Angelique Rising

by Lorain O'Neil

  As the music reached its crescendo Angelique was indeed thrown off, but another Lift appeared magically through the laser beams lunging to her, she caught it and it hurled her back onto the rafter. All of the dancers were singing now, a boisterous heavenly cacophony of sound assaulting the audience with a torrent of sensory overload.

  ...that's what it'll take now, to stop ME!

  Silence. Everything just froze.

  Gradually the mesmerized audience rose, sounding like a jet plane testing its engines.

  "Stay in your seats!" the announcer's voice admonished them. "Please stay in your seats until all performers are down."

  The dancers on the floor, their lungs gulping air and their faces dripping, scrambled to the area immediately in front of the orchestra, Lexa following, assuming her place in the front middle. Above, the Lifts became merely mechanical rods with performers attached, blending and forming the airborne dancers into one straight assembly-line lowering them back down to the floor one at a time where stagehands dressed all in black rushed out to unhook each of them as they landed.

  The audience had reseated itself but was going wild. The blaring applause was earsplitting. And then all the performers were down --except one.

  Angelique stood on the rafter in spotlight above and behind the orchestra. The Lifts re-assembled into a kind of staircase before her, over the orchestra, down to Lexa and the other performers. But the Lifts were suspended in mid-air three feet apart from each other.

  The audience took a collective breath as they realized what Angelique was about to do, leap off the rafter and run down the Lifts to the floor below; if she misjudged and missed only one she would plunge to the ground.

  Angelique hurdled down in one glorious flash of white, joined Lexa, and as the audience went into near pandemonium the Company, together, gave one long deep bow.

  And all Angelique could think was I'm getting the hell outta here.

  She'd seen the expression on Wyatt's face during the show, especially during the finale. He was, to say the least, not pleased.

  And she was its star.

  Crap oh crap she thought.

  All of the lights blinked off for five point five seconds plunging everyone into total darkness. Then they came back on and the Company again bowed. Everyone except one.

  Angelique had felt the threat physically and she knew how to high tail it. By the time Wyatt T. Cochran realized she was no longer there she was already barreling out onto the sidewalk headed for the 10:20 bus, the last city bus of the evening.

  *****

  He was freakin' furious. Boilingly past mad. And for some reason all of his anger was directed at her.

  HOW DID SHE KNOW THAT SONG?

  And how, he raged inwardly, did she know he could sing it? He had never sung for anyone, anywhere, anytime, ever. And why the fuck had she risked her life like that? He wanted to strangle her.

  It had been a dumbfounded and almost mowed down waiter who'd told Wyatt she'd steamed off on foot, streaking away up to the sidewalk, which was the reason Wyatt was in his car cruising block by city block searching for her. He wanted answers.

  The rain had begun, a few sparse but thick drops were plopping against his windshield.

  And there she was! She was seated slumped at a bus stop bench in that white gown of hers, her shoulders bare in the rain. He smashed the brakes down, skidded to a halt, his door flew open and he strode purposefully toward her.

  "Get in," he commanded.

  She was floored. It was him. Shit.

  "I said get in."

  He reached her, yanked her to her feet and pulled her toward the car's passenger door he flung open.

  "I'm waiting for the bus," was all she managed to stammer. She was being kidnapped and she was totally stumped on what to say.

  He pushed her into the passenger seat pressing down the top of her head in police fashion.

  "I'm--"

  He bent down, shoved her legs into the car, then grabbed the uncooperative layers of her skirts and flipped them up onto her lap. He leaned in over her and she held her breath, he was pressing himself to her. Withdrawing, he slammed the door shut (she screeched) and she realized she'd been belted in. He strode with quick determination around the front of his car, got in, and she recovered herself, knew she needed to exit tout suite but with her fumbling fingers was unable to get the seatbelt lock to unclick and he was pulling away from the curb.

  "Name," he barked at her like she was some kind of street hooligan.

  She wasn't so sure she wanted him to know her name.

  "Angelique," she mumbled, flustered.

  "Angelique what?"

  "Reising. Angelique Reising. Why are you so grouchy?"

  "Are you kidding me? You almost killed yourself up there! And how did you know that song?"

  "Your song? You sing that song."

  "I've never sung that song --or anything else-- where anyone could hear me. Now how did you know it?"

  Darn, she'd just assumed. His voice was so captivating, the song so beguiling, she'd assumed he sang it for people.

  "I heard you at the university. Seven years ago."

  "Impossible. I sang alone in a soundproofed rehearsal room."

  Oh God this was going to be embarrassing she grimaced.

  "I... I was there. Under the stage platform." Her voice sounded so small.

  "You were hiding under the stage platform?" he asked incredulously. "Why?"

  They were at the embarrassing part.

  "I... was only thirteen. I was a runaway. I'd been staying at a shelter but I'd had to leave [Father Wadzniak had found her, she'd had to leap from a second story window] and I needed a place to hide out. I'd already scoped out the university, found that hidey hole. I lived there for three days."

  "No way," he said in obvious skepticism.

  "I wasn't trying to embarrass you tonight, I was trying to repay you."

  "Repay me? For what?"

  She sighed. She so didn't want to get into it.

  "It was a pretty low point in my life. I was alone, I was cold, hungry, hiding out under that stage in the dirt and dust and then you walked in. And you started singing that song. I looked out at you through the vent slots. You made me feel like..."

  She couldn't say it. Like maybe there were things in the world that were worth sticking around for.

  "Where were your parents?"

  "Dead." Like, early last century.

  His face was softening.

  "Where do you live? I'll take you home."

  She wasn't so sure she wanted him to know where she lived either.

  "On the river, down past the hospital."

  He sucked in his breath in exasperation.

  "Where, exactly?"

  "Just a houseboat. Called the Sunflower." Damn, why'd she tell him that?

  Before he could respond a buzzer sounded.

  "Hello," he snapped.

  "It's Johnson, sir. I just wanted to tell you... if you wanted to say goodbye," the voice choked, "it should probably be now."

  Wyatt's entire demeanor fell.

  "Okay," he said, his voice tormented.

  "Soon," the man's voice half-sobbed, "really soon."

  All Wyatt could manage was a leaden nod but Angelique saw his thumb flick something on the steering wheel.

  "What's the matter?" she asked without thinking.

  His face hardened.

  "My assistant's son. Leukemia."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I'll drop you off then get to the hospital."

  "He said 'soon.' Go there first, I can wait." Why was she saying this? She knew why. It was he who in her despair had gently sung her to sleep. And now it was his face the despair was on. She still owed him.

  "Okay," he said in a brittle voice trying to hold it together. He had to get there in time, he needed to say goodbye to that kid, the kid he'd taught how to play baseball, how to... he made his mind shut down. Cory was dying. That was all there was to it.

>   *****

  Leaving Angelique in the hospital hallway bidding her not to move, Wyatt took a deep breath and pushed in the door to Cory's room. The child lay there only seven years old, sallow, not much more than a rumple under his blanket. Johnson was standing by Cory's head, his face pallid, the enormousness of his grief unbearable. Wyatt walked to Johnson's side, staring at Cory.

  And Cory opened his eyes.

  Cory, however, was not looking at Wyatt or even at his father, Johnson. Cory was looking at the foot of the bed where Angelique stood, uninvited and unenthusiastic, silent in her flowing white costume.

  "Are you an angel to take me to Heaven?" the boy murmured.

  Both Wyatt and Johnson gaped at her intrusion with widened eyes, too stupefied to speak.

  Shit.

  "Do you want to go?" she asked flatly.

  "I want to stay with Mommy and Daddy," Cory answered.

  Double shit.

  Angelique looked at Wyatt's stricken face and felt something transpire between them. She tried to talk herself out of it. The world was full of dying kids, you couldn't save them all. And heck, the last time she'd tried to save a dying kid she'd gotten herself one helluva'n asskicking consequence.

  But she owed him.

  "All right then," she sighed, walking toward the child on the opposite side of the bed from Wyatt and Johnson, her gown whispering the sibilance of silk. She didn't know for sure whether she could do it with a person, but she'd discovered she had the ability first with a sick bird, then a cat that had been hit by a car, and this kid didn't look all that much bigger than either of them. She dropped the hospital bed's railing down (she'd seen that done plenty of times when she'd hung around hospitals) and to Wyatt's and Johnson's disbelief she pushed Cory upright to a sitting position and slid her torso in behind his back, wrapping her hands around him and resting them on his waist.

  "Is it gonna hurt?" he asked, trembling weakly.

  She leaned her lips in close to his ear hoping the adults wouldn't hear.

  "No," she purred in quiet assurance, "angels don't hurt little children."

  Johnson opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but Wyatt grabbed his arm, warning him to be still.

  "Now," she said softly, "hold onto my hands as tightly as you can for as long as you can."

  She looked up at Wyatt who was staring at her in wordless bewilderment but for some reason trusting her with the child. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began.

  Both Wyatt and Johnson could see it.

  Something in her was draining. The pink in her cheeks, the tone of her flesh, almost the light on her skin, was draining away --at the same time something was invigorating in Cory. It appeared in his eyes first, a glimmer of surprise, then delighted surprise, then an eager brightness, and then an actual sparkle. His mouth twitched into a goofy grin. And his body posture started changing, like he suddenly had the strength to hold himself up. Cory's grip on Angelique's hands got stronger as her chin dropped to her chest and her jaw fell open. But she didn't let go and she didn't stop her strained determined concentration. Cory giggled and sat up straight.

  "Arghhh..." Angelique groaned, her voice guttural, suffering. Her hands fell away from Cory's and she collapsed backward against the headboard of the bed. Cory looked at his father.

  "I want some Spaghetti-o's," he pronounced gaily, "I'm hungry."

  Angelique slid off the bed onto her feet struggling to support herself, her stiffened arms clutching the bedside. Slowly she faltered along the bed, toward the doorway.

  Wyatt and Johnson stared at her in apoplectic shock. The bedroom door swung open and a jittery woman with pale waxy skin appeared stepping one foot past the entranceway before freezing, staring at Cory.

  "Mommy's back!" Cory chirped. "Can I have some chocolate ice cream?"

  Angelique pitched forward, heaved herself behind the woman and, reeling through the open doorway, staggered out to the hallway toward the elevator.

  "CORY!" the woman screamed.

  Wyatt recovered himself and dashed to follow Angelique, but Cory's mother was immobilized and blocking him until he finally just picked her up and replanted her. He tore out to the hallway but all he saw was Angelique crumpled on an elevator floor, its doors closing.

  "WAIT!" he bellowed but it was too late, the doors closed.

  "Woman in white gown," he shouted to the guard as he finally reached the lobby, "where?"

  The guard pointed mutely to the doors leading to the parking lot. Wyatt burst through them into the now pouring rain, once again searching for her but it was as if she'd evaporated into the darkness. The rain slashed at his face, made him hunchbacked, but he didn't stop looking. Then he spotted her.

  Angelique was collapsed in a gutter between two parked cars, the storm water surging around and over her as she fought unsuccessfully to roll away from it.

  "Damn it!" Wyatt yelled, reaching her, scooping her up out of the dirty flood.

  She tried to say something but nothing came out.

  "What the--" he stammered, "are you okay? Talk to me!"

  "Sleep," she mouthed muddleheaded, "took it all..."

  And she was gone, unconscious in his arms.

  He looked at the hospital wondering if he should bring her back inside. He hesitated, the thought of what had just happened in the hospital with Cory made him uneasy, so instead he stepped to his car and gently placed her in it. Her breathing was fine he saw, and her heartbeat (he checked) was strong and steady. But she hadn't told him where specifically she lived and she had no purse for him to look.

  No, his cagey little sprinter would be waking up at his house he almost chortled. And somebody would first have to undress her from her sopping wet costume. Since there wouldn't be anyone at his house but him, he knew who that someone was gonna be.

  And he definitely chortled.

  But then he thought of Cory.

  He had her in one of the guest rooms, flopped in a sitting position resting against him on the edge of the bed, her head drooped over his shoulder. She hadn't woken up in the entire ride to his house, just mumbled incoherently a bit as he'd carried her in.

  He found the zipper in the back of her dress, lowered it, and from the front, peeled her out of the soggy thing.

  Underneath, she was nearly inside a short bustier, and wearing underwear that looked like white satin but his educated eye knew they were a fake Wal-Mart satin at best. He found two dollars pinned to the inside of her dress and was grimly amused at her presumed emergency bus fare money. Probably never went anywhere without it. Her legs were in stockings that ended at her thighs in wide white bands but with no garters to hold them up. He took off her shoes, they were tight, well, they would have to be to have stayed on in all that dancing which, shit, she'd done in spikes! He shuddered. The feet of her stockings were grimy and wet so he reached up and peeled the stockings off of her too, then positioned her body vertically on the bed wondering if he should undo her braid and blow dry her drenched hair.

  She exhaled a long deep comfortable sigh and rolled over, peacefully clasping a pillow in her sleep.

  Her butt was staring right at him. It looked small. It looked perfect. And he couldn't help himself.

  He reached down and cautiously hooked a finger under her panties at each of her sides and slowly lifted, pulled, and rolled them down exposing her bare bottom. He inhaled, his heart thumping wildly.

  Her ass was exquisite. Two firm, perfectly formed asscheeks, like two blushed ivory rosebuds. Damn.

  Carefully he replaced her panties wishing they were also wet so he could justify removing them too.

  Well whattayaknow he smirked wryly, the night hadn't turned out so badly after all. Employee appreciation indeed.

  He covered her with blankets and walked to the closet. Wyatt's last girlfriend had fled exactly six minutes --a record, even beating Uncle Mal's-- after he'd forgotten himself (admittedly with the help of some cognac). She'd bolted so fast she'd left the clothes he'd b
ought her behind. He found a pair of jeans that, with its belt, would probably at least stay up on Angelique. (He heard her name in his mind the way she'd pronounced it: Onnzshellique. He liked it.) He also found a pullover sweater that would have to do. There was no underwear, after she showered in the morning she'd have to go commando if she didn't want to get back into her own until he brought her home.

  He was surprised that the thought of bringing her home depressed him. Maybe he would take her to a clothing shop, buy her a nice outfit (real satin undies), talk her into spending the day with him (it would after all, be Saturday). He studied her appraisingly.

  I have a lot of questions for you, Miss Angelique Reising (she wore no wedding rings), yesiree a lot of questions.

  He put the jeans, the belt, the sweater, her shoes, and her two dollars and safety pin on a chair where she would see them. He took her hosiery to throw out --they were filthy and he didn't want her trying to get back into them. The gown he would have dry cleaned, he tossed it over his arm.

  Wyatt Cochran switched on the bathroom light for her, turned off the room lights and exited leaving the bedroom door open. He knew he'd be checking on her throughout the night.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, he had phone calls to make.

  Chapter Three

  Seething, Wyatt was once again searching for Angelique who'd stealthily fled sometime around dawn without even a see ya. And what really pissed him off was though she hadn't taken the time to say goodbye to him (much less show any gratitude for his care of her) she had taken the time to make the bed! And make it immaculately, not leaving so much as a wrinkle. So Wyatt Cochran was spending his Saturday morning querulously clomping along river dock moorage slips with barely contained fury looking for a houseboat named Sunflower. He hadn't found it, but he did spot a large houseboat with big ceramic planters on its deck filled with brightly blooming yellow sunflowers.

  I'm gonna KILL her.

  He stomped down onto the houseboat's deck and glanced through a window. It was her all right, but she was with a man. And all she was wearing was a black lace bustier set and spiked shoes. Well tough! He was going in.