Evil boss

my special skills and got a paycheck at the end of each month. "I'll email you your next job, Remi." The slightest tilt of Killian's lips. "Or should I say, Rogue Angel?" I smiled. "You're not supposed to know my secret identity." "I work security, remember?" "Bye, Bossman." I ended the conversation, closed my laptop, and glanced at the clock. The kids would be home from school soon, and my stomach growled. Mmm, I could use some of Mama's cookies. I walked around my loft space. It wasn't big, but it was mine. It had an industrial vibe, with my bed in one corner, shrouded in sheer curtains.

A small kitchen that I barely used was in another corner, a door leading to my compact bathroom, and an open-plan living area where my desk sat in prime position against the opposite wall. My gaze settled on a photo above the desk. I got a little shiver every time I saw it.

It was of an angel warrior, coming in to land on the battlefield. I had a thing for angels. His huge white wings were spread, sword in hand, boots about to touch the ground. His body was mostly in shadow, but that didn't hide the power of his musculature, or the hint of a rugged face. Wrinkling my nose, I sighed. I wished they made men like that in real life. I walked down the stairs, my boots thumping on the metal steps. The noise assaulted me. There was some tool whirring nearby, and I also grabbed a supply of grease, gas, and exhaust. My loft was above my foster brother's auto shop. At the bottom of the stairs, I turned and saw three cars in various states of disrepair-one parked with the hood open, one hooked up to some machine, and another on a hoist with a mechanic underneath. I recognized Steve's thin frame and baggy, dingy jeans. He was busy, and the guy who worked for him was on vacation, so I guess that was why he was working on a Sunday. I walked out the open front doors. Brr. It was a cold, gloomy day in Brooklyn. I wrapped my arms around myself. I should have grabbed my jacket, but thankfully I wasn't going far. I walked to the house next to the two-story brick house and opened the gate. The metal creaked. The house had a basement apartment, where Steve lived with his four-year-old daughter, Kaylee. I ran up the steps to the main house and opened the door. "Hello!" "We're here," a female voice said

. I found Mama Alma in the kitchen. Of course, where else would she be? Kaylee was on the floor having a tea party with her dolls and bears. "Remi!" The little blonde princess jumped up and ran to me. I picked her up and she wrapped her arms and legs around me. I breathed in her apple-scented shampoo. "Hey, KayKay. Are you being good to Mama?" Kaylee smiled and nodded. Then she squirmed and I set her down on the floor to go back to her tea party guests. Mama smiled and I walked over to kiss her thin, dark cheek. She smelled like home. For the first eight years of my life, I didn't know what that word meant. Then the angels smiled on me and sent an angry little girl to a foster home run by Mama. She had owned this house in Sunset Park, Brooklyn for years. The small warehouse next door was her husband's. Unable to have children of their own, they became foster parents. Big Mike had died a year before I arrived, but Alma had never stopped opening her home. And some of us hadn't really left. I would be twenty-seven on my next birthday, and I hadn't gone very far. Steve had been one of Mama's first foster children. Kaylee was Steve's daughter, but Mama still had three children with her-two boys, ages nine and ten, and a teenage girl. "I'll pour us some tea," Mama said. I sank into the chair at the rickety table. The kitchen hadn't changed in decades.