Like Slow Sweet Molasses

  “One more stop?” she asked innocently.

  He twisted his long fingers between the soft ones holding his on the lever. “It’s late and you have school tomorrow.”

  “I know,” agreement spilled out sweetly. “It’s a quick one.”

  “I…have a very early morning.” His exaggerated yawn was to prove his point. “An all day training OP and that’s a lot to put on a middle-aged man.” He badmouthed his stamina. “I need my rest.”

  She found humor in his pitiful plea but no sympathy. “It’s not out of the way, Chance.”

  Ahead, in the middle of the block, was the reason for all the whoopla she made. “The store, Angel? You want a slush this late at night?”

  “It’s barely,” she commented taking in the time on her wristwatch, “eleven-fifty. The store closes at midnight.”

  “What the heck?”

  He parallel parked as close as possible because the neighborhood quick stop had no on-site parking. “I deserve something special for this.” His grope on her jacket piloted her in for a spine-tingling kiss.

  “Hmmm. That was tasty.” Angela smacked her mouth demonstrably. “But I still want that slush.”

  “Stop whining and come on,” he gave in.

  As he prepared to release her, the advancing headlights in his rearview mirror blacked out. He started to think maybe the car turned off. That proved false as the street lights hit the shiny grill on the front giving away its location. Chance stopped Angela as she fumbled for her door handle, pushing her down in the seat, instead.

  “Chance?”

  “Shh.” The elongated one syllable word acquired life in the night.

  He also scooted down while removing the bulb from the top of the car. Watching in the side mirror, he saw it glide eel-like in the darkness reflecting light every few feet. His fist slammed the side console to pop out an invisible gun perch.

  “Chance, what’s going on?” she whispered nervously, unbridled emotions contracting the scalp on the crown of her head.

  “Open the glove box and get the walkie-talkie.”

  “Wh-what are you doing, Chance?” She hadn’t moved and watched him do a speedy check of his weapon.

  “Do as I say, Angela.” His voice, gruff and stern, brooked no patience for questions.

  All indications added up to her disliking the encroaching events. “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s go,” she pleaded. “I-I don’t want it, now.”

  “Sorry, Angel. I can’t do that.” Chance reached behind to get the cap thrown on the back seat to slap it on his head. “I have a job to do.”

  “But, you can. Just start up…a-and let’s leave.”

  “Push that button on the side to transmit. Release it to listen. Got it?”

  “No, I don’t got it,” she bit out frantically.

  “Tell dispatch there’s a code 14 at—,” he looked for a street sign. “Crap! What’s the name of this street and the store?”

  “Eighth St. Market on Eighth Street.”

  “Tell them that.” He maintained his surveillance of the vehicle as he snapped instructions. No one exited as of yet. “Tell them there’s a plainclothesman at the scene with a civilian. Got that?”

  “I want to go home,” she yelled driving him to clamp a hand over her mouth.

  “You’re going to give us away, Angela, if you don’t control yourself. Do you understand me?” he snarled giving her a little shake. “Well, do you?”

  Her head shook up and down and he unmuzzled her mouth.

  “Sit up.” She popped up on command and her cheeks glistened wet. He kissed her there. “I have to crawl over you to get to your door. Here are the keys. Lock yourself in and stay put no matter what you hear.”

  He barked too many instructions for comprehension in her state of confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s a robbery about to go down.” Chance squeezed into place at the door. “You’re safe as long as your presence remains unknown. Now, do you understand me?” She reacted like a bobble head doll. “Stay down and stay put.” One more kiss and he was smoke in the air as he drifted through the night, shielding himself from shrub to shrub en route to the store.

  “Chance!” Angela shrieked under her breath. “Chance!” she cried, monitoring his progress while mashing the button, panicking when he vanished from sight.

  Chance bent low and knuckled his way in the shadows to prevent detection. He stumbled over a weighty branch and cursed the night, rethinking to determine it a blessing in disguise and a handy addition to his arsenal. He could see the driver as he approached, barely, for the windows were nearly coal black. There was no sign of the passenger, so, he assumed the action was already underway. He neared the side fence debating how to get closer without stepping out into the light and becoming a bull’s eye himself when the area went partially black and the yelling started inside.

  It was the diversion he needed.

  Chance plastered himself against the wall, keeping an eye out for the accomplice, then inched his way to the entrance where the door suddenly flew open and a body ejected from the interior—the arm outstretched and flashes blazing from the gun.

  The blast of sirens whooping closer scared the getaway driver into premature motion, whipping the robber into a frenzy as he jetted to catch up.

  “Police! Drop your weapon.” Chance hollered at the masked bandit from the safety of the shadows, roaring the order in back to back commands. “Policia! Suelta tu arma!”

  The thief twirled following the sound’s origination, telepathing his intentions to Chance. A beating cadence disturbed the night as the thick piece of wood whirled in the air before hitting its mark. But, instead of the gunman losing his grip on the gun, he yowled as impact forced the weapon to discharge wildly into the blackness.

  Angela’s insides shriveled at the popping reiterations exploding the ebony atmosphere.

  Chance pounced, given the opportunity to gain control of the situation, about the same time as the scream that slit his heart in two. He faltered, took his eyes off the culprit and to his horror watched her fall flat on her face in the grassy right-of-way at the street. A big mistake for now he and the perpetrator were engrossed in mortal hand-to-hand combat where only the best man would win. The mask of death that slithered over his face was in stark opposition to the vows to uphold the law and his knee wailed into his combatant’s soft side—in skillful repetition and with deadly force.

  He didn’t see or hear the officers coming—the ones who dragged him off the man writhing painfully on the ground, knees drawn up tighter than a ball of twine. Chance did hear the alarm by the foghorn voiced officer primed to squelch any movement as he stood over Angela’s body, his firearm pointed downward.

  “We got the lookout over here!” he chanted with enough exhilaration to incite mob activity.

  Chance observed the rush of adrenaline from where they had him subdued.

  “She’s with me!” He broke free of their hold and with his badge held high overhead dodged their intended restraints. “Holster your weapon!”

  His red-rimmed eyes took on the attributes of hell’s devil silently speaking to the significance of the younger officer yielding to a higher ranking authority. Chance stood over her, fighting for the return of his composure, checking the progress underway at the store and guiltily scrutinizing the surrounding area of her body for telltale signs of her demise or evidence of survival.

  “She moved, sir.”

  He hadn’t seen her stir.

  “Chance?”

  His name, no more than a sigh, coupled his knees to the ground beside her and the flat of his hand to her prone body. “Angela, where are you hurt?”

  Angela’s brain began to calculate the extent of her injuries. The tiny crawling ants biting their way out of her body informed her of the results as she stimulated her system by moving. “Hurt?” she repeated dumbfounded.

  Curiosity seekers, kept at bay by the yellow police tape, crowded the line pushing the en
velope to the limit to get a view of the happenings. A camera snapped. In his opinion, that was a bad omen.

  “Sit up.” Chance lent a hand in her accomplishing that feat. “We’re going to take a deep breath and get you to your feet. Ready?”

  She slipped a look at him happy with what she saw.

  “Easy…easy.”

  It was a fluke she was unharmed in the melee. She realized this although her mind skipped scenes worse than a needle grooved on a vinyl record. “I’m going home, now.” The idea seemed plausible as she took a step—in the wrong direction.

  “Angel?” Chance called and she faced him. “I’ll take you home.”

  “No. No, Chance.” She timidly negated his offer, half-aware of the problems she caused, obviously jumpy from the flood of movement and crush of blue uniforms. “You have a job to do.”

  He immediately diagnosed her dazed and confused state. Nevertheless, she turned the tables on him with the words he spoke at the beginning of the episode. Lights slashed the night, casting a wicked blanket of anticipation over the event. The mood from the crowd rolled in like a wave, and all over a helpless disoriented Angela. Turning to the officer who glared in disgust at the exchange, Chance snapped, “Disperse that group and send them on their way.”

  He led Angela, holding her closely, to the outer realms away from the investigative team roaming the premises. Each bat of her bewildered eyes printed a lasting impression of her involvement in tonight’s series of events. The jittery lurches of her body worried him—a lot.

  Chance shed his jacket to drape her shoulders.

  “Finish your job,” she began, looking like she could take flight at any minute. “I’ll walk home.” Angela stated matter-of-factly, “It’s not too far. Really.” And like he had no inkling where she lived, “Only a couple of blocks from here.”

  “I can’t let you do that, Angel. You’re in shock.”

  Pacing, “I’m going…home and you can’t stop me.” Her meltdown started.

  “Alright, I’ll take you right now. Just let me talk to the detectives before we leave,” he begged, hindering her on one of her turnaround trips. “Look at me.” She did. “Will you do that for me? Wait?”

  The bobble head doll was back.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chance let them into her home a little after one a.m. with the only sounds being the brassy clink of her keys and the refrigerator’s gentle hum. Soft lighting in the living room was a welcome change from the throbbing flashes of disco ball brightness at the scene. Locking the storm door, he closed the front door quietly and rested his head against the wooden panel unsure of what his next move should be. A flip of his body allowed him to see Angela’s imprecise steps take her across the room, up the stairs and into her bedroom where she purged his jacket at the door.

  He pushed himself off and sought out the bath off the kitchen to examine his wounded mouth. What he really did was give her time to regroup and him time to work up his nerves to face her. Chance had a nice sized egg on his cheek, prevalently seen above his beard, which colored the skin around it and up to his eye a deep shade of purple. He touched the lump satisfied the pain there would usurp any felt during the upcoming talk between he and Angela. Cold water gushed when he twisted the faucet and rinsed and spit out the bloody secretions from his mutilated jaw.

  His tongue confirmed the rubbery lesions his teeth persisted in aggravating every time he opened his mouth. Chance rinsed once more, sloshed cold water on his face and disappeared into the cushy cloth under the guise of toweling dry. After doing so, he left his self-imposed exile, because he’d wasted enough time, to go in search of Angela.

  The number of steps it took to reach her bedroom door weren’t enough under the present circumstances. The jacket in his way sailed through the air at his kick. No light greeted him which had him cross to flick on the bedside lamp. With a mental shake and personal dressing down, Chance worked up the guts to approach the bathroom door, confident the lapse of time was ample for her to have changed from her street clothes to bedclothes.

  “Angel?” No response. He eased closer to the door to call again. “Angela, are you alright?”

  When his call bumped into silence once again, Chance took that as permission to enter and swung the door on a wide arch. Emptiness drew him in deeper although every corner within eyesight was barren. He was sure she’d entered her bedroom. His head took a pessimistic droop to stare at his booted foot for a split-second as his hand blotted out the misery of his thoughts. One heel into his retreat and there she nestled—in the cavity bounded by the cushioned-topped clothes hamper and the garden tub, hunched as fragile as a baby bird after hatching.

  Angela’s arms strangled her knees as she fought not to dwell on the most recent tragedy in her life. Even with her eyes open and thoughts in the present, Chance’s near death experience and consequently, his violent retaliation set his features in a rage-induced scowl, one she hoped never to see ever again. Her eyes cast downward giving her a close-up look at the crimson splatters on his shoes. Furthermore, she followed the broken path up his legs, passed his chest and her sad eyes lodged on the knot on his swollen jaw.

  It haunted him to break into her imaginary, albeit, protective shell to rescue her from the games he knew her mind played. To allow her to remain closed off from reality would do her more harm than good. “Get up,” he barked. His hands banded her arms to pull her to her feet and over to sit on the commode top, careful not to aggravate the healing areas.

  Her sunken eyes remained dead.

  “You almost got me killed,” he accused, waiting on some sign of her anger at his manhandling ways. “What’s worse…you almost got yourself killed.”

  The balloon in his jaw froze her eyes on that spot.

  He shook her vigorously. “What do you have to say for yourself?” He hated himself for what he did. “I’m talking to you, Angela.”

  Her eyes jumped to his stare which was now stone-cold.

  He was infuriated and not aware his act was now the real thing, time-warped there at the remembrance of her close call. “One day you’ll disrespect my professional judgment and we’ll both suffer from it.”

  A single tear cut a fine line down her cheek.

  That swelled his heart to bursting and his temper extinguished as quickly as blowing out a lighted match, filtering from lava hot to ocean cool. Her mascara striped cheeks and grass stained clothes cinched the deal. Chance scoured her vanity in an effort to guess what her nightly cleansing regiment was for her face. All the commercials he’d seen about a woman’s precious skin revealed new innovative ways to keep it looking and feeling youthful. The mirrored tray, sparsely populated with unknown brand names to him, held one item labeled facial cleansing foam. The tap opened at his twist of the lever to dispense warm water under which he soaked a washcloth and squirted the aloe colored foam.

  On his knees before her, Chance used a gentle circular motion to remove the makeup on her entire face with the exclusion of her eyes. He rinsed and re-soaped the towel, preparing to erase the black smudges from her lids.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Angela, tongue-lashed into submission because his viewpoint was justified, obediently closed her raccoon eyes. She hadn’t remained in the car as instructed. But, only because the dispatcher asked her if she could tell what happened. And she couldn’t unless she hazarded to get closer. That he was incensed with her was obvious from his tone. However, his touches as he removed her vest, discarded her soiled sweater and worked the jeans over her hips to replace the items with her nightshirt that covered her upper torso before stripping away her bra, spoke to his love and respect.

  “I needed to know you were okay.”

  Hands visibly shaking, she closed her eyes and finger-felt the horizontal grooves on his forehead—the flipped quarter-moon brows above lids that shut as she lovingly brushed the lashes—the short whiskers smoothly embedded on his jaws and ended with the tips pressed to his firm lips that always showered
her with gentle kisses. Each touch didn’t merely stamp his image in her brain; they branded his love in her heart.

  Angela exchanged her fingers and gifted him with an openmouthed kiss.

  “It’s what I imagine,” he said unable to sever contact, “being skinned alive would feel like…watching you collapse and fearing the worst, that we’d shot you.” He sat back on his heels. “Don’t ever do that, again. Scare me like that.” Chance climbed out of his rut to pull her up, too. “I can’t keep me safe if I’m worrying about your safety.”

  Theirs was a hug of desperation as they lost themselves in the other’s longing arms. A shudder zigzagged through her body obliging him to admit his folly and confess a fault. “I have to ask myself if I really expected you to blindly obey an order—when I know your nature is to contest any direct command.” He squeezed. “I put you in that impossible position.”

  “Yes, you did.” Her words churned him up where it hurt most—their serrated-edges mangling his bleeding heart finer than Mardi Gras confetti. Until, that is, she further expressed, her hot breath searing the material of his shirt to scorch his chest, “In conjunction with my stubborn insistence to make you stop at the store.”

  “You couldn’t have known things would go awry, Angel.”

  “I honestly didn’t want the evening to end, Chance. It was selfish of me. I know that now. This incident convinces me that my insinuation into your life spells…”

  “Don’t say it,” he derailed her statement, cross she even thought of giving up. “It’s late and we’ve both had a long, tedious night.”

  “I can’t have you sidetracked,” she wept softly, “because you’re worrying about me. That’ll get you killed.”