Christmas Angel

by Amanda McIntyre

  She smiled and ran her fingertip across his lips. “Hard to imagine you being a man, after all.”

  Was that all this meant? The assumption she was somehow different than other women he’d known wobbled precariously on the pedestal he’d secretly placed her on. “I don’t know what’s happening here.” He was having second thoughts. Did he really want to know the truth? Then again, hadn’t he already given notice he couldn’t give her what she wanted? The odd thought struck him— perhaps he’d been mistaken about what she wanted? He looked down, searching her beautiful eyes. “What do you need from me?”

  She maneuvered out from beneath him. “Nothing you aren’t willing to give freely.” Moving around the end of the bed in search of her clothes, she bent down, scooped up her shirt, and stood turning it right side out.

  Shado scooted off the bed and put his arms around her, nuzzling her shoulder.

  He didn’t want the moment to end, but he had to clear the conflict in his mind. “What about Billy?” he whispered, pressing his lips to her silky flesh.

  She leaned against his embrace, covering his hands with hers. “I don’t know who he is.” She glanced up at him. “That’s the truth of it.”

  He tore his eyes from her mouth, daring to speak his worst fear aloud. “What if…what if he’s your husband? This,” he sighed, resting his chin on her shoulder briefly before once again searching her face for the truth. “This shouldn’t happen.”

  A soft smile touched her lips and she brought his knuckles to them. She shook her head. “I think I would know. It would have left a hole in me—an emptiness.” She rested her head against his chest. “Besides,” she said, moving his hands over her breasts, “I couldn’t want your touch on me as much as I do if I was already happy with someone else.”

  Good enough. He buried his face in her hair, caressing, weighing her soft, pale flesh, working with her to ease down the pants she wore. She turned, and stepping from them, reached out and undid his jeans. Her delicate fingers near his crotch brought his cock to life, and he quickly kicked out of his pants. She cupped his cheeks.

  “Make love to me,” she said softly, took his wrist, and led him to the bed.

  And he did. Tasting, touching, and memorizing every gentle curve, every spot that caused a sigh or made her giggle. He floated in a euphoric dream, every fantasy from his sleepless nights culminated in exhilarating pleasure when he settled himself between her thighs. She surrendered, her lips parting with a sigh as he sank deep inside her. She was perfect, warm, wet—closed tight around him—safe. He brushed a wisp of hair from her face, capturing her mouth, delighting in the unhurried kiss they shared. Her fingertips drifted over his back, and she drew her knees up, taking him in fully, setting off a flash fire in his brain.

  He moved slowly, relishing their union. She was no virgin, but she was sweet, giving and taking, her hands kneading his butt. He lifted his head to swallow, spots dancing before his eyes. He needed release, and he fought the urge to drive into her. She was hot, slick, and he focused on her face, seeing her pleasure—his alone to give her. Need crept up his spine, tightening his gut and quickening his thrusts. God he couldn’t let this happen, not without protection. She was close; he could sense it as though their very souls were connected. He clenched his teeth, wanting to pleasure her and yet suffering in the fact he would not share this delirious pinnacle with her.

  Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. She clung to him, her soft breath panting against his shoulder, pleading for him to stay close—just a moment longer. A quiet sound escaped her lips, and she lifted from the bed, pulling him close in a fierce kiss as she tumbled into sweet oblivion.

  With an anguished moan, he left her, stumbling from the bedroom to the bathroom. He braced his hand against the wall as he relieved himself of the tensions he’d wrought. He stood a moment on shaky legs, his stomach roiling with frustration. He pounded his fist to the wall, then bent over the sink, splashing his face with cold water. His body ached still ached for her. When at last he was able to face himself in the mirror, he’d decided one thing was certain--this couldn’t happen again.

  ***

  Angel rose quietly closed the window after Shado left. Shivering, she hurried back to bed and snuggled under the covers anticipating his return soon from the bathroom. She knew why he’d left so suddenly, and though part of her reasoned it was for the best, her arms felt the cold emptiness of his absence. What happened was inevitable. Surely, he knew this. The tension in the past few days had been palpable, ripe, waiting for the right moment. And she would have taken it further, perhaps she would still and confess how she’d come to care for him, how she envisioned herself there, making a home with him—maybe children. A single thud hit the wall, resonating through the apartment, and she clenched the blanket between her fists. She worried her lip, trying to second-guess the meaning of the sound. If anything, she’d hoped this would serve as a new beginning between them.

  He’d been thoughtful to ask first about Billy, wanting to ensure he did not overstep the sacred bond between her and another man, but in her desire to be with him, she’d chosen not to ask the same of him in return. Not as noble, she didn’t want to know perhaps the ties he might have to the woman and small boy in the photograph. He’d have said something, surely, had there been anything between them.

  In reality, the only certainty was he didn’t know what was happening and couldn’t give her what she wanted. Fear crawled up her throat, causing tears to sting the back of her eyes. She’d gotten exactly what she wanted—she’d only asked him for sex—nothing more. No future. No commitments. Angel sniffed and swiped an errant tear from her cheek. The snow had begun to fall again, painting the sky a dingy gray. She blinked at the shadows beginning to darken in the waning afternoon. There was a choice. There was always a choice. She could lie there, feeling sorry for herself, waiting for him to come back, or she could get up, confront him with the truth, and find out who the woman in the photo was.

  She pushed away the covers and dressed quickly, peering down the silent hallway. A dim light cast a gentle glow from the bathroom, but he wasn’t there. Nor was he in the kitchen. The large mixing bowl, once filled with fresh snow, was nothing more than frigid water laced with pale strings of fake syrup.

  She found him seated in the recliner, his attention on the snow falling. He was dressed in a pair of sweatpants, his arms resting casually on the arms of the chair. He didn’t speak, didn’t look up when she walked into the room. Angel glanced his way as she sat on the end of the couch and curled her legs under her. She waited for him to speak, in some way acknowledge her presence, to tell her even though things had gotten out of hand between them, it would be all right. Instead, he remained silent, and the possibility of another woman in his life became more real with each passing minute. She battled with the need to ask him, fearing she would be forced to come forth with the strange secret she kept from him. Her eyes darted to Miss Brisbee’s book on the table. She chose a safer path to try to make a connection “What was Christmas like for you as a child?” It wasn’t what she’d intended to ask—what she really wanted to know—but perhaps she was delaying the inevitable.

  “Loud,” he responded, his attention still fixed on the window. Outside the snow came down in an intense blanket of white. “My brother and I were uncontrollable. We had to share a room—bunk beds—and the entire month before Christmas, we’d lie awake at night listing what we hoped to find under the tree on Christmas morning.” He was quiet and had yet to look at her. “Stupid stuff, really. He always wanted those science or CSI kits; he liked books and games—shit, that was no fun to my way of thinking. I wanted the ‘cool’ stuff—a skateboard, then a snowboard, a pair of Air Jordans, and a leather jacket.” He looked down and chuckled, then swiped his hand over his face, pressing his fingers against his closed lids. He took a deep breath and refocused out the window.

  “Did you get those things?” she asked. “The things you wanted?”

  He scratc
hed his cheek and let go a brief laugh. “Hardly ever. My dad was a big believer in teaching us the difference between want and need. It was a tough lesson to learn, especially at Christmas.”

  A watery image of a holiday long ago shimmered at the edge of her memory. There was a room, small like this. Rough wood-hewn beds lined the two walls at one end, separated by a wall made of blankets hanging over a rope. At the other end was a dinner table with two long benches placed in front of a stone fireplace. A small kitchen was tucked in the corner with an old black stove and a pump for water. There was a tree and though real, it was no bigger than Miss Brisbee’s made with wire and plastic branches designed to look like evergreen needles. Angel couldn’t remember ever wishing for anything, but with gratitude she’d accepted the meager presents each was given—a knitted scarf for winter, a new slate for school, sometimes with a piece of chalk, and a peppermint from the general store in town. She blinked from her reverie and looked at Shado’s handsome profile in the dusky afternoon light. The image she’d conjured—the one of her childhood—was clear and real as any human could have. It was no memory of a television show. She spoke then from a sincere heart. “I don’t remember it being like that for me,” she started. “There was no such thing as ‘wanting or making wishes.’ There were times only some of us received what we needed, while others had to wait until the next holiday. I see the shows on your television with the sales on toys, electric things, cars, and phones. None of those were a part of my childhood.”

  She looked up and met his curious gaze. They were from different worlds—but the more she remembered hers, the wider the differences became between them. “I know it seems strange. If it’s any consolation, I feel sometimes like I was born in another time.” She swallowed. Her palms felt moist, but she forged ahead. “You have so many things.” She waved her hand toward his many possessions. “Before I met you, I never understood what it meant to want or wish for something.”

  He regarded her a moment longer, then glanced out the window again.

  Angel sensed the tension continuing to build between them. Whatever he was hiding, he wasn’t ready yet, it seemed, to share with her. “I have no just cause for asking this, and I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but I need to know something,

  Shado.”

  He closed his eyes as though preparing for her question.

  “Who is the woman with the little boy in the photograph?”

  His lashes flashed upward, revealing his steely stare. “What photograph?”

  Confused by his terse reaction, she pushed from the couch and bent down near the shoes to retrieve the picture. It was still there, tucked where she’d left it between his boots and the wall. She handed it to him. “I noticed it on the floor. I didn’t want you to think I was meddling in your affairs.”

  He held the picture, staring at it without comment for some time.

  “The little boy has your eyes.” There, she’d opened the door for him to tell her the truth.

  He nodded, finally. “You’re right, he does look like me.” He made an odd sound in his throat. “He looks like his dad.”

  Angel’s heart squeezed, and she swallowed a sob. There was no denying how he looked with painful fondness at the photograph. “Of course, you love him and his mother a great deal.”

  He said nothing but stood after a moment and walked down the hall to his room. A few moments later, he returned, dressed, and began to tug on his boots.

  “Shado?” She watched helplessly as he readied to leave. “What about the captain’s orders to stay inside?”

  He drew on his coat. “I told you things would get complicated.”

  “Why can’t we talk about this?” She started toward him, and he held up a hand to stop her and shook his head.

  “I can’t.” He couldn’t look at her, or wouldn’t. “Not now and maybe never,

  Angel.”

  Tears once more threatened to spill over. “Just tell me this. Do you love her?”

  He straightened, piercing her with a look that confirmed she’d stepped over the line.

  “I’d take a bullet for those two in a heartbeat. You don’t understand. Love doesn’t cover it, Angel. It goes beyond emotion. They’re my responsibility. My family.” He opened the door. “Lock this and don’t open it for anyone.”

  She wanted to understand, if he’d just let her in. She cleared her throat, turning away to swipe at the tear rolling down her cheek. “Where are you going?” Maybe he was going to her—the woman. Angel bit her lip and forced herself to face him.

  “I need a drink.”

  “But you don’t—” He left before she could finish, and the sound of his boots raced down the steps. The heavy front door squawked on its hinges, and the thud when it slammed shut echoed up the stairs and straight into Angel’s heart.

  Chapter Seven

  He didn’t drink. Shado bent his head against the fierce north wind. Why’d the damn bar have to be north? He debated whether there was any alcohol known to man that would obliterate the tormented thoughts roiling around inside him.

  He’d crossed the line. Stupid idiot. And perhaps what was shamefully worse was—given the opportunity—he’d have a hard time not stepping over it again. She’d managed to get to him. Somehow she’d weaseled her way under his skin. And it wasn’t right. Fraternizing with a witness he was supposed to protect was dangerous. It could cost him his badge. It could cost Gleason his badge for agreeing to it.

  He looked up and squinted against the wind, realizing he’d walked about four blocks. Only the occasional snowplow had passed by. Most of the businesses downtown were closed. Thankfully, Smitty’s Bar & Grill greeted him with a brilliant red neon “Welcome.” He trudged through the drifts, piled high by the plows, and crossed the street. A blast of warmth hit his face when he slipped inside. As was his habit, he took a quick scan of the place and found it virtually empty except for a few patrons and the bartender. The musty smell of the old furnace mingled with booze and the residual smell of cigarettes from days when smoking was still permitted. It was steeped in the wood from floor to ceiling and was part of the ambience of age, he figured. The thought that drinking maybe wasn’t such a great idea flitted through his brain, but not fast enough to dissuade him from ripping off his gloves and finding a stool midway down the polished brass and wood bar.

  “Wasn’t sure you’d be open.” He unzipped his coat and glanced at the bartender who approached him. Probably in his mid-fifties or older, he wore his thin black hair slicked back just like his own dad used to wear his—a devout Vitalis man with a black rubber comb. Shado smiled and made himself comfortable on the stool.

  The barkeep eyed him. “It’s close to the holidays. We stay busy, regardless of

  the weather. Guess people need a place to go if they don’t want to be at home.

  What’ll it be?”

  Shado ignored the fact the stranger had pegged his reason for being there, though it was in the details he found justification. He rubbed his hands together, generating some warmth and stalling. He needed something quick. He needed to numb his brain. “You don’t happen to have any Templeton Rye, by chance? I was reading an article about it the other day, thought I’d try it.”

  The bartender raised his brow and turned to the vast array of shelves filled with liquors. He pulled down one bearing an old-fashioned label, twisted the cap, and poured a finger of the pale amber liquid in a shot glass. “Starting a tab?” he asked sliding it across the smooth bar. He stood, patiently waiting, the bottle poised.

  The guy was a mind reader. Shado nodded, took the shot, and tossed it back, enjoying the odd comfort of the slow burn down his throat. He nudged the empty glass forward. “One more.”

  “Take your time. It is a sipping whiskey.”

  Shado glanced around him, taking stock of the other patrons whose dreary lives had caused them to venture out on this godforsaken afternoon. Two older men sat at a table engrossed in a card game, settled in it seemed for the day with the
ir beer and bowl of pretzels. Another man sat alone in a booth toward the back, his attention focused on his smartphone. Shado glanced up at the television, which hung at the end of the bar. Some basketball game went on unnoticed while a continuous weather statement scrolled at the bottom, spewing out special statements by the national weather service and the local station.

  “Templeton’s seven-fifty a pop, friend,” the bartender said. “You want anything else?” Without a word, he placed a bowl of nuts and pretzels in front of Shado.

  “I’m good, thanks,” he responded helping himself to the snack.

  The barkeep nodded. “Grill’s hot if you change your mind.”

  Shado breathed deeply, chewing on a stale pretzel and staring at the ball game, paying heed to the words of the bartender and slowing it down with this round. The sound was too low to hear well, but in truth, he was more interested in the weather anyway. Basketball wasn’t his thing. It was always Danny’s strong suit.

  Starter team as a freshman, he held his position unrivaled through school and went all-conference—smart and athletic. No wonder Penny had fallen for him.

  He pulled out his phone to check for messages and dialed her number. He had been surprised, though pleasantly so, that he was able to talk his sister-in-law into taking Danny to his grandparents’ Midwestern farm for the holidays. With everything going on, he wanted them safely away from Reno. He placed the phone on the bar, setting aside the flash of concern that she hadn’t answered. They were probably out ice-skating or sledding—having a great time like a little kid should with his family. He took another sip of his drink and held it on his tongue before swallowing. A commercial’s jingle, louder than the game itself, pricked his ears and caught his attention. He watched it, but in his mind he heard Angel’s voice talking about wanting and needing. His gut told him she wasn’t talking about presents under a tree on Christmas morning. Still, he wasn’t ready to hear what she really meant. His phone rang and he wrestled it from his coat pocket, thinking it might be Penny. Jack Gleason’s number popped up on the screen.