Like Slow Sweet Molasses

  “Do a video surveillance sweep, too, Pops. Just in case.”

  “You’re talking to the master, Brock,” he boasted.

  “I forgot,” Chance conceded, backtracking his way out of the door. Feelings he’d hammered deep down inside bulged just under the surface spelling danger to his present way of life for he was going soft. “Oh, man. She’s getting to me in the worst way.”

  Angela, curled on one end of the couch, lay with her face to the stairs as she scrutinized his descent from the upper floor, enamored with what she saw. The more she attempted to wean herself of him the more entangled their acquaintance became. They were like her least favorite ride at the state fair—the bumper cars. It appeared she and Chance was destined to collide again and again without either having any say in the matter.

  Pops’ call let them know he completed his task upstairs and was ready to swap places with them to take on the bottom floor. Chance escorted Angela to her bedroom divining by her timid steps the emotions she tried to hide from him.

  “Don’t leave me, yet,” she whispered.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  She searched the room with her eyes finally relinquishing some of that terror to retrieve sleepwear from her lingerie chest near the bathroom door. The chest doors opened, a drawer extracted, her moan rent the air. Chance was there in a flash peering at the rose and note card staged in a pair of her lacy panties. He caught her hands just as she reached to destroy the layout.

  “Pops!”

  The older people came on the run.

  “Log this, too. Angela just uncovered this maniac’s true colors.”

  “A rose for a rose.” Angela read the card aloud, her hands blotting out the sight. “He knows my name, Chance.”

  Thinking that a peculiar thing to say, he remained silent until her eyes beseeched him to think about what she said. Angela ROSE Munso he remembered her mother calling Angela on one of her messages. “A rose for a rose,” he repeated, moving aside to allow Pops to do his job.

  “Ughhhh.” She visibly shuddered. “He’s been in my most private places. A voyeur, who has taken the decision from me as to what part of myself I want to reveal and to whom, has also psychologically raped me and destroyed my peace of mind.”

  Once again, he was speechless with no words of comfort.

  “Get a change of clothes, Sweet Child. You’ll stay with me tonight.”

  Angela accepted Mrs. Thatcher’s offer this time without dispute, snatching a lounging set from the dresser drawer.

  “Be right back, Pops. I’m walking them next door.” As they stepped into the night air, Chance revealed his plan. “I’ll stay at your place tonight. Tomorrow we’ll go over your options for added security. Okay?” He waited for her refusal and was astonished at her simple reply.

  “Okay.”

  Chance changed the game plan to fit his mood for retribution. His two co-conspirators went about their assigned duties setting the exterior cameras while he orchestrated the exact dance in the interior. They worked outside by penlight hoping to attract as little attention as possible in the darkness, taking extra precautions mounting the video cameras in inconspicuous places that allowed for a wider range of visibility. The whole setup came together with spare parts and leftovers from Pops security installation business. Finishing just before dawn, Pops and Trell joined Chance in the kitchen-slash-command center where they tested the system.

  “Ready, set, go.” Chance chanted then used the remote control to activate the TV. “Great! A quick fix until I purchase the proper display devices…” He stepped back, slapped his hands together in a satisfied fashion, gave their spontaneous handiwork an A plus grade with a thumbs up, and continued, “…later today.” The push button action flicked one camera at a time to permit zooming in addition to collating every camera angle.

  “It works alright,” Trell grimaced. “No need to zoom in.” Angela sashayed across Belle’s lawn on her way to the gate. “Are you certain you can handle the pot you’re stirring, Bro? This sister’s obstinate attitude could incite monks to riot.”

  “Angela’s not that bad, Trell. She’s going through a difficult time.”

  Trell smiled. “So, at last, an admission she’s wearing down that crusty shell of yours, huh?”

  “Like a pencil to a sharpener—right down to the nub.” He stroked his bearded jaw as she advanced on the front door. Chance met her there all smiles. “You’re up early,” he greeted.

  “Had trouble sleeping.”

  “The swelling’s diminished. Just a little puffiness…” His finger boldly traced the outline of her lips, “…here.” He really wanted to kiss her there in front of the whole world.

  “A sight, I know.”

  Their repartee held the witnesses motionless lest the spell be broken.

  Chance snagged her hand pulling her the rest of the way into the room. Angela, who had no inkling they had company, tentatively decreased her pace at the smiles on the faces in her kitchen. Chance jumped to bring her up-to-date on the progress made during the all night session literally crossing his fingers behind his back at which time he heard a teasing chicken cluck, confident the sound came from his brother.

  “We installed an alarm system and video surveillance around your home.”

  Angela’s awed expression came across to him as disapproval. This she surmised as he shuffled foot to foot. “Thank you, Chance.” Shyly, she treated him to a brief hug. “Mr. Robinson, Trell, I can’t thank you enough.” Clapping her hands happily, she queried, “Can I see?”

  Chance led her and her mesmerizing smile to the area for a demonstration happy to oblige. “There are a few components I’ll pick up later this morning to complete the job.” He pointed to the wall ready to receive the alarm control, saying, “You’ll also have one in your bedroom.”

  “And the three of you did all of this overnight?” she marveled, her eyes flitting from one to the other. All three blushed. “Amazing. Figure out the bill. I’ll pay anything.”

  “Angela,” Chance exclaimed, offended. “Was compensation mentioned?” He answered before she did. “No.”

  “We’re happy to be able to help, Angela,” Pops mediated.

  She smiled as Trell corroborated his father’s sentiments with a headshake.

  “For all of your trouble,” she became animated, prancing off as she spoke, “I’ll make the best breakfast,” smiling at them with a quick turn, “you’ve had…today.”

  “Sounds right on time.” Trell rubbed his hands in glee while his father overruled him.

  “Unnecessary, Angela.”

  “I know. But, it would please me if you let me do this, Mr. Robinson.”

  “It’s Pops. Call me Pops,” the older man insisted.

  Chance indulged his inquisitive nature analyzing her interaction with his family…his Black family. She seemed to converse in a manner that showed how easily she could engage in light dialogue with the right persons. No contentious words or phrases thrown at them. No under-eyed glances slicing them to pieces. Basically, they were putty in Angela’s hands and they didn’t even know it.

  “Pops.” She liked that idea. “I’ll change and be right back.”

  She sprinted up the stairs landing in a vat of imaginary cement that solidified her feet to the hardwood floor. On top of that—Angela froze. She couldn’t move a muscle. Her senses catapulted her rose episode to rose episode in a never-ending daymare. The familiar scent of cologne yanked her to the present. Chance stood one step down behind her leaning close to her ear.

  Heads angled upwards as Pops and Trell tuned in to the tender scene playing out on the stairwell, their heads turning to one another and back to the couple. Chance said something into her ear. She nodded. He spoke again and received another nod. Father and son summed up the matter without uttering a word as the pair parted ways.

  “You two have a spark.” Trell started in on Chance when he rejoined them in the kitchen.

  Chance claimed a seat at the t
able. “Naw, man. She hates white people.” Their looks said he was crazy. “Angela told me as much when we first met.”

  “No, son,” Pops disputed. “There’s definitely something sizzling between the two of you.”

  “That’s only her confrontational attitude fizzing over its boundaries. She’s paranoid about her parentage, bogged in health issues and obsessed with performing her civic duty to the detriment of her own welfare.” What began as a criticism molded into a compliment making him obliged to admit he wished she would give him the time of day.

  “Chance?” She captured the attention of everyone downstairs but only one came on the run. They nearly collided at the top of the stairs. Angela’s grin, dazzling and inviting his kiss, was one he hadn’t seen before. “Call Miss Belle over for breakfast. Okay?”

  His heart did an unusual pitter-patter as his eyes warmly caressed her from head to toe. “Okay.”

  Realistically, Chance and Angela had no ESP, and therefore, no way to know that circumstances beyond their control plotted to fuse them in loving controversy.

  Chapter Nine

  The sun smiled on the day as if lighting the way for Mrs. Thatcher’s appearance. Angela noticed her on the new video system. With the men settled into their meals, she struck out to assist the elderly woman with the bowl of biscuits she insisted on contributing to the feast, stepping out into the morning air not yet thick with New Orleans’ normal humidity. Angela was now a visual on the monitor and Chance’s eyes continued to stray in that direction no matter how he fought the urge. She was an enigma to him—in her fitted blue jeans and colorful sleeveless tee, gracious and giving to a fault.

  However, once shown the uncomplimentary true colors of an individual she became a formidable opponent. All he had to do was think back to her actual meeting with Darrell. She gauged his character at first sight, her impression of him confirmed with yesterday’s events. He would warn her again to stay away from him for he was bad news.

  “Good morning, good morning.” Mrs. Thatcher blew in like a fresh breath of air, dispensing cheeriness instead of rose petals. “Who wants homemade biscuits?”

  Angela set the crock in the center of the table, frowning slightly as wisps of the buttery aroma mixed with the heavy smells leftover from the sizzling bacon and eggs. Hands invaded the space sending the bowl into a wobbly spin on the table. She dished her neighbor’s plate, delivered it to the table fighting to keep the wild lurch her stomach did from drawing attention from those in conversation around the table. They continued the banter in a family fashion pricking holes in her heart.

  Saliva choked her making swallowing nearly impossible. Angela excused herself with a promise to make a quick return all the time avoiding Chance’s knowing eyes. She mastered each step while still in their sight forgetting about the camera angled where the stairwell met the upstairs hallway. One hand to her mouth, the other to her stomach told Chance, whose seat at the table allowed him to see the monitor, she was in trouble.

  His fork hit the plate.

  “Be right back,” he said, swabbing at his hands with the napkin and speeding from the table. The tap on her bedroom door went unheeded. Alarmed, he pushed it open a crack. “Angela?” Still no response, he took it upon himself to enter immediately discerning the reason for her silence.

  Angela sat on the floor with an arm braced on the porcelain commode, head resting on that arm, gagging but expelling nothing. She knew he was behind her without turning around. “Queasy. Side effects of last night’s treatment, I guess.”

  “What can I do?” he said stooping with a cool, wet washcloth to dab her face.

  “Let me save face, Chance,” she pleaded between heaves. “Just…walk…away.”

  Chance looked at her crouched on the ceramic tile, head all but buried in the toilet, ponytail dangling dangerously close to the water level and needed to feel her heart beat against his chest. She started to rise, reaching out her hand for the towel, getting much more than she bargained for when he dabbed at her mouth then snuggled her close. “I can’t walk away, Angela. My life was hum-drum before you stampeded in. I realize that now.”

  “Chance, don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” he remarked disgruntled. “Don’t be concerned about your welfare? Don’t act like I’m a friend worthy of your trust? Or—don’t put my filthy white hands on you?”

  Angela reared back offended, seizing his arms as she wavered in her weakened state and became aware of the stark contrast as brown hands gripped tanned biceps. “This isn’t your problem. I’m trying to manage the truth of my parentage the best I know how. I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. I just can’t deal with this…” she lowered her eyes, “black-white thing.”

  “Gotcha.” He abruptly released her. “The work is almost completed. I’ll get the other equipment over here and will be out of your hair before night falls.”

  She watched him stomp from her room wondering why his departure blurred in front of her eyes. “I’m sorry, Chance,” she whispered to his back. “You deserved better.”

  Angela was unable to stand one more minute alone in the house with him, afraid she would capitulate and go running into the security Chance’s arms represented. He made her excuses this morning to his family without them being any the wiser regarding their little tiff. Everything muddled along after they took their leave and he did likewise to make the purchases to finish the system.

  Now, he worked at her bedroom door like the mad man he was, hurrying to get the job done in order to vacate the premises. Muscles rippled in his upper arms exposed by the white undershirt he stripped down to. Her eyes tagged each flexing motion as he forced in an uncooperative screw that required extra force. He turned to catch her drooling. That’s why she flew from the room and out of the house.

  Chance knew her destination as he followed her escape down the street as far as the cameras permitted. Most people dulled the pain with alcohol or drugs. Her anesthesia of choice was the sugar rush of a fruit flavored slush from the neighborhood store. He ambled about the house setting things to right, picking up the paraphernalia littering the work areas, reading the gold dedication plaque on the viola lovingly poised on the music stand in her bedroom and in the interim glimpsed a familiar vehicle trolling by on the surveillance cameras. His long legs had him on the lower floor—the entry door locking behind him—out on the sidewalk and hauling-ass up the street towards the store while keeping the car in his crosshairs.

  September’s humidity coated Chance’s brow as he thought of Angela and the danger her association with him placed her in, unknown to her. There was no question Darrell taunted him once he realized Chance was in hot pursuit. The brake lights lit up for a second, slowing the vehicle to a snail’s crawl before a spurt of gas sent the car barreling ahead. That move goaded Chance to give it all he had for he was hell-bent on putting an end to the little cat and mouse game, once and for all. Chance veered off the sidewalk so suddenly surprising Darrell with the boost of energy that almost let him snag the door handle. But, more importantly, the lunge practically had him flailing to keep from landing on his face. An irritating chuckle grated in Chance’s ears as the ominous sedan turned sharply and vanished into the distance.

  Unable to go a step farther, Chance rested with his hands propped on his knees as he struggled to catch a breath. That’s how Angela walked up on him, terror for his wellbeing shining in her eyes. He still couldn’t speak and held up one finger to delay her questions. He had a feeling it wouldn’t work.

  “What happened? Should I call 911?” She set two tall cups on the ground at their feet. “Chance, say something. Please.”

  “I’m…al…right,” he puffed.

  “What happened?” She pursued the line of questioning.

  He didn’t know how to answer that question. Should he be forthright and tell her about Darrell? Jamaican Rose? Or would doing so only increase her anxiety about her stalker—whom he now surmised was probably Darrell? “I wanted to be sure you were o
kay,” he fibbed.

  “So you ran full steam and stopped before reaching the store?”

  “Crazy, huh?” The look she gave him agreed with his summation. He rose to his full height petting her with his eyes.

  “I thought you’d like something cold.” She stooped, reclaimed the cups and handed one off to him.

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Positive.” Sipping absently at his drink, Chance broached the subject from last night. “Angela, you wanted to know how I knew you were at the jazz club?”

  “Yes. But I figured Mrs. Thatcher told on me.”

  “I hadn’t talked to my aunt.” He started them in the direction of home. “I was there because of Darrell.”

  Angela lifted curious eyes to him. “What is it between you two, anyway?”

  “It’s a long story. Suffice it to say, we used to be best buds. A century ago.”

  “Wow, that’s definitely a long time ago. What made you hate one another?”

  “Hate is a strong word. I don’t hate him.”

  “He hates you,” she observed.

  “Here’s what you need to know about Darrell. He’s apt to coddle that ride of his to the exclusion of any woman he encounters. That’s why I asked you to warn your friends.”

  “What on earth aren’t you telling me, Chance?” Angela had a foreboding she couldn’t shake.

  He ignored her question to ask one of his own. “What did he say to you yesterday that upset you so?”

  “Well, first, he knew my name even though no one introduced us. Secondly, he told me he’d been to my home.” They walked in the evening’s heat like lovers out for a stroll. “Thirdly, I saw him grapple peanuts from the dish. That was enough for me to give him a wide berth. It just didn’t work.”

  “He’s been to your home?” Chance heard nothing after that statement—the undercurrent in his voice obvious to Angela as her gaze relayed. Though circumstantial, all leads were Darrell bound.