

He enjoyed being mysterious. Me, not so much. His surprises had always been wonderful. Yes, he spoiled me. I’m sooo lucky to have him.

But I wanna open it now, I said, pouting.

The gift box was about the size of a dozen donuts. Though it was white with a red ribbon, I assumed it contained no tasty treats. Plus, Grandpa didn’t like donuts. I know, it’s hard to trust someone who doesn’t eat donuts. Anyway, I picked up the donutless box and couldn’t resist shaking it. It had weight. There was no clanking. Hmm. Not a new car, I guess.

He snickered. "I bought you one last year. But this gift is priceless."

Priceless, you say? Now I’m even more intrigued. Something had rattled, sounding like a small object. Too small for a computer. Guess I’ll have to keep guessing.

Or you can eat cake, Rosa said, as she came out of the kitchen carrying a German chocolate cake, my favorite. She set it before me. She kissed my head, beaming as she stroked the back of my hair. I’m so proud of you, baby girl. That was the best compliment anyone could give their child. Lucky for me, she told me often. Almost every day.

I smiled at her and shook the box once more, listening for keys, just in case. I suppose it’s not a man either. To which Aunt Rosa raised her brow, giving me a mental scolding. Not a blowup doll, you pervert, I said.

She chuckled.

Being very old-fashioned, Grandpa blushed and sighed.

As hopeful as my future seemed with my newly wrapped box of something, I was drawn to the back of the room and glanced at the corner where my perfect guy sat. He was smiling and laughing, experiencing happiness.

Oops! Our gazes met.

I quickly looked at my cake and hurried to grab a fork.

I saw movement. My racing heart signaled something about to happen. Maybe an involuntary bowel movement as fear rooted deep within me. I peeked up and spotted him approaching, wearing an amused smile while my inner voice screamed, Get Aunt Rosa out now!

My freezing like a raccoon in heavy traffic didn’t help. So my inner voice shouted, He’s not stopping! OMG, you better do something! Say something... anything! My sponge of a brain squeezed and popped out, Aunt Rosa, can I have some chocolate milk?

Sure, sweetie. There’s a bottle in the fridge.

Having spent most of my life learning ways to manipulate her, I pretended to pout, which she hated. I can’t wait to devour this labor of love you made for me. Will you go get it? I showed her my best puppy dog eyes.

She shot me a look and dropped her napkin next to her plate. As she rose, she froze. She gazed up beside me.

In hindsight, I probably should have gone to get the chocolate milk. If I had, he might have followed me to the kitchen and spared me the coming ridicule.

Hey, computer cord killer. We meet again, my perfect guy said, his smile melting my insides.

I thought, oh, my freakin’ God. This is it. My life is over. I don’t think the gift box is large enough to hide my embarrassment.

Aunt Rosa sat. She looked as curious as a cat before a closed bedroom closet filled with catnip.

Computer cord killer? Grandpa chuckled. He gestured to the unoccupied chair across from me. Have a seat, son. This sounds interesting. His mustache rose in both corners.

I shot him a look that conveyed, I expected this from Aunt Rosa. Not you. Unfortunately, he didn’t comprehend the message.

Please, do tell me how my Granddaughter is a... what did you call it again?

After we told our accounts of the library incident, and they got a few laughs while I blushed ten shades, a thought occurred to me. If you’re Jimmy’s nephew, how come we’ve never met?

Wait, Grandpa said. You and Ethan just crossed paths? I’ve known him all his life.

Ethan. Now my perfect guy had a name. Not exactly the name I’d want to shout out in bed. However, I could work with it. That’s what lover’s pet names are for.

I moved here from South Texas to finish college. My parents are visiting for a few days.

His family. Visiting for just a few days. There was my way to end this awkwardness. We shouldn’t keep you from your family, I said.

I can stay longer. It’ll be okay, he said with a smile that I could have sworn made his eyes dance while I quietly swooned.

They own a ranch, don’t they? Grandpa asked.

Yes, sir. Near Waco. We’re close to Clayton, that old ghost town.

You know... Mary has a thing for cowboys, Aunt Rosa said, beaming.

My face turned several more shades of red. Maybe purple. I had blushed so much that day that I feared it might become permanent.

Aunt Rosa!

She smiled. I’m just sayin’. She writes romance novels about them.

Ethan smirked. I recognized that look from the mystery man in my dream. That realization was so heavy I got light-headed.

This was way too much.

And way too fast.

Are you alright? he asked. His powerful hands scooped up my drink and handed it to me with the quickness of the gunfighters framed on the wall behind him (all of whom looked like Grandpa).

My hero, I thought. I’m fine.

He eyed my empty plate. Perhaps the cake was too sweet. Maybe your sugar’s high.

I don’t think it’s the cake, Grandpa chuckled. She likes you.

I shot Grandpa another shut up look. If I had something to throw at him, I would have. The gift box was too heavy now, my embarrassment bulging the sides. Perhaps I should have tossed my dirty fork.

Maybe you two should spend some time together, Aunt Rosa suggested. Mary can lock up if y’all wanna stay awhile.

Am I believing what I’m hearing? Did Aunt Rosa just say that? I asked myself. Then I pinched myself to ensure I was awake, but my philosophy professor said I could pinch myself in my sleep. Grandpa claims we don’t actually sleep; we enter alternate realities where we live other lives. I don’t even want to go into what my psychology courses said about my dreams.

Sounds like fun, but my family’s waiting, Ethan said, smiling.

He smiled at me. I think my fluttering heart might have melted if he hadn’t said, Why don’t you join us? Instead of mooshifying, my heart solidified into a panic ball.

We had just met, and he was inviting me to meet his parents. Too fast? Maybe. Probably. Our families are old friends. Getting to know him should be okay. Even if nothing develops from it. It better.

I glanced at Grandpa, hoping he’d save me from the inevitable falling on my face. He was aware of my underdeveloped social skills. Instead, he said, Go on. I’ll finish my cake.

Thanks, Grandpa!

I’m not sure my not-so-kind facial expression sent the proper message. Ethan didn’t see my mean mugging, or he might have changed his mind about me.

Out of excuses, I said, I’d love to.

Something seemed off with Grandpa. He had spent years vetting my boyfriends, however few I had. He sometimes questioned them with a knife in view. Sometimes with an apple. Sometimes he sharpened it.

Now, out of the blue, he wanted me to have one. Aunt Rosa too. This was sooo weird.

Ethan stood and stepped behind me, holding my chair as I forced myself to my feet, still dizzy from the additional information, and perhaps the steamy dream. It really sucks being a shy girl.

Don’t forget your present, Grandpa said. Let me know how it turns out. The gift, I mean.

"I wanna hear about the date," said Aunt Rosa.

It’s not a date, I said, secretly hoping it would turn into one.

She winked. Whatever you say, sweetie.

Okay, guess I’m meeting the parents.

Ethan’s hand landed on my shoulder, sending a shock through me. Was that a spark? I have never felt anything like that. Except from a light socket.