Angel Dares

by Joss Stirling

  ‘Thank you.’ He kissed the tip of my nose, and then somehow got diverted to my lips. Things were getting a little bit too out of control when we tumbled off the narrow sofa. Being dumped on my butt knocked some sense into me. I’d drawn a line with him and had to keep to it or lose my self-respect. He reached for me but I got up and returned to his closet, acting as if nothing had happened.

  ‘How about this?’ I threw him a cowboy hat.

  Marcus sighed and bowed to my decision. ‘That’s good. With shades, no one will know me.’

  I wasn’t so sure—I’d know him anywhere now—but it would fool most people. ‘So are you ready to rumble?’

  ‘Let’s go.’ He took my hand. ‘Show me what I’ve been missing.’

  First, we explored what the food vans had to offer. You could get everything from traditional English and fast food to gourmet vegetarian and international cuisine. Marcus bought us French pastries and coffee which we ate sitting on hay bales in the sunshine. There were a few rides running already as the camp woke up, mainly of the turn-you-upside-down-and-make-you-shriek sort, which I didn’t fancy so soon after breakfast, but we decided the dodgems would be fun. I tried to pay but Marcus insisted, muttering something about me still being at school and him having a worldwide hit. I elbowed him in the stomach to keep him humble. I expected him to demand to drive but he surprised me by paying for two. I soon found out why. For Marcus, the point of dodgems wasn’t to dodge but to chase his partner around the rink and bump her into a corner.

  ‘Playing nasty, are we, cowboy?’ I called, rising to the challenge. ‘Prepare to meet your match!’ I directed my car to scoot off between other customers.

  ‘Ye-ha!’ shouted Marcus, getting into the rodeo rider vibe. He set off in pursuit as I anticipated.

  He was expecting me to try to get my revenge by bumping him back; little did he know that I was far more devious than that. I teased him by skimming several times around the rink then saw my opportunity. My car shot between two converging dodgems, just squeaking through. Coming up too fast to swerve, Marcus bumped into both, and was left having to explain to complete strangers—one of whom was a butch guy with a thick bull neck—quite why he was being so aggressive. The klaxon sounded and I shimmied out of my dodgem and did a little air punch. Marcus scowled at me, then saw the funny side and laughed. Saying something about crazy girlfriends, he shook hands with the bull-necked man and high-tailed it over to me.

  Girlfriend? When had that happened?

  He put his arm around my waist and squeezed. ‘You’ll pay for that.’

  ‘That, Marcus, was called angelic revenge. Did you really just tell that guy I’m your girlfriend?’

  He looked away. ‘Well, yeah, it seemed too complicated to say that girl over there who thinks we’re soulmates but won’t—’ He thought twice and bit back the rest of the sentence. It was just as well he didn’t finish or he would be singing soprano for the rest of the day. No joke when he had a televised gig that evening.

  ‘I’ve told you what I want to happen. If you’d just try telepathy once. One or two teeny weeny little words would do, like “howdy, pardner”.’ I tried to make a joke of it by tugging his cowboy hat over his eyes.

  ‘And we were having such a nice morning.’

  ‘OK, OK, I’ll drop the subject. Sorry. Where next?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I’ve not been down to the beach yet.’ I took a leaflet from a man in a blue T-shirt advertising an organization that provided clean water in poor countries. ‘Look: they’re doing a charity sandcastle build now.’

  ‘You want to make a sandcastle?’

  ‘And you don’t?’ I stopped and got up on one of the bales so we were more on a level. ‘Marcus, don’t you ever just mess around: you know, play?’

  A little notch appeared between his brows. ‘I play. I make music.’

  ‘That’s your profession. I mean just have fun because it’s … well … fun.’

  He put his hands round my waist then slid them down a little lower. ‘I can think of plenty of ways of having fun with you.’

  ‘Geez, get your head out of the gutter, Marcus.’ Not that my mind didn’t spend most of the time down there with him. ‘I’m talking innocent fooling around.’

  He looked puzzled.

  ‘OK, that settles it. You, Marcus, are too serious so you need a serious dose of silly.’

  ‘A serious dose of silly? Angel, you’re—’

  ‘I know: crazy, infuriating, et cetera, et cetera. But you and Kurt told me to be myself and this is me being me. I like the idea of building a sandcastle because it’s for a good cause and I haven’t made one for years. Are you coming?’

  ‘As long as no one recognizes me. If this gets on YouTube, I’m gonna kill you.’ He made a pretence of foot-dragging.

  ‘Don’t be stupid—it’d do your image wonders: the human side to mysterious Marcus Cohen; the guy who’s rocking the world of rock gets down among the rocks at Rockport.’

  ‘Enough of the rocks already.’ He snorted at my idiotic headline. ‘I’ll supervise.’

  I tugged him in the direction of the gate leading onto the beach. ‘Uh-uh. I’m the expert on fun so I get to supervise. You are here strictly in your capacity as my minion.’

  This time I didn’t take ‘I’m the rich rock star’ as an excuse and insisted on paying our entry to the sandcastle competition.

  ‘OK boss, where do we start?’ Marcus asked. There were already several completed sandcastles and many under construction.

  I looked over my shoulder to check we weren’t being watched. Everyone was busy on their own projects. ‘By the water.’ I led him to a smooth spot of sand that would remain above the tide for a few hours yet, shielded by two large rocks. ‘You get digging. I’ll collect some shells.’

  ‘Digging with what?’

  ‘Your hands, duh.’

  Playing his part as reluctant minion, he grumbled about getting his hands dirty and jeans sandy, but sank down on his knees to begin the excavation. ‘What shape do you want this?’

  ‘Your choice, babe: improvise.’ Humming happily, I went to the water’s edge. The beach had already been scavenged for the best bits of seaweed and shells so I would have to do some improvisation of my own. Closing my eyes I buried my hands in the damp sand, waiting for the waves to come in and lap at my wrists. Connected to the water, I felt the unrolling of my gift like an answering wave pouring from inside. Being by the ocean is heaven for me but also a little dangerous. At times I forget where I begin and the sea ends. Fortunately this time I never quite lost consciousness of Marcus beavering away behind me, my anchor to stop me drifting off on the tide. When I opened my eyes again, the sea’s gifts were neatly stacked at my side: fresh kelp, complete shells, shiny stones, one with a hole through the centre, a piece of gnarled driftwood in the shape of a masted ship. I gathered them in my tunic dress and carried them back to Marcus.

  ‘Here.’ I dropped them by his motte.

  In my absence, his imagination had been caught by the engineering challenge. He was intent on making a bridge over the moat around his hillock, swearing each time it collapsed. Muttering thanks, he grabbed a scallop shell and used it to scoop out the correct amount of sand.

  ‘I could help.’

  ‘I’ve almost got it.’ Marcus grinned as the bridge stayed up this time. ‘There!’

  Compared to other constructions ours was on the modest side. ‘I could hurry things up a little.’

  ‘You can do that bit over there,’ Marcus said generously. ‘I’ll do the castle.’

  ‘That bit?’

  ‘The town around the castle.’

  Leaving him to pat his building into shape, I summoned a wave higher up the beach. With a few suggestions and nudges from my gift, the sea did the work for me, swirling, burrowing, building.

  ‘Aren’t you going to do your part?’ asked Marcus a little testily as I remained seated.

  ‘I have.’

&nbs
p; ‘You won’t get anything done sitting on that very excellent butt of yours.’

  ‘Oh Marcus?’ I said in a singsong voice.

  ‘Yes? Dammit: it’s fallen in again.’

  ‘I think you should take a look around you.’

  He raised his eyes to my effort. Between the sea and me, we had built a very fair approximation of a town: market square, church, lighthouse and port for my driftwood ship. As Marcus sat up, his bridge collapsed.

  ‘You cheated.’

  ‘Did not. I played—with my gift.’ I called a wave closer to repair his bridge for him, bolstering the structure with some well-placed pebbles.

  ‘Show me again.’

  He sat behind me and pulled me into the space between his legs. I summoned the next wave and made it curl into an M. As each wave came, I added another letter to his name.

  He rested his chin on the top of my head, voice rumbling away against my spine. ‘It’s real, isn’t it, not an illusion?’

  ‘Yes, Marcus, it’s real.’

  We sat in silence for a while, but this time not an awkward one. I let the waves return to their tidemark as I heard footsteps crunch behind us.

  ‘Hey, that’s awesome,’ I heard one guy say. ‘Can we take a picture for our website?’

  We turned round to see a couple of volunteers in blue T-shirts. ‘Sure.’ I leapt up and scuffed out the RCUS, leaving just the M and the A. I added a curly ‘&’ sign between the two: Marcus & Angel. ‘Thanks for the competition.’

  ‘You stand a good chance of winning with this.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What’s the prize?’

  ‘Backstage passes to the Gifted gig tonight.’

  I burst into laughter. Marcus took my hand and squeezed it in warning. ‘If we win, why don’t you have them, mate? We’ve got other plans, so can’t use them.’

  ‘Oh wow. Cool—that’d be epic. I’ll text you to let you know how the judging goes.’

  Marcus gave the guy his number and we made our way back up the beach.

  ‘Busted,’ I whispered.

  ‘How busted?’

  ‘You, Marcus, are really sweet.’

  ‘Bang goes my dangerous rock-star persona.’

  ‘Yes, it sure does.’

  ‘Must be the influence of my guardian angel.’

  Leaving our sandcastle for the tide to erase, Marcus and I went back to the main festival site. The camp was only just now waking up properly and I noticed at least five people staggering about like bears just emerged from hibernation. A good night had by all, evidently.

  Marcus pulled the brim of his cowboy hat low over his eyes, checking behind him for signs he had been recognized. All clear so far.

  I smiled at his clandestine tactics; he made me feel a little like we were two spies deep in enemy territory.

  ‘Do we need to change hats?’ I asked him in a stage whisper, pinching the brim of his Stetson. ‘You know: fool the paparazzi with our cunning swap of disguises?’

  Marcus stood up tall so I couldn’t yank it off him. ‘I think somehow that wearing a Black Belt baseball cap wouldn’t be a very clever disguise for me—more like painting a target on myself.’

  I tried to snag his much cooler hat again. ‘No, that’s where you’re wrong, amigo. It’s so overt, it’s covert. The last place people will look for a rock star hiding out from his fans and the press is under his band baseball cap.’

  Marcus intercepted my attempted snatch by grabbing me around the waist and turning me so my back was to his front. ‘Or maybe most people will just think “Oh look: that guy’s wearing a Black Belt hat—he reminds me a lot of Marcus Cohen—it is Marcus Cohen!—tweet his picture now and gather the press pack.” Trust me, most people aren’t as devious as you.’

  ‘You might have a point.’

  He relaxed his hold. ‘Am I safe to let go? No underhand plans to steal my Stetson? It was given to me by a real cowboy in Texas, you know.’

  ‘I’ll leave it—for now.’ I squeaked as he tickled me in punishment. ‘I just think it would suit me.’

  ‘It would swallow you up. All we would see is a little pair of feet shuffling along.’

  ‘Big-head!’

  ‘My point exactly. I’ll get a midget-sized one for you when we go on tour to the States in September.’ He squeezed my hand as we linked up to carry on walking. ‘OK, I think I’m ready to hear more about this gift of yours. How does it work?’

  Marcus’s interest surprised me—as did the hint that he thought we might still be in contact in the autumn. I thought he was going to sit tight in deep denial but somehow seeing me play with the ocean had convinced him in a way that party tricks with drinks had not.

  Feeling more optimistic about his cautious steps into my world, I laced my fingers with his. ‘I’m not sure exactly. Savants—that’s what we call ourselves—have gifts that come out in all sorts of different ways. My mum can control air to a certain extent and Dad can do telekinesis—you know, move stuff with his mind?’

  He nodded, showing he was following, but in the manner of a judge reserving verdict until the end of the trial. He might have been thinking that I was spinning a fantasy—any normal person would without proof.

  ‘I guess my gift is a blend of the two: like Mum I have power over something in nature—water in my case—and I must be using some form of telekinesis when I move it.’ I wrinkled my nose in thought. ‘Though it’s not really like standard telekinesis as I feel part of the water when I’m manipulating it.’ Embarrassed by his silence on the subject, I laughed self-deprecatingly. ‘I know, I know, it’s all a bit woo-woo dippy-hippy when I describe it like that.’

  He didn’t join in my laughter. ‘Almost everything contains water—can you use it to harm someone?’

  ‘The thought has honestly never struck me. Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘It’s just that the idea of people having these hidden powers is unnerving—like a concealed weapon.’

  Crumbs: I was in the dock, wasn’t I, M’lud? ‘I suppose I could use water to help me get out of danger but I’d never attack anyone with it.’ I then remembered what I had done to Jay. ‘Well, not to harm them.’

  His gaze sharpened, latching on to my amused expression. ‘But you have used it against someone?’

  Smiling, sure he would see the joke, I told him how I had doused Jay’s ardour in the dressing room.

  Marcus took another direction to being entertained. His glower went up a couple of notches. ‘You mean that jerk isn’t just all mouth—he really put his hands on you?’

  At least I was no longer the target of his suspicions. I placated the growling lion by stroking his paw. ‘You don’t need to worry: when I finished with Jay he really was the embodiment of the phrase “all mouth and no trousers” as he had to change them.’ I snorted in a burst of most unglamorous hilarity. I don’t laugh in a ladylike fashion, unfortunately.

  He gave in to a reluctant smile. ‘I guess I stand warned.’

  ‘That’s right, Romeo: too much hands-on stuff and you’ll get cooled off very rapidly.’

  ‘I suppose I should be grateful you can protect yourself.’ He looked away over my head, distancing himself. I was beginning to realize that this was how he absorbed things: find out some answers then assimilate them. I had to give him time.

  We were almost back at the security check for the performers’ area.

  ‘Oh my gosh, it’s him! I swear it’s Marcus Cohen!’ The squeal went up from a cluster of young women staking out the entrance. It was like throwing bread to a flock of seagulls: suddenly, we were mobbed as festival programmes were shoved under our noses. Marcus’s cowboy hat got knocked back on his head and I was pretty much trampled as irrelevant.

  ‘Guys, guys, give us some space here,’ called Marcus, trying to keep hold of my hand in the scrum.

  ‘Are you going to release a new album soon?’

  ‘Remember me: I saw you in Birmingham when you were first starting out? You signed my shoulder—I had it in
ked into a tattoo.’ The limb was waved between us, clipping me on the nose.

  ‘Oh my: that’s amazing—will you sign my arm?’

  The requests came thick and fast as more body parts were bared in his direction—and some of them were hardly decent.

  ‘Please, just step back a little, ladies.’ Marcus sounded quite spooked by their intensity. At a music venue, he would rarely emerge without minders these days but I’d tempted him to walk on the wild side and felt responsible for getting him out. I slipped my fingers free of Marcus’s hand, ducked backwards through the crowd and whipped off my baseball cap and glasses to join the throng. If you can’t beat ’em: join ’em.

  ‘Look—look!’ I squawked in my best fangirl voice. ‘It’s him—it’s Kurt Voss. He’s heading for the food stalls—quick!’

  Like iron filings attracted by a stronger magnet, they turned towards me.

  ‘Kurt Voss? Where?’

  ‘Oh my God, I’d die if I got his autograph!’

  ‘He’s hardly ever seen in public—come on!’

  ‘There he is!’ I started running towards the French bakery stall, provoking the diversion of most of Marcus’s horde to a new target. There just happened to be an innocent tall lean guy wearing a hat and sunglasses in the queue who was about to have his quiet morning disrupted. Hopefully he would enjoy fending off the attention of young groupies baring skin for his signature. Letting them overtake me, I fell back, saw Marcus sign a few paper-based items for his real fans who had stayed behind, then hooked his arm. ‘C’mon, superstar, let’s get your very excellent ass back in the safe zone.’

  Marcus politely excused himself from his admirers and followed me past the security check. ‘I’m hiring you as my bodyguard.’

  ‘You could do with one.’ Feeling chipper about my clever ruse, I sang a snatch from the Bodyguard musical. Oh cripes: perhaps I will always love you was not the right lyric just at the moment, considering the confused state of our relationship.

  Marcus pulled me to one side of the entrance to the green room yurt. ‘Seriously? Does this soulfinder connection mean you will?’

  I studied the middle buttons on his open shirt. ‘Hey, it’s just a song.’