Fallen Angel

by K. S. Thomas

  “Bam Bam!” He grins that same damn grin that used to make me turn tomato red in middle school and I’m slightly affronted by my own body when I realize it still reacts the exact same way. To make matters worse, I’m sort of frozen in place, leaving me stiff as a board when he reaches out to give me a hug.

  “Ha,” I force an awkward laugh. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time.” Mostly because he’s the only one who’s ever called me that.

  “I know. It’s been a while.” He steps aside to let me in and by some miracle I manage to move my feet over the threshold and inside without tripping. He continues talking while he closes the door behind me. “Ava kept you so busy at the wedding I didn’t even get close enough to you to say, hi. And then what, before that, last time we saw each other was...?”

  “Graduation. You guys all came when Alex and I graduated.” High school. Still not quite the age I want Angel to associate me with, but definitely a step up from the eleven year old I know he must picture every time he looks at me and says Bam Bam.

  “That’s right. Damn. That’s three years ago already.” He shakes his head, leading the way through the house. I’ve never actually been here. It’s weird. The only house I’ve ever connected with Angel is his memomma’s house. That place I know inside and out. It was like a second home to all of us growing up. When the band wasn’t practicing in our garage, they were over at Memomma’s house getting fed the otherwise unfamiliar home cooked meal and filling up on freshly squeezed lemonade. Alex and I were too young to be left home alone back then, so Ava had no choice but to bring us along. And we loved it. Loved Memomma.

  I crinkle my nose at the sight of Angel’s living room now. It’s cold. And plain. And not at all what I would have pictured.

  “What? You don’t like my style?” Apparently he noticed, because he’s stopped and is facing me.

  “Um, what style? Have you even moved in yet?” I point at the empty walls. Maybe I’m just so used to being at Ava and Blaise’s place where they are overly fond of paintings and prints, and hanging a wide variety of musical instruments up and calling it décor, but this house is so bare I feel naked for it.

  He does a slight double take as if he can’t tell if I’m being serious or fucking with him. “I’ve lived here for five years.”

  Now I’m the one who’s feeling punked. “Shut the fuck up! Are you kidding me with this?”

  He laughs. “No. But I’m starting to wish I was. Shit. Way to make a man feel inadequate inside his own four walls, Bam Bam.” Playfully, he tugs at my elbow to get me moving again and I have an involuntary thought to not wash that part of my arm for the foreseeable future. Then I remember I’m not some psychotic Finding Nolan fan and abandoning good personal hygiene practices is not an option.

  “I’m sure you’re due for it, especially when you consider how many people probably feel inadequate just looking at you.” I hear my words out loud, like a delayed echo of my thoughts, and the heat burns through my cheeks again. I’m sure he doesn’t know I’m referring to myself. I’m sure.

  He turns back at me just as he reaches the stairs, one eyebrow arched. “You ever feel that way?”

  Maybe I’m not sure. Maybe I just like lying to myself. Of course, it’s usually more effective when no one’s around to call me out for it.

  “Um, nooo.” I over emphasize the words dramatically, only selling myself out more. “I was talking about all the men out there, clearly inferior to a rock God such as yourself.” I hope my sarcasm is coming through as strongly as I intend it to. Problem with sarcasm is of course, the better you are at it the less likely it is to be detected. Plus, I kind of believe what I’m saying, so, you know, that’s working against me too.

  Meanwhile, Angel just laughs and starts moving up the steps, skipping two at a time because he’s got long-ass legs and never misses an opportunity to get extra exercise. Whether or not he thinks I’m joking, isn’t really clear. He may be laughing at me, not at my joke. Regardless, he thinks I’m funny and I’m counting it as a win. It’s all I’ve got at this point.

  “So, any idea what sort of stuff Ava wants for this auction?” He’s barely into the hall when he stops at the second door.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think her expectations are all that high after the crap you sent over before.” I shake my head at him to convey my disappointment. It’s weird. On the one hand I’m completely comfortable around him because I’ve known him forever, and on the other, one wrong word and I can feel my face going up in flames while my body is strongly swayed to dissipate into the ether. It’s like I’ve got split personalities or something and I’m not in control over either one of them.

  “Crap?” He sounds offended. Then he grins. “Why? What was in that box anyway?”

  “You didn’t even look before you sent it over?” I slug him in the arm, and the other personality blazes through me at making contact with his bicep. But, the jackass me makes a quicker recovery this time. “Let me assure you, crap was putting it mildly. It was mostly all burnt up stubs of incense - which I’ll have you know, Ava swore up an F5 storm for, some empty water bottles that needed to be recycled, a ratty old t-shirt even your most diehard fan would rather throw up on than wear, and some shoes I’m pretty sure weren’t yours, unless you’ve taken up dressing in drag and managed to shrink your feet by several sizes.” I shrug. “Ava spent thirty seconds or so sifting through your trash and determined it was all shit you left behind in some dressing room at some point.”

  He smirks. “You know, I always wonder what happens to that stuff.” Then he finally opens the door and I don’t know whether to laugh or scream. “I wonder how many of these are filled with more of the same.”

  “Holy shit, Angel! It’s wall to wall boxes in here.” I step inside the room just to be sure that’s really all there is.

  “I know. Room next door looks just like this one.” He chuckles sheepishly. “I don’t like clutter. So when I got the place, I moved all the boxes in here to keep them consolidated. I figured I’d go through them eventually. But once I found all the necessities, I guess I just stopped.”

  I can’t even form sentences out loud anymore. My thoughts are too jumbled up, too baffled by the scene before me.

  “You’ve had the place for five years? And what? Before that, you still lived out of Memomma’s place when you were in town, right? How did you ever even collect this much shit?” I suddenly get an icky feeling in the pit of my stomach that maybe he wasn’t joking so much about most of these being left over dressing room souvenirs. I can handle a few incense sticks, I’m less fond of the idea I might run into more things left behind by his groupies. Shoes are one thing...but I’m guessing that’s not the only article of clothing they take off when they spend time with him alone in a private room.

  “I like to shop?” He grimaces. And he’s adorable.

  I sigh, because I’m so royally screwed. “Well, I guess I’m going to be in here a while. Any boxes that are off limits?” I’m hoping against all hope he knows where the ones are that house his collection of souvenir thongs. Provided he has such a collection. I’d prefer he didn’t, but it’s Angel. He probably does.

  “Um, there’s probably a handful you’re better off not messing with. Unfortunately, I don’t know which ones they are. But, you’ll be able to tell once you open them.” He gives me an encouraging pat on the back. This time there are no flutters. No blazing heat rushing through me. It’s hard to feel either when you’re prepping yourself to face the panty-proof that the man you’ve secretly been in love with for the last decade is a total slut.

  “Thanks. That’s super helpful.”

  He chuckles. “Not it’s not.”

  “It really isn’t.” I start to giggle, too. A silly giggle. The girly kind of giggle. I don’t do that one often. Kind of wish I wasn’t doing it right now. “You know what would be helpful though?”

  “Coffee.” He winks. “I’m on it.”

  Then he flashes me a full on sm
ile and the flames flare up again. Thankfully, he’s already got his back to me and can no longer see the beet red shade of my face. Nor can he see me staring at his ass. Which I am. Long and unapologetically. And God, that view would be worth getting caught for.

  ***

  “What are you grinning about?”

  Shit. I almost forgot Derek was even here. “What are you talking about?” I move around him to get to the pantry. I’m sure I have some coffee floating around in here. Ava makes it a point to keep everyone stocked for when she comes over. She brought her own damn coffee maker into my kitchen as well. Not that I care. I’m just saying, she’d think it was weird if I brought a weight bench over to her house. Not that I would. But, for comparison sake. I like to work out. She likes to drink coffee.

  “Dude, you have a shit eating grin from ear to ear. What, some chick send you booby pics or something?”

  I don’t usually have a problem with those, but somehow, the mere mention of dirty pics makes my face switch gears into a disgusted scowl. “No.” I find the coffee and move onto the coffeemaker. “And for the record, we’re not twelve. We don’t call them boobies anymore.”

  But Derek’s not even listening. “It’s Addy.”

  “What’s Addy?” I pop the little filter into place and hit brew. The thing is dummy proof, which I like.

  “Your face. It was like that because of Addy. She’s here.” He points at the coffee maker slowly percolating. “You’re making coffee for her, aren’t you!?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? Yes, Addy’s here. I already told you she was coming. Why are you making such a big deal about it?” I’m back in my pantry, this time looking for sugar. Or Nutella. Nutella would probably be better. The Jennison girls go nuts over that shit.

  “I’m not making a big deal about Addy. I’m making a big deal about the trippy look you had on your face when you came in here. If she’s the one who put it there, we’ve got a big fucking problem.”

  I take a sharp step back. “What the fuck are you talking? What problem? And what was so wrong with my face?”

  He leans over the counter, all serious. “You remember that time we all wandered into that cupcake shop and Ava found a Nutella cupcake...with Nutella frosting? Then, when the lady handed it to her, she got all stupid happy, with a grin from ear to ear and wide eyes lit up at the thought of devouring that thing?”

  “Um, okay.”

  I’m starting to think his body has been eating away at his brain just to keep alive, because the man is making no fucking sense anymore.

  “Dude, you don’t get it. YOU just had that same stupid happy expression. And if Addison Jennison put it there...if you’re thinking about devouring her....I think we can both agree, that’s going to be a problem. For you and Addy.”

  “What’d I do? And why is it a problem?” Her voice cuts through the tension between Derek and I, and for a moment I’m pissed at him for saying all the stupid shit he just said. Then, I turn to face her, my eyes catch on hers, that constant stir of trouble in them, and I can feel my mouth moving by its damn self, completely out of my control.

  “Derek was just commenting on your driving skills. Judging by the parking job you did in my driveway, people should avoid getting in their cars when you’re out on the road.”

  Her eyes narrow and I don’t think she really believes me. But, she goes with it anyway. “It’s not my fault Blaise made me drive the fucking tank over here.”

  “Uh, don’t blame Blaise, blame your driving. He’s probably just trying to keep you safe by making you cruise around in the Yukon.” I turn away to get her coffee for her. Mostly, I just need a break from those eyes. And that smile. And that face. Only now I’m looking at Derek’s. And his eyes are conveying a loud and clear ‘I fucking told you so’. I’m still not saying he’s right. He’s sick. Sick in the head from all this Sammy shit.

  But then a small hand reaches over mine to take the cup I’m still holding, and I swear the sight of it on mine, makes my entire body stir to life in a way it’s never done before.

  Fuck me.

  Chapter 3

  I’ve had three cups of coffee and spent a total of five hours here, but I’ve still only managed to dig up two items even remotely suitable for the auction. One is an old set of drumsticks I had to spend thirty minutes convincing Angel he could live without, and the other is a handwritten note he scribbled down one night at a bar which later wound up becoming the chorus on their latest hit. Which is especially significant since Angel rarely contributes to the lyrics. Usually, Derek and Blaise partner up on the song writing, but I’ve read and re-read those four lines on a cocktail napkin a hundred times or so in the last hour, and I’m convinced he has the soul of a poet who simply refuses to speak out loud the beauty he thinks.

  I may be romanticizing things. But then, I’ve been sitting here, digging through his belongings, listening to the sound of his smooth voice tell me every random thing that’s crossed his mind in the years we’ve been out of touch and looking up every so often to see a flash of his gorgeous smile. Who wouldn’t start thinking about souls and poetry and shit?

  “Here we go!” I bolt to my feet, I’m so excited by my unexpected find.

  “Found something good to sell?” Angel comes over from the stack of boxes he’s been sifting through.

  “Fuck no, we’re not selling these. We’re hanging them on your walls!” Careful not to scratch or snag the edges, I lift the first of five canvases out of their cardboard prison.

  I can feel Angel standing behind me, leaning into me slightly as he moves in over my shoulder to get a look. “Shit. I forgot I had these.” He chuckles and the butterflies in my stomach stir like bats tripping on acid.

  I shake my head, truly disappointed, as I fall in love with the stunning strokes of artistic genius on this canvas. This piece is of a saxophone. The one below is a set of drums. Naturally. They were bound to be in there somewhere. I can’t wait to find out what the other three are. “How could you forget something so pretty?”

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing.” His tone is softer than usual and automatically, curiosity forces me to turn and face him. Only he’s not looking at the painting. His eyes are locked directly on me.

  Holy hell.

  The bats in my stomach are about to head straight for the belfry, because Angel can’t have just referred to me as pretty. That’s crazy, is what that is.

  Only, I’ll never know, because I’m too shocked to ask and he’s busy taking the canvas from me and walking out of the room with it.

  “Wait. Where are you going?” I call, already moving in the same direction.

  “You said we needed to hang it on my wall. I’m going to find a wall.”

  I stop in my tracks at the revelation, then turn back to get the box with the rest of the canvases.

  When I find him again, he’s downstairs in the formal living room, holding the sax up over the fireplace.

  “What do you think?”

  I drop the box I just lugged down the stairs onto his sofa. “I think you should have let me carry that one single painting while you did the manly thing and hoisted the rest of the load down here.”

  He smirks. “I was coming back for it. And for the record, in the future, I’d prefer you didn’t hog the manly tasks just because you get there first.” He leans over and tugs at my dress to pull me to his side. “Now, tell me what you think of it here?”

  I tip my head from shoulder to shoulder. I don’t like it. “It doesn’t go with anything else in here. Where’s your dining room?”

  He brings the painting to his chest and starts walking again. I’m about to grab the box when he turns back, his finger pointing at me accusingly. “What did I just say?”

  “Fine. Jeeze.” Empty handed and feeling slightly useless, I wander after him until we wind up on the other side of the kitchen, in a huge room housing nothing but a chandelier.

  “Well, we won’t have a problem matching the rest of the d
écor in here,” he remarks dryly.

  “No shit.” I laugh. “Okay, that’s it. I can’t take it anymore. You have two perfect bedrooms upstairs you treat like storage units. You have boxes and boxes of stuff you need to unpack, and the bulk of your house is either partially or completely unfurnished.”

  “I’m barely ever here. And there’s just one of me. What do I need a dining room for?” He’s about as amused by me as I am flustered by him.

  “If you didn’t want to use it, why buy a house that has it? You could be living in a one bedroom studio.”

  He shrugs. “Your sister thought this place was a good investment.”

  “Yeah, well, starting tomorrow you’re going to invest in some more furniture. I don’t care if I have to take you shopping myself. This house is going to turn into a home even if I have to dig through every box upstairs myself. Your ass is moving in.”

  Angel laughs. “You know, that feisty thing used to be cute. Now it’s just scary.”

  And all of my internal fire rushes to may face again. Damn him and his unintentional charm. And damn me for taking something so stupid as a compliment.

  “Whatever gets the job done,” I mumble, hurrying from the room before he can see my bright red complexion, although I’m pretty sure the glow of it is visible from here to Ava’s house.

  After that, I don’t come venturing back out of the room of boxed doom again. I also don’t point out any more wall art. I just start stacking and organizing the keeper boxes on one side of the room, while dismissing the rest in a trash pile I haven’t yet identified as such out loud. I’m assuming Angel’s not attached to anything in here since he hasn’t bothered to look at any of it in five years, but you never know how people really feel about their crap until you tell them it is crap and belongs in a garbage dump.

  I’d really hoped the awkwardness I’d brought upon myself downstairs had been completely one sided and entirely missed by Angel, but since he never came back up here to help me like he was doing all morning, I’m thinking maybe that’s not the case. And it’s only feeding my anxiety over this stupid announcement I made about becoming his personal decorator, whether he wanted one or not. I don’t even know what persuaded me to say those words out loud. It’s the blurred line of false familiar comfort and pre-pubescent nerves of Jell-O that are wreaking all this havoc, and I don’t know how to get a grasp on either.