Enticing An Angel

by Leo Charles Taylor

  She alighted to the floor and bounced over to the door. If this were the girls, hopefully they could help her search her place and locate the wayward device. She would even put up with the insults about having her head attached in order to accomplish the goal.

  When she unlocked and opened the door, Melanie stood agape for a moment. She was uncertain what to do or even what to think. It was Michael, that was certain, and that fact alone shocked her. However, he was soaked from head to foot and dripping heavily onto the old timbered floor of the landing.

  Her mind reeled for a second as she took in the scene. His face was serious, but his wet nature made him look like a soaked kitten, and her heart went out to him. He was so damn cute that for a moment she forgot everything about their argument, his mother, their problems, everything. She even smiled, but he didn't notice, his eyes were downcast. Melanie didn't know if this was because of his mood or the inordinate amount of water dripping into his eyes, but she found the image becoming more and more cute as he stood there.

  He mumbled something about just wanting a minute. Melanie didn’t register the full comment, her mind was more on his appearance and how sad he looked. By the time he raised his eyes to her, her smile had faded, but the warmth of her face was still visible.

  "Let me get you a towel," she said, as she left the door.

  "Thanks," he replied and began to enter.

  "Ah," she said, loudly. "You wait right there, Mr. Angel."

  Michael obeyed and looked forlorn for a moment. "You're not coming in here until you are not dripping on the floor."

  That comment produced a hopeful smile and Michael answered politely.

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  Melanie fetched some towels and brought them to Michael. She even helped to dry him. He took care of his hair and face, both of which were too high for her, and she began to wipe his legs and lower body.

  "Honestly, didn't your mother teach you better than to go out in the rain like this?" she asked.

  "Well, it wasn't raining when I parked my car, but it started in the few blocks since and became a downpour," he said.

  "Uh huh," Melanie said as she finished her drying and then allowed Michael entry into her loft.

  She watched him carefully as he moved inside. He didn’t head anywhere in particular; he just floated in the middle and looked around as if this were his first time here. Eventually, his gaze made it to her canvass. He studied it carefully, turning this head from side to side. The new design must be obvious to him, but he said nothing about it.

  "I'm still mad at you," she said.

  "I know," he replied.

  There was a moment of silence.

  "I spoke to my mother yesterday," he said.

  "Did you?" she asked.

  "Well, spoke is a subjective term. We argued," he said without taking his eyes off the canvass. "I wanted you to know that what she did to you—that lunch appointment—was not acceptable. I came to apologize for her. I would make her do it personally, but she would never consider such a thing."

  "She was being your mother, Michael, that's what they do."

  "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked as he turned to her.

  Melanie shrugged her shoulders. "She asked me not to. We discussed the situation and agreed it was best."

  "What?" he asked and genuinely appeared confused. "Where's the logic in that?"

  "Michael, you don't want me," she said seriously, "You need someone more settled."

  "Right, like Jennifer."

  "Well, Jennifer's gay so I wouldn't think that’s a great match."

  Michael stared at Melanie and then had to chuckle. Melanie didn't see the humor and stared blankly in return.

  "Boy, my mother can really pick them," he said with an eye roll and a laugh.

  Melanie put her hands on her waist, looked at him sternly and began to tap a foot.

  "Really," she said. "You're going to do this now?"

  Michael saw her foot tapping and smiled. That act only caused a sterner look and a faster tap, which in turn produced a larger smile. Eventually, Melanie threw her hands up in disgust and shook her head.

  "Are you really angry about the art?" he asked.

  "Yes," she said.

  "Can you ever forgive me?"

  Melanie stopped abruptly with that comment. She had been about to pace around the room, but turned to Michael. He had an expectant look on his face. It was a curious one, not grave or sad, just one that wanted an answer to the question.

  "I already have," she said quietly.

  "Can we please go back to where we were before my mother butted into our business?"

  "You don't want me, Michael," she said, still maintaining her quiet tone.

  "Arrgh," he replied with a false face of exasperation. "Yeah, I get it. I want someone like Jennifer. You sound like my mother." He paced about for a second before shaking his head. "You know, I’m getting tired of people telling me what I want and what I don't want."

  Melanie just shrugged her shoulders and didn't say anything. Michael came close to her and attempted to hug her, but she pulled back. It was not a grand motion, but it made her sentiments clear. Michael sighed and looked down to Melanie; she wouldn’t return his gaze.

  "Melanie, I think you're great. Your odd, you have a weird sense of taste, your art is fantastic. All of that is fine because I can appreciate the talent, and I’m learning to like your tastes as well. For as different as we are, we have a lot in common. I like your tenacity when you paint and your…"

  "I was raped, Michael," she said quietly, and Michael stopped his oration.

  She finally looked up to him, placed her hand on his wet shirt and looked him directly in the eyes.

  "I'm damaged goods," she said calmly "You don't want me."

  Michael said nothing. He just stared at her. After a moment, Melanie separated and went to the couch. She sat down and picked up a pillow.

  "You can leave now," she said plainly.

  "What? Why?...huh?" he stammered as he seemed to grasp the words she had just spoken.

  When he came to some semblance of being able to converse in English, he joined her at the couch. He went to his knees on the floor and tried to touch her but she pulled away.

  "Melanie, when did this happen? Do we need to call the police?"

  Melanie laughed all of a sudden and shook her head.

  "No, it happened years ago," she said.

  Michael thought for a moment, and she watched him carefully as his head turned away and his mouth contorted into odd shapes. Like the men before him, he didn't know what to do. That much she expected.

  "Are you all right?" he asked suddenly as he looked back to her.

  "Fine," she said and shrugged her shoulders. It really didn't bother her.

  "Okaaaay," Michael said drawing out the word as he continued to wrap his head around the situation. "This is the part where you might want to give me more information."

  "What's to tell?" she asked. "I was raped."

  "Do you know who did it? Did they catch the guy?" Michael asked.

  "Does it matter?" she asked.

  "Apparently it does," he replied. "Melanie, I don't know what to do with this. Please help me understand."

  Melanie thought about it for a moment. The memories did not weighed heavy on her, and she was more concerned with Michael's reaction, but the damage was already done. Michael knew the truth; he might as well know the details.

  "I was twenty-two and raped by my Uncle," she said plainly.

  Michael sat upright; he was speechless. That was also to be expected.

  "He got me drunk one night—very drunk—and then raped me. I couldn't fight him off. Hell, I wouldn't have been able to stop him even if I was sober."

  "Did you tell anyone? Did you call the police?" Michael asked.

  Melanie shook her head. "Nope, not at first, I just told my parents. They believed me but didn't care. They thought it was my fault and took my uncle's side. I threatened to press charges
and that's when they shipped me off here."

  "What?!" Michael said as he stood rapidly and began to pace. "You're joking right?"

  Melanie became wide eyed. This reaction was not expected. No man had ever reacted this way to her story. Hell, the few she had told had acted as if she were pregnant. They couldn't leave her presence fast enough.

  Michael continued to pace, and when she didn't answer he stopped and stared. She realized he was waiting for a response and she shook her head; she wasn’t joking.

  Michael began to pace again. He stopped suddenly as he came to a realization.

  "And that's why he pays for some of your rent?" he asked.

  Melanie nodded as she absently plucked at her pillow. "And why he arranged a job for me with his friend, who just happens to be an attorney."

  Michael began to laugh in an odd manner; it was not a laugh of joy or happiness, but one of derision.

  "You know, I love my brothers, but if any one of us tried that bullshit the others would personally take him to the police, and the police would need to get medical attention for the idiot."

  Michael was serious and began to pace again as he thought about the situation. After another minute, he turned to her.

  "Melanie, you have to press charges," he said.

  "I don't want to," she replied calmly.

  Michael became confused and Melanie clarified.

  "Look Michael, I really don't care much about it. I was twenty-two, I was drunk, and I barely even remember it. I'm not traumatized by it; hell I've had dates worse than that. I wasn't raped on those dates, but I've dated some real losers. And, even though my dad is an ass, I make him pay for it. He paid for my college, my career, my move, and now my rent. We were never a close family, and now I use them and they pay dearly. That's much more than I would get than if I put my uncle in jail. Besides, I might lose in a trial, especially if my dad sticks up for his brother."

  "So, you're using them?" Michael asked skeptically.

  Melanie nodded.

  "For money?"

  Another nod.

  "And you're okay with the rape itself?"

  Nod.

  "And you won't press charges?"

  A slow headshake.

  Michael thought about it for a moment and then took a seat on the bar stool near the island kitchen. Melanie watched him carefully. He was an odd man. She was uncertain what to think of his actions. So far, he was a novelty, and so far, he had not broken her heart. She tilted her head back and forth as she watched him. She debated about revealing more and figured why the hell not.

  "I also reported the rape. According to State law, I have ten years to file charges if I choose. I'm sure my family is waiting for that time to be up, but until then I use them."

  Michael listened to the news and assimilated the information. Melanie had never revealed this level of detail to anyone. No one had wanted to know. Michael smiled and chuckled.

  "It's actually quite brilliant," he said with admiration. "You could quietly blackmail them for years, and it would merely look like a father being kind to his daughter. Then you could still file charges and put the bastard away."

  "I won't do that," she said.

  "Why not?"

  Melanie just shrugged. "Oh, it's family. It's complicated. Besides, I barely remember it, like I said. I don't have any anger over it, not even for my dad and mom. I just use them and laugh once a month when I get the check."

  "So, why tell me?" he asked carefully.

  "You needed to know I'm damaged goods," she said.

  Michael gave her a quizzical stare and then became skeptical. He eyed her carefully.

  "I must have missed something. Didn't you just say you were okay with all of this?"

  Melanie nodded.

  "Then in what sense are you damaged?" he asked.

  It was Melanie's turn to look confused.

  "Did you become this spunky artistic person because of this rape?" he asked, his eyes went over her form and he appeared curious or confused. Melanie couldn't tell which.

  "No, I've always been like this," she answered.

  "Okay, then what?"

  "Michael, I was raped by another man. I was damaged. Do you really want to be with a woman that was raped?"

  Michael stood from his stool.

  "Is that what this is about? You think I would be bothered by this?" he asked with confusion. "Melanie if this doesn't bother you then it doesn't bother me. And by the way," he said as he held his hand aloft to make a point. "Damaged goods means you have some serious mental problems. Not that you were once raped by some idiot and couldn't care less."

  Melanie tossed her pillow aside and crossed her arms.

  "I think some men would disagree. The three men I told this story to had a real problem with it. It got to the point that I stopped telling anyone. This isn't a problem for me, but it seems to be a real problem for others."

  "Ah," Michael said as he came to her on the couch. "May I?" he gestured to the seat.

  Melanie thought about it, squinted her eyes with indecision, and then nodded. He took his normal place, put his arm on the back of the couch and looked at her until she shook her head with meek acceptance and curled up next to him.

  "Hey!" she cried as she sat upright, "You're still wet."

  "Fine, pipsqueak, then sit over there."

  "Nope," she said as she got off the couch. "Strip, Mr. Angel," she commanded.

  Michael smiled and of course complied. He removed his shoes, his socks, and everything including his underwear. He took the time to wrap a towel around his waist, and Melanie took the time to hang his clothes over a line she had anchored between two brick walls. Michael had never noticed the line, but it didn’t surprise him that this little lady had one; in many ways, she was provincial.

  After being seated again, she rejoined him and curled up on the couch. Michael sighed heavily. It was a contented sigh, and he just enjoyed her head on his bare chest.

  "Where were we?" she asked.

  "I was going to tell you about my brother David."

  "Were you?"

  "Yep," he said. "A few years back he was dating a woman. She seemed nice enough and then they broke up. I asked David why, and he said she was too tall. David's only five foot ten and this woman was a little taller."

  "Okay, that seems like a stupid reason to break up with someone," Melanie said into Michael's chest.

  "I agree. So, I asked David about it. He told me he didn't have a problem with dating taller women, but they had a problem dating shorter men. In essence, it wasn't that she was too tall; but that he was too short. It was her problem not his."

  Michael began to stroke her hair and smiled when he heard Melanie sigh with contentment.

  "Same thing here, Melanie, I really don't have a problem with this if you don't. So, some idiot boyfriends had a challenge with it," he said flippantly. "I know men that won't date plus size women, and I know men that won't date anything but plus size women. To some people it’s a big deal, to others it doesn't matter."

  Melanie let the words sink in before replying.

  "I find it difficult to believe this doesn't bother you, Michael."

  "Well, I don't know how to prove it, and I don't think I should try. I just want you back. I want that spunky, flaky girl that I fell in love with; the one that tried to close an office door with her foot while hopping backwards."

  Melanie sat bolt upright and stared at Michael. She was trying to work out what he had just said, and like any man, even those idiot boys she dated, he misunderstood her expression.

  "What?" he said with a chuckle. "You don't remember that?"

  Melanie remembered it all very well, but she wanted to hear how Michael had fallen in love with her.

  "Remind me," she said with a smile as she lay back down.

  Michael chuckled and then began to describe what he saw that first day they met. When he told her about the tea, he teased her incessantly and was thankful he hadn't ordered something
complicated like a beer. That comment received a bite to his exposed leg. This time it really did hurt, but he was man enough to apologize and take his well-deserved bruise.

  He spoke to her for an hour and she listened and commented as needed; it felt oddly comfortable and anti-climatic. When he was done with that first day, he told about their first date and then moved on to unrelated topics such as his work, and finding a Steampunk movie, and several other nonsensical items. By the end of the hour, it all began to feel very normal again, and Melanie couldn't pry the smile off her face. Eventually, she pulled away and kissed him tenderly.

  "Michael, I was wondering if you could help me with something?" she asked in sultry tones.

  She could see the fear instantly in his eyes. He knew an odd request would be coming. Her eyes turned catty and a grin graced her face as a hand began to massage his thigh. Her fingers played with the towel, and she could see the cotton material move as he began to harden.

  "I have a very odd task for you to perform and I have never had the courage to ask any other man," she kissed him and smiled at the same time; the grin was more effective than the kiss, and she ended up merely pressing her smile to his lips. Fear was still present in his eyes, and she reveled in it as she went to his ear and bit the lobe gently. She pulled away slightly but kept her lips near him.

  "Will you help me find my phone?" she whispered.

  Chapter 17

  It was two AM and the lovers were still awake. Melanie was cuddled up to Michael and they were talking non-stop. After revealing the rape, Melanie decided on a simple tactic—in for a penny in for a pound. She began to tell him all about her life and past boyfriends. Michael didn't have a problem with any of it.

  When the roles were reversed, Michael told Melanie about past girlfriends, wild parties at college, and very stupid stunts as a young man.

  "I'm amazed you and your brother's are still alive," she said as she played with his fingers.

  "Well, we've had some close calls," he answered. "Once, we even emptied all the powder from our Fourth of July fireworks into a small metal container and blew it up."

  "Oh, how did that go?"

  "Not well," he chuckled. "Brian has a scar from the incident."