He wasn’t exactly sure how an angel should make him feel. Nervous? Afraid? Offended? Repulsed? Maybe all of those things at once?
Nobody had ever talked to him about the subject. His father certainly hadn’t. If you looked up deadbeat dad in the dictionary, you’d probably find a picture of Satan, horns and hoofed feet and a look of wicked anticipation on his face. Back home, Michael had been a means to an end for him. Or a new beginning. He really wasn’t sure which it was and hadn’t bothered to try to pry the answer from his father’s gaping maw.
Giving his only son a proper education apparently hadn’t ever crossed his mind.
He returned the eye contact, just as bold, and pulled the juice box closer. If anyone else offered him apple juice at a bar, his response would have probably been to shove the little plastic straw through one of their eyes. Attempting to stab this man with a straw wouldn’t be a smart move on his part. Michael was aware of that without knowing why he was aware. Instinct.
Keeping his gaze locked on Azrael, he tapped the straw against the bar to remove the wrapper, jabbed it into the box without thought, and took a sip. “Do you offer family discounts?” He was dancing around the question.
He’d make the angel work for it. Unnerve him, just a little.