Like Slow Sweet Molasses

by Like Slow Sweet Molasses

  “Why did you do that? That’s a waste of perfectly good food.”

  “Are you forgetting what happened to you the other day?” He nipped her chin. “You mustn’t come anywhere near peanuts. That means I can’t come in contact with any, either.”

  “The jelly. I only wanted to make a jelly sandwich.”

  They stayed in close proximity squared off for a fight.

  “Your jelly’s in the fridge.”

  Angela walked over to open the refrigerator door amazed at what met her eyes front and center on the top shelf. “You put my name on it.”

  “No need taking a chance on contaminating your jar.”

  Angela made her way back to Chance very appreciative for his kindheartedness. It required no thought and even less effort to encircle his neck to deliver him a knee-buckling kiss of thanks. “You’re unlocking a place within me I feared forever sealed, Chance. Are you toying with my emotions?” She felt the vibrating alert at his waist.

  He silenced the hum without removing the device from its holder or letting her go.

  “Go take care of your business. I’ll find something to occupy my time.” She watched him shed his jacket to reveal the instrument of his trade strapped in a shoulder holster under his right arm and cuffs clipped at his back. Her eyes magnetized to the gun.

  “Angela?” Chance unholstered his weapon, removed the clip and ejected the bullet in the chamber. He reached for her hand to lay it in her palm after once more checking to make sure it was empty. “It’s good to be afraid of guns, especially, when you’re unfamiliar with how to handle them.”

  “It’s so heavy…and cold.”

  “And deadly, Angela.” He waited for this to sink in. “It’s a complex job that I have. One that dictates expert marksmanship with different caliber weapons. One that dictates my being strapped at all times. Can you deal with that?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “This is all new to me.”

  “What is?” He wanted clarity. “Us or the fact I carry a gun.”

  “Is there an us?”

  He pondered her question. “I was hoping we were on the path to an us.”

  “I’m stepping out of my comfort zone here, Chance. Don’t make me regret wanting to get to know you by succumbing on the job.”

  He laid all the components on the table.

  “Then—you’re giving us a chance?”

  “I’m saying I’d like to get to know you better. I’m saying I want to be able to trust you and this infatuation completely. I’m saying…I like you—” Angela put herself on the line, “gi-normously.”

  Chance grinned.

  “I liked you first,” he bragged, his hands playing with her agile fingers. “I immediately liked what I saw the moment my eyes fell on you at the precinct. I liked the audacity shown on behalf of someone you didn’t know. I liked the way you put yourself out for others.” He kissed her palms. “Presently, I like what I’ve come to know about you.”

  “Let’s move slowly…start with dating, perhaps?”

  “Dating it is. Tomorrow’s Saints game is a sellout. We’re gathering at Pops’ for a game party. Want to go?”

  “I don’t think we’re ready for that much attention.”

  “You—scared?” He teased.

  “This is serious, Chance. You’re asking me to place myself under the microscope too soon.” He laughed that hearty laugh she’d only heard a time or two.

  “They’re just people, Angela. We’ll have a good time. I promise.” Chance separated himself in preparation to return to the lower floor. “You can trust me.” He pecked her lips and was gone.

  Angela occupied her time delving into Chance’s personal areas: like his well-lighted reading nook and his music alcove. She rifled through his hardbound books discovering his affinity for mystery and sci-fi. His eclectic music ran the gamut of classics: classic country, classic jazz, classic R&B and classic soul. The topper was he played his special collection on his classic reel to reel tape recorder. She had to laugh. That was a throwback to her childhood and technology from her parents’ era.

  Angela’s spurt back to the kitchen had her drooling over the jelly sandwich and milk she planned to enjoy while scanning one of his books. She fingered his organized shelves of novels between bites until one blurb jumped out at her. It was about a black down-on-his luck PI who stumbled onto a politically connected suicide he sensed was actually murder. Of course, there were less than stellar characters thwarting his every move. The one main ingredient he lacked—proof.

  “Sounds interesting,” she muttered.

  She made herself comfy in his overstuffed armchair to begin her reading. Every now and again, she picked up on Chance’s muffled voice as it filtered upstairs. The tone was one she didn’t recognize. A hunch of her drooped shoulders and she went back to her book. Before long, the words on the pages became less clear forcing her to reread sentences previously read. Her eyes batted ferociously as she fought to remain clearheaded and lucid before finally surrendering like in a drug induced slumber.

  Chance, meanwhile, wrapped up his conversation unhappy with the outcome. He hopped up the stairs silencing his steps when he spotted her curled in his chair fast asleep. Tipping the remainder of the way, he dropped to a squat to watch the rise and fall of her chest. She shuddered as if on cue while a tear slid from the corner of her eye. He caught the drop of moisture on his finger rolling it around on the tips.

  A flagrant need to hold Angela close cropped up—one he had to doggedly fight. He opted instead to continue on to his bedroom for a change of clothing. His expertise had him rushing to gear up for the night crawlers were out in full force putting forth a great effort to rule the darkness. Chance’s frame of mind was entirely different when he stepped back in the common area. His main objective now was getting Angela home minus the upset his excursion would cause her if she became aware of his intent.

  “Angela, it’s time to go.”

  She awoke slowly to find him perched on the arm of her chair. “I was reading,” she said, stretching with a yawn.

  Enamored with the soft light in her sleepy eyes that settled on him, Chance sucked in a cleansing breath. “Take it with you.”

  “You’ve got to go to work?”

  “Sure do.” Chance raised her to a sitting position.

  “Will you face danger?”

  There was no need in lying to her.

  “Yes.”

  Angela’s foot slipped into her shoe with his assistance.

  “Will you have someone to watch your back?” He proceeded to work the shoe on her other foot. Her action stayed his movements as she cradled both of his cheeks to search his eyes. It was obvious to her Chance shielded his thoughts not allowing her to penetrate his vaulted expression.

  “We work in teams, Angela. I won’t be alone.”

  This was an alien situation for her—to see someone she cared about going off and putting themselves in harm’s way all for the greater good. Chance pulled her to her feet and she fell right into his arms. “Be careful.”

  His answer materialized in the form of a sensuous kiss to her soft and alluring lips. She surprised him by ringing his waist in a clutch he interpreted as a step closer to them becoming an item. They left the loft in a concerted fashion, each more aware of their attraction than ever before

  They arrived at Chance’s foster parents’ home on the Westbank approximately an hour before game time, after seeing his aunt off with her Saints and Sinners Social Club members. Angela and Chance would enjoy the sporting event miles from the Superdome. Mrs. Thatcher would cheer her team on in person from the fifty-yard line as a longtime holder of Saints season tickets. She never waffled in her support she’d told Angela. And Angela believed her.

  Angela thrived in Chance’s care while on his motorcycle. Even though the temperature rose to the mid-seventies, the chill factor was noticeably lower on the back of the bike. The wind whipped her cheeks a rosy hue by the time they rolled into the drivewa
y already crammed with vehicles.

  “We’re here so quickly?” she asked, the tension cording her body coming through in her voice.

  “It won’t be that bad, Angela. You’ll see,” he assured.

  Chance dismounted removing his helmet before assisting her with hers—the one he purchased just for her. Party noises rocked the airwaves as thumping music met them in the front yard. He noticed how she scanned the street in both directions looking as if she sought a means of escape. Chance also couldn’t help noticing how lovely she looked even with uncertainty clouding her eyes. The thought she’d make a dash for it prompted him to hold her hand.

  “I thought this was a small family affair,” she complained softly, zeroing in on the woman coming their way from down the street, juggling a casserole dish and two toddlers. “You didn’t tell me I needed to prepare a dish.”

  She was about to stroke out and Chance realized this.

  “Relax, Angel.” He stroked her with words. “I’ve taken care of our part. All I wanted you to do was bring your sweet self.”

  “He-e-y, Brock.”

  All the honey on that greeting caused Chance and Angela’s heads to swivel simultaneously. Chance tensed.

  She continued, “Long time, no see.”

  “Hey, Toya. It’s been awhile. How’ve you been?”

  “How do I look?” She did a saucy little gyrating turn to the bass line drumming in the air, emphasizing her voluptuous figure poured into an animal print outfit, dragging her children around with her.

  Angela waited silently to hear how Chance would handle their first flirty attack.

  “You haven’t changed—that’s for sure.”

  She preened even more.

  “Toya, this is Angela. My special someone.” Her hand squeezed his in gratitude.

  “Nice meeting you, Toya.” Angela wrenched her hand from Chance’s extending it to Toya who seemed to have lost some of her spunk after Chance’s introduction.

  “Yeah, you, too.” She made no effort to reciprocate and twisted on towards the house.

  Angela tapped Chance’s bicep to get his attention noting what she thought was a flinch. Her eyes captured his but she saw none of the pain she could have sworn he felt at her touch. “I do believe you have an admirer.”

  “She’s a friendly person.” Angela gave him a yeah—right look.

  They attacked the walk to the rear of the house hand in hand. People swarmed the back yard in the different stages of indulging a good time. Children pounced on the inflated animal contraption almost folding it in at the top. Some adults sat at card tables playing spades while others trounced to victory with the game of dominoes. And still, there were others animatedly talking and laughing up a storm with those in charge of manning the burners.

  “Hello, the yard,” Chance called to anyone within earshot.

  “Brock, get over here, boy, and give me a hug.”

  “Hi, Gram.” He gave the tall, regal woman a mega-hug that lifted her clean off the ground to her delight. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “You know Gram had to show these youngsters how to dress and fry the turkeys or they’d never get it right,” she boasted.

  He laughed and set her down where she turned inquisitive eyes on Angela.

  “Who’s this pretty thing?”

  “Gram, this is Angela.” He had to drag Angela closer. “Angel, this is Mrs. Gladys Robinson, Pops’ mother.”

  Mrs. Robinson spoke before Angela could get a word in. “She’s bashful, Brock. That’s something you don’t see a lot of these days.” She dissected everything about Angela. “I like her already.”

  Angela received Chance’s tentative elbow tag and found her tongue even as she began to wonder if her make-up dissolved into a greasy mess or her hair popped out of the comb clip by the way the matriarch processed her. Nervously, she smoothed at the hair framing her face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Robinson.”

  “My God,” she said to Chance. “She’s so polite.”

  Chance knew no one else dared approach the trio until signaled by Gram she’d finished her inspection.

  “You look like you could use some meat on those bones, child.”

  Chance sang a warning. “Gra-am.”

  “I am a little hungry.” That was the truth for she’d not eaten since the snack at Chance’s last night and her memory failed as to when before that.

  Mrs. Robinson threw Chance a not-so-secret wink as she took possession of Angela’s hands. “You’re very talented,” she observed while gently rubbing at Angela’s fingertips with her weathered hands. “These are your livelihood. But, they’re also your source for divining truths from myths.”

  “You read palms, Mrs. Robinson?”

  “No, Angel.” She used the name she heard Chance use moments ago. “Just people.”

  Chance relinquished his hands at her insistence to permit her to flip his palms down then back up. He grinned into her face happily enduring her inspection. What caught him off guard was the joining of Angela’s left hand and his coupled by hers like she blessed their association. The ritual ended with a crowning finger tap to the backs of their hands.

  Angela looked to Chance when Mrs. Robinson boisterously got the attention of the crowd over the blasting music. Her stomach tightened as her ears refuted what she heard.

  “We have a wedding on the horizon,” Gram announced.

  The talking stopped. All eyes swung to them. It was like time stood still.

  “Gram, you’re scaring her,” a gentle voice warned.

  Angela recognized her rescuer. It was Chanté.

  Chance eyed Angela to see how she faired under the circumstances. “Gram, Chanté’s right. I brought Angela to meet the family. Don’t chase her away.”

  Angela found herself surrounded by Robinson off-spring of all ages.

  “I’m Letha. The mother of this brood.”

  Angela endured her motherly hug with a smile. She was beginning to relax among the people who loved him and weren’t afraid to show it. Pops came up. Trell, his wife, Sasha and Chanté’s husband, Troy rounded out the group. Introductions went around the circle bringing her one step closer to Chance. She looked to him for guidance at this time.

  It was Letha who disbanded the group and urged the others to resume their activities with a promise they’d eat right away.

  “Some family you have,” she joked.

  “They like you, too,” he bantered.

  “Hey, Bro.” Trell interrupted. “Give me a hand. Angela, Mama wants your help in the kitchen.”

  They parted ways with Angela slinking into the kitchen unsure of what to expect. She saw Chance through the window engrossed in a serious looking conversation with the men as Trell’s six year-old son watched the words tumble from the grown-ups’ mouths. They moved closer to the carport wall out of her view.

  “Angela, it’s tradition that the hardworking women get to sample the goodies before the men.”

  “Sounds great to me, Mrs. Robinson. I’ve never had fried turkey.”

  “Well, my dear, you’re in for a treat. And call me Letha,” she invited, bustling over to peel the foil from the many dishes obscuring the countertop.

  All five women eagerly grabbed a sturdy paper plate with Angela receiving first honors in dishing hers since she was a guest. The smells emanating caused her stomach to grumble—loudly. Just as she forked a piece of turkey Trell’s son burst in nearly toppling her over as she languished in the kitchen doorway.

  “Grandmother, Granddaddy said to send four long necks outside,” his squeaky voice eeked.

  “Say excuse me, Brian.” Sasha’s curt reprimand boomeranged. “You can’t take all four.”

  “Uh-huh,” he contradicted her, munching his way platter to platter with squirrelly little hops.

  “Go tell your daddy to come here.”

  “He’s looking at Uncle Bro’s arm.”

  “What do you mean looking at Bro’s arm?” Sasha questioned. “Wha
t’s wrong with Bro’s arm?”

  “He got shot.”

  Angela lost all feelings in her fingers sending her plate on a downward spiral to the floor.

  “Brian, what did I tell you about fibbing?”

  “I’m not fibbing.” He pouted. “I saw it, too. They didn’t think I could see. But, I saw it.” He patted the bicep of his skinny little arm. “Right here. It has blood on the big band-aid and everything.”

  “Here.” Letha shoved the brown bottles into his arms. “Go on. Take those outside.”

  Angela regained some of her composure, leaned to clean up the mess she created and remembered his reaction to her hitting his arm. “I’m sorry.” She’d just gotten off the floor when she heard Chance bellow her name.

  Chance made the grim discovery as he participated in securing the hot grease to prevent an accident, particularly, since there were children around. It was while breaking down the burner he happened to peer under the prep table and what he saw spurred him into action. He rocketed into the house filled with panic at the sight of what he viewed as a half-eaten plate of food.

  “No!” he shouted and snatched it away without explanation. She looked at him with an indescribable sadness.

  “You promised me honesty,” she complained.

  He ignored her. “How much did you eat?”

  They glared at one another unperturbed that the others witnessed their sparring match.

  “I need to be able to trust you, Chance. A day later and I find that that’s not possible.”

  He heard finality in her words. “Wait. Wait.”

  “Wait for what? For you to get wounded, again? Or heaven forbid—killed?” She faced her hosts. “Thank you for your hospitality.” Then to him, “Take me home, Chance.”

  “I’m taking you straight to the ER if you don’t answer me,” he intoned. “Now!” He gripped her shoulders in despair. “The fry kettle contained peanut oil, Angela.”

  Angela let go of her distress long enough to see the terrible fright in his eyes. She brushed at the frown on his forehead. “I didn’t get to eat any. I dropped my plate when Brian let it slip you’d been shot last night.”

  “Did you touch it all when you picked up the scraps?”