by Rhys Ford
The kitchenette boasted two burners, a garbage disposal, and oddly enough a fully functioning dishwasher but no working oven when he’d moved in. First thing Angel did before moving in was rip out the dishwasher, replacing it with a stove-oven combination big enough to cook a twenty-pound turkey. At the time, he thought he’d use the oven in case something blew at the bakery. Now it did double time during the holidays and cookie duty on the weekends Angel could spare time to mix together a batter.
When Roman appeared on his doorstep, Angel’d moved out of the small bedroom to crash on the sleeper sofa. The first few weeks were a grueling slog of nightmares, fights, and tantrums, but they’d weathered the storm. Or at least it calmed down enough for Roman to trust him enough to talk about the things bubbling up in him. It was all Angel could hope for. In the end, he’d call it a win if Roman had enough tools to cope with the crap living inside his brain and to want to do something more than con people out of their money.
It was more than what their father’d done with his life… more than what he’d given them both… and Angel could only hope it was enough.
“I’m done!” Roman never did anything by halves, and coming out of the bathroom was no exception. “Stick a fork in me, bro!”
His brother shouted when he spoke, stomped when he walked, and sang when he yelled. A bundle of noise, contrariness, and stubborn tempers, his brother shoved his way through life, used to taking what was in front of him whether he needed it or not. People were disposable, and money was king with nothing else in between mattering.
It was the hardest habit to break, Angel discovered, learning how to give a shit about anyone else besides yourself. He hadn’t known that when his father dumped him in Half Moon Bay, but he’d sure as hell learned it before the summer was out. That summer changed everything for him. He’d hated every single damned second of his life right up until the moment he’d met West Harris and learned he was worth more than being bait for a con and a decoy for shaking someone down.
No matter what West did from that moment on, he’d given Angel something he hadn’t had before—a scrap of self-esteem—and Angel’d been fighting to hold on to that scrap since the day he’d first grabbed a hold of it and it took him for a ride.
“No regrets, Harris.” Angel raised his coffee cup in a mock salute toward the shore. “Even if you fucked things up afterwards.”
“Who you talking to?” Rather than sit down next to Angel, Roman launched himself at the couch, and Angel held his cup up to avoid getting splashed with hot coffee. “Oh crap, sorry. I didn’t see the cup.”
“Yeah, it’s a ninja cup.” Putting the mug on the low table next to the couch was harder than usual with Rome’s feet in the way, but Angel managed. His back popped when he overstretched, and for a brief moment there were stars in his eyes and his collarbone went numb. “Okay. Back just crackled. Not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, so I guess you’ll have to stay up for a few minutes to make sure I’m okay.”
“I can do that.” Roman flipped over, gouging his bony hip into Angel’s leg. “Oh, and I got a note from the principal for you.”
Eyeing his brother, he asked, “Is this a bad note or a good note?”
“He says I can’t sell candy anymore out of my locker. ’Cause he’s a dick.” Squinting, Roman studied Angel’s face.
There were too many questions flying around in Angel’s head, so he plucked out the first one that came to rest. “Why are you selling candy out of your locker?”
“Because they took the candy out of the vending machines this year. There’s only rice cakes, nuts, dried fruit, and some other crap,” Roman explained with a huff. “People want their stuff, Angel. So I brought some things in.”
“Where’d you get the money?” His mind was in full scramble. Roman’s allowance sure as hell didn’t cover a candy operation, and besides, his brother didn’t come with impulse control installed. If he had a quarter, he’d spend a dollar. “Okay, kiddo, cough it all up. What the hell have you been doing?”
“I used to sell some of the day-olds for a buck, but they’re hard to carry around—”
“Wait, so you took cupcakes from the bakery?”
“No, just muffins.” Roman shook his head, his face mottled with disgust. “Don’t be stupid. The cupcakes have frosting on them. That’ll get all over the place.”
“Jesus, okay. You know we’re supposed to sell that stuff. It’s kind of what a bakery does.” Angel grabbed a hold of his brain and steeled himself for the rest of Rome’s story.
“I only took the ones you guys were going to give away. Nothing fresh.” He snorted at Angel’s muffled grumble. “It was only like fifteen or so. Maybe. Total. You were giving it away anyway.”
“To charity! Not so you could fund some massive underground snack ring.” The coffee now seemed tame, and Angel tried to remember if he had any whiskey left from the bottle he’d bought for Christmas. “Fuck, you bet your ass the principal is going to shut you down—”
“Yeah, Principal Carpenter didn’t know about the muffins. It was the candy.”
“How’d you get candy?”
“From selling the muffins. Sheesh, I thought you were supposed to be smart.” Roman rolled his eyes. “So now he doesn’t want me selling candy on school property. He sent a note to tell you I can’t do that anymore because they want everything to be healthy and crap.”
“Jesus, Rome, what the hell were you thinking?” It was definitely going to be a shot of booze night, even if he had to go borrow some ouzo from Violet. “You can’t just sell candy at school. It’s got to be illegal or something. And why the hell didn’t you tell me this on the phone?”
“Justin said to wait until you were home. Because he didn’t think it was a big deal.” His brother shrugged off Angel’s concerned hiss. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll just do it on the bus and hand stuff out later. No biggie.”
“Rome, you can’t… just stop selling candy, okay? Or chips. Or anything.” Angel poked at his brother’s stomach. “Just stop.”
“Then how am I going to make some cash?” He cocked his head, eyes wide and serious. “Because you don’t got any. Everything goes back into the bakery and shit.”
“Don’t say shit,” Angel corrected automatically. “No more candy. Got it?”
He didn’t hear a response from his brother, and short of forcing Roman to answer him, Angel knew it was a lost cause. Taking a deep breath, he tried again.
“You don’t need to make money, kiddo. I’ve got stuff covered.” He tugged on Roman’s arm until his brother sat up against him. “We’re okay. Really. There’s plenty of money.”
“Suppose something happens? And I need a stash? Then what? This way, I’ve got me covered… and maybe some of you too.”
Angel’s eyes burned with tears and regret. Nothing he’d done or said made a damned bit of difference; Rome was still living in the world their father’d made for them, scrambling and hustling to make every penny count and burning bridges behind them without a second thought. Sad didn’t cover it. Unfortunately, he understood exactly what drove Roman to find a need he could fill, because Angel would have done the exact same thing when he was Rome’s age.
“Look, I’ll spot you a couple extra dollars a day or something if you help with closing down in the afternoon. Maybe take the trash out. How much are you pulling down a day?” It couldn’t have been much. He didn’t think a lot of kids had cash to toss around. “I can maybe make it worth your while.”
“About twenty bucks a day, but then half of it goes back into buy more candy.” Roman’s eyes grew unfocused, his lips moving as he counted. “Chocolate’s an easy seller, but it gets warm, so it goes fast. Hard candies are better, but people don’t like them as much, so I’m kind of stuck.”
“You’re more than stuck,” Angel told him. “You’re now officially out of business. Tomorrow Frank’s bringing the new oven in, so you can help get the front ready for customers. Jesus. Candy.”
&nbs
p; They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Roman’s breathing slowed until his eyes drooped. Angel was about to scoop him up and carry him to bed when his brother murmured, “I just didn’t want you to worry about me. I wanted you to know I’m okay. That I’d be okay. Even if you’ve gotta leave.”
“Yeah, I’m not leaving you, kid.” He lifted Rome up, cradling his brother against him. Roman felt so small, too delicate for the weight he’d picked up over the years. “You and me, remember? No matter what happens, you’ve got me right with you. You gotta trust me, Rome. Okay? Do we have a deal?”
“Deal.” Roman nodded slowly. Angel waited a heartbeat, then smiled when his brother mumbled, “How about gum? You think I can sell gum?”
Seven
DUSK KISSED the sky, blushing the clouds in pinks and purples. The streets were lazy, filled with children on bicycles chasing the setting sun to get home before dark. Couples strolled along the walks, conversations punctuated by laughter and soft kisses. Main Street slowly dressed itself for the early evening, pearling its lines and buildings with soft yellow and white lights.
A gaudily painted taqueria sat at an angle on a street corner, a café window set on its long wall left open for customers to see inside. A plump-cheeked Latina watched the traffic, her hands quickly slapping at a flour ball, flattening and thinning it as she worked at it. A flat-faced man with silver-shot black hair worked beside her, his thick white mustache curled up with his broad smile, chatting as they began their evening.
Somewhere nearby, someone was cooking a heavily spiced meal, an aromatic tendril weaving through the air to entice and delight an empty stomach. The light turned green and the corner rolled away, leaving behind the older Latino couple, their tortillas, and the two young boys playing basketball in a side alley next to a florist shop.
As delightful a scene as the slow trawl through downtown Half Moon Bay was, West was ready for it to stop. He had a particular stop in mind—a certain shiplap and tin roof shack sitting on the outskirts of a large parking lot.
“Marzo, I’m serious,” West grumbled at his driver through the open window between them. “Pull over.”
“I don’t know, boss.”
Marzo hunched over and peered out of the sedan’s windshield. He’d made mumbling sounds about rain and a storm, but as far as West could see, the sky was crystal clear with the faintest hint of stars beginning to spangle along the top of the eastern mountains.
“You sure this is a good idea? Your lawyers said you shouldn’t talk to this guy.”
“Let’s not forget who is working for whom.” West caught Marzo’s scathing glance in the rearview mirror. “The lawyers. Not you. Look, just pull over and let me out. Then go get lost or something.”
“You think I’m leaving you here by yourself? You almost died a couple of times this week.” His brow slumped forward, a ripple of worry forming rolls over his forehead. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’m fine… just… right there! Marzo, pull over!” He liked Marzo, perhaps even loved him in a way much like he loved Lang, but at that exact moment, West experienced an overwhelmingly familiar sensation—the incredible longing to be an only child. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
“You’re banged up, remember? Doc said no walking long distances.”
“The doctor said I wasn’t supposed to run any marathons,” West corrected. “And when was the first time I ever ran a marathon? So either pull up in front of the bakery and let me out or…. God, this would be so much easier if I had a driver’s license. Tell Agnes to arrange for an instructor for me.”
“The last two… no… three instructors fired you, boss,” Marzo reminded him. “I’d offer to teach you, but that’s not how I want to die.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.” He shrugged, remembering the look of horror on the woman’s face when he finally got the car to stop during his previous driving attempt.
“You broke her leg.”
“She shouldn’t have opened the car door to jump out,” West countered. “I was trying to find the brake.”
“You were heading to the pier. Like right off the pier.” His driver scratched at the side of his head. “I’ll tell Agnes, but don’t be surprised if it ends up the same way it always does.”
“And what way is that, Marzo?” West sniffed.
“You paying out a hell of a lot of money because someone’s in the hospital and there’s a car in a tree or under the water.” He glanced at West in the rearview mirror. “I’ll drop you off, but… I’m going to be nearby.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” he replied sharply.
“You need something, boss,” Marzo snapped back. “Because I’ve never met anyone who’s almost died as many times as you. You’re a fricking suit, for God’s sake, not a private eye or something. You shouldn’t have people shooting at you or T-boning your car. The most trouble you should be around is a bunch of hippies squatting in front of your office building because you wear leather shoes and eat rare steaks.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. But I’d like to point out, this last time wasn’t about me. The lamp died, not me.” West tapped at Marzo’s shoulder. “There. Park there. Behind the… whatever the hell that thing is.”
“That’s a VW van. Probably a delivery van because it’s got bakery stuff painted all over it.” Marzo sighed. “Sometimes, boss, it’s like you just landed on this planet. West, be… careful, okay?”
“I’ll be fine. No marathons, not even a quick hobble. Nice and slow,” West muttered as he got out of the car. His ankle was a bit tender but better than it’d been two days ago when Angel’d tackled him in his foyer. Leaning on the cane Marzo insisted he use, he carefully picked his way over a stretch of uneven asphalt. “Just… don’t come back until I call you. If I call you.”
“I don’t hear from you in two hours, I’m coming in,” Marzo warned. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I’m going to go talk to him,” West assured. “How hurt can I get simply by talking?”
Marzo leaned on the sedan’s window to watch West make his way to the bakery’s back door. “Sometimes, boss, talking hurts the most.”
WEST DIDN’T knock. The handle of the black-screened metal security door turned easily, and a moment later he was out of the cool, sea-tinged breeze and engulfed in an ocean of sharp, bright scents strong enough to drown in.
And in the middle of the glut of sound and spices stood Angel Daniels, oblivious to the world around him as he slowly worked a bucket of tangerine batter with what appeared to be a drill. There was an ease to his movements, a power in his shoulders as he moved the tool up and down. The clatter of the drill’s motor covered West’s sharp intake of breath, his heart pounding foolishly quick under his ribs. The sight of a man shouldn’t have left him stunned, with the air knocked out of him, but Angel did exactly that.
It was incredibly stupid, this clutch of tightness in his chest and the twist in his gut when Angel glanced up, his marled gray eyes sharp with intelligence and wariness, and there was no other way to react to the simmering heat stoked in West’s belly and balls. Angel’s eyes narrowed, and he lifted his chin, a silent challenge or acceptance at finding West standing at the edge of his territory.
West knew he didn’t put the tension and caution in Angel’s probing gaze, but he certainly had added to it. If there was one regret West had in his life, it was deepening the shadows in Angel’s already battered soul.
Angel shut the drill off, and the silence hanging between them grew thick with unsaid apologies and accusations.
“What are you doing here?” Angel pulled the drill up, then used a spatula to scrape batter off its odd attachment.
“I was about to ask you that exact same thing.” Nodding toward the power tool in Angel’s hand, he said, “You’ve got to admit, that’s kind of odd.”
“No, odd’s you walking in through my back door after two days of cops giving me shit and hassling me about a gun I don’t own.” H
e put the drill on the stainless-steel counter next to him, then pounded a lid down on the bucket with a few taps from the heel of his hand. “This is called working.”
“I told the cops you had nothing to do with the lamp’s death—”
“You think this is funny, Harris?” Angel’s chin was back up, and his shoulders were thrown back. Canting his head, he stared West down, a mixture of anger and exhaustion stamped on his face. “Cops hammering at me means I can’t work. I don’t keep this bakery going, then I’m dead in the water. And when that happens, CPS will come knocking on my door, and Rome’s going to find himself in some goddamned foster home where he can’t get his meds and they could give a shit if he’s doing okay in school. So you’ve got to fucking excuse me if I don’t find this fucking funny.”
Angel’s bitter, sharp rage slapped West hard, and he took a step back, his ankle twisting under him. The pain was brief and stabbing, nothing like the entrenched anguish in Angel’s hot words. The cane’s handle dug into his palm, and West gripped it tightly, refusing to buckle to the temper he felt rising in him.
He took a quick spice-scented breath, then said, “I’m sorry. I was trying to… I’m trying to find some common ground here.”
“You’re standing on it.” Angel gestured to a pile of papers on a table near a swinging door. “One of your asshole lawyers served me with papers. Apparently I conned your grandmother into letting me buy this place, so you’re suing me. Civil court because, you know, criminal—”
“I instructed no one to file charges against you,” West protested. His cell phone was in the car, keeping Marzo company as he circled Half Moon Bay. “Let me see those.”