Angel (4 page)

“You’re a technophobe.  It’s not natural at your age.  Your phone is from the seventeenth century.  I would be embarrassed to pull that thing out in public.”  Andrea mocks me by flipping open an invisible phone, bobbing her perfectly arched eyebrows.

I laugh and shake my head, shouldering open the door. “Shut up.”

He’s at the counter.  I snap my eyes his way and he’s looking back at me with those
eyes
.  

Those eyes that remind me of black coffee.  Sometime I think I even see steam rising off of them, they draw me in, make me warm and giddy.  Just like a good Starbucks.  Gah, I’m a mess. 

Magnus Leonard. 

He sets down a stack of posters on the long design counter out front and my menopause symptoms kick in again when he looks back to the door where I’m standing.  “Technology is the root of all evil, Andrea.  I’ve never ‘Googled’ someone in my life and I’m not starting now.  And don’t you dare, either.”  I point at her with a scowl.  Part of the problem is even if I did have a computer, and internet and all those first world things, my spelling is so crazy even Google would scratch its head.  Not to meantion it would take me so long to figure out what I was reading in the search results, it’s just not worth it. 

I gather my breath.  If I’m honest, I know I’m the only one that he will let wait on him and for some reason it makes it harder to go out there. 

My feet feel like they are encased in lead as I force them to lift and propel me forward. Heat is already radiating from my cheeks as I walk out of the back room and to the framing counter where he’s standing, hands down in his pants pockets, chest as broad as a billboard.  He’s like a wall.  His black t-shirt is stretched across his shoulders, like XXXL is still a bit too small, tapering down to a narrow waist where it’s tucked perfectly into pressed, gun-metal-gray dress pants.

Whenever he comes in, whatever he’s wearing, it looks like he just stepped out of the dry cleaner.  Even his t-shirts are pressed and perfect.  His onyx-colored hair looks freshly cut as well.  Every time.  He’s got this GQ caveman vibe and I have to be honest, I’ve never had this kind of reaction to a man or a boy in my life.  Must be some powerful pheromones he gives off.

Either that, or I’m having a stroke. 

I’ve probably helped him frame at least a hundred wine posters already, but he just keeps bringing in more.  He never asks the price, just tells me to pick out what I like and slips his black Amex into my hand. 

Oh and there’s the
wine
.  He gives me two or three expensive bottles of wine every time he comes in.  I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t drink. He’s clearly a wine connoisseur and I’ve never taken a sip of alcohol.  Nor do I plan to.  Been there, seen that, want no part of it in any way.

Besides, I’m pretty sure he’s like some big deal.  He owns this wine distributorship, but from what Andrea says, he used to own or be part of some big demolition company.  Whenever she tries to tell me something about him I hush her and walk away.  I don’t know why, but I don’t want to know.

But, from the bit she’s managed to sneak through my defenses, apparently there is a lot of money in blowing things up.  So, he’s
him
and I’m... well, I’m
me
.

I’m homeless.  And chubby.  And dyslexic. 

And homeless.

Did I mention homeless?

I’m surprised the ‘L’ on my forehead isn’t visible from Mars.

I wish I could enjoy the wine he brings me.  Sometimes I consider downing a bottle to lose myself for a while.  But I won’t do it. 

My Dad drank.  He had good reason, I guess.  I don’t remember a lot, but I remember enough.  Mom said things were good with all of us in the early years.  Then there was an accident at the steel mill where he worked.  A furnace he was working on exploded and killed one of his co-workers.  Mom said he never got over the guilt.  She said he was never the same after that.  She told me to marry someone kind, someone without a damaged past.  It hurt her as much as it did Dad.

He disappeared one night when I was seven, but I still remember when he was drunk.  The sweet and sour smell on his breath when he would lean down and yell right in my face for not picking up my room or not finishing my dinner.  That was enough for me.  I’m sure wine can be delicious, but I’m not going to find out.

Magnus has spent more here in a couple months than I make in a year.

“Hi.”  I gulp down my nerves as I come up behind the counter.  Those Starbucks eyes following me like a painting in a haunted house.  “Haven’t you filled all those walls yet?”  The inferno generating inside me makes trickles of sweat traverse slowly down the indent of my spine, only to be lovingly absorbed by the too-tight waistband of my skirt. 

It took me a good year working here to be comfortable waiting on customers.  But that seems to be a hat I can put on, as though I’m acting a part.  I have to take my time taking names and information, but I have a system that helps hide the fact that I’m writing as slow as a second grader.  And, I’ve got Andrea.  She double checks everything for me as well.

“Hi Cassie.”  His voice turns my girl parts to molten lava.

From the first day he came in here, he and I seem to have had things to talk about, despite my antisocial streak.  You would think with his imposing presence and form it would be the opposite, but I feel comfortable, like I can talk to him about anything.  It’s very strange for me.

I’m uncomfortable in general because it’s conversation and socializing, and still somehow it’s at least tolerable
with him
because he doesn’t seem to expect anything.  He asks me things about myself.  And I answer.  Truthfully, most of the time.

And then sometimes I ask him things. And when I do he answers.  It’s going on three months now, and we’ve managed to find out quite a bit about each other.  I love listening to him.  He seems so disciplined, so controlled and sure.  There’s this twinkle behind those dark chocolate eyes that feels soft. 

Talking to him is like listening to someone read a classic book.  The words roll out of him with such ease yet each one is chosen perfectly.  There is no filler.  No posturing.  He’s sincere and honest and I can feel things while around him.  Nice things.  Comforting things.

I have a feeling there is a lot more going on inside that calm, controlled demeanor.  But I don’t delve too deep. 

Because after all, he’s him and I’m me.

I do my job as I try to keep from drooling and jumping across the counter and doing the things I read about in my books.

Oh and what about his name? 

Magnus.

His name is seriously
Magnus
.

It couldn’t be more fitting.  I have to crane my neck to look up into his face when he’s standing; falling upward into those stout-brown eyes, dark and clear.

And today, fire shoots up and down my spine when his full lips turn upward at the corners as I settle on the other side of the counter; his slightly crooked smile always looks a bit out of place, like he doesn’t smile often enough.  It pulls at his lips and reveals just a hint of white teeth.  They’re not perfectly straight, nor is his nose for that matter and I like that.  I think his rough imperfections are exactly what makes him perfect. 

“These are for you.”  He slides two bottles of wine toward me.  “Did you enjoy the last two?  The Bordeaux was from a particularly good year.  Good Bordeaux is hard to come by these days.”  His voice rumbles out like a train from a tunnel, sweeping me along with its momentum so that I feel like I have to say something.

“Yes, it was...a good year,”  I mumble like an imbecile.

What the hell do I know about Bordeaux and years?  Nothing, that’s what.  If you ask me about strawberry-flavored milk or what kinds of sprinkles taste best on top of a hot fudge sundae, then I’m your girl.

Blood rushes in my ears as I try to follow up with something less idiotic.  “It was smooth.”

What the heck?  Smooth
?  I give up.

I drop my eyes to the table and start to measure the dimensions on the stack of posters, scribbling the numbers on the order forms.  My face is so hot it’s about to go super nova, and I think my nipples just stabbed right through the fabric of my blouse.

_______________________________________________

MAGNUS

S
he sees me as a monster.  I can tell by the way her fingers shake and she tugs at her skirt whenever she waits on me.

Because in a way I am.  A monster that is.

What’s the weather like up there?

You beat up any grizzlies lately?

What’s it like to lift a small car over your head?

The funny thing about the jokes is, the people who make them seem to think they are so very original.  Like they’re the first one to every make a joke about my size.

I’m sure if my IQ were displayed on my forehead, that wouldn’t be such a joke.

Seems having a high IQ isn’t as funny as having strikingly dominant physical features.

Humans baffle me.

She definitely baffles me.  But in a good way.  And the way she smells is unlike anything I’ve experienced before.  Like purity and softness with a hint of cherry on top.

And that’s one cherry I wish I could taste.

Maybe I am part bear like my mother had always said, because when I catch her scent a fury claws inside me.  A raging, spitting, snarling urge to consume her.  To protect her and show her the ways I would love her. Ways that make me think of things I’d never thought of before.

At the same time, I’m afraid I would break her.  My cock would break her.  My past would break her.  She’s so soft and I’m so hard.

My love would break her.

But then I would fix her.

Because I want that, too.  I want to break her and then be the one that puts her back together.  I can see it –
this
, us.  Her coming to me.  Asking me my advice, guiding her in this world, making sure she’s safe, but then wanting everything good for her when she goes out to be successful without me.  I don’t know what this is that she’s shaken loose inside me, but it’s dark and perverse, and it only makes me think I may truly be a monster.

Not to mention, my face won’t grace the cover of GQ anytime soon.  I’m no pretty boy.  A beauty like her would never want a Neaderthal like me.  Besides, I my size and my crooked features weren’t enough to drive her away, I’m too old for her.

I clear my throat and shake my legs out. Those thoughts are driving gallons of blood into my dick, and the last thing I want is to really scare her.

So I settle for just hovering around her, coming in here on the pretense of getting my posters framed.  But sooner or later I’m going to run out of posters. And then I’m not sure what I’ll do, because I can’t imagine not having her in my life.

“So, same as usual?  You just want me to pick out what I think looks best?”  She shifts on her hip behind the counter and looks up to meet my eye.  She has this way of widening her eyes when she looks up from under her lashes, like she’s not sure I’m real.

I lick my lips. “Yes.” Her body shifts and sways under her clothing as she moves, filling in the fabric with round softness.  I like how she dresses.  It’s sweet, simple, never showing too much or being garish.  Almost always skirts and simple dresses.  Her favorite outfit is the one she’s wearing today. A yellow skirt with some white lace at the bottom, a white blouse that she buttons to the top and a pair of red and white polka dot Keds with rainbow sparkling laces. 

How do I know what her favorites are?  Because I’ve been following her. 

Yes.  Probably by the legal definition it’s stalking.

Jesus, I’m so far gone I don’t even recognize myself.

The groan that comes up from somewhere in my toes as I think about her makes me uncomfortable, and I swallow and look away just to regain some composure.  I lose the fight and my eyes snap right back to her.

Her eyes flash up at me with a flicker of amusement.  I want to light her face with a smile to match but I’m no comedian.

I need to say something. “So, how are you doing?”  Stupid question.  “I mean...”  Around her, words become like calculus problems after a fifth of tequila.  “I’m sorry.  I’m trying to ask if you’re doing okay.  I mean, with your mom and Cherokee.  I worry about you.  You look like you need to eat.  Are you eating okay?”  She gives me a quizzical look; my questions have turned to something more paternal over the last few weeks and I can tell it puzzles her.

In the ninty-four days since I walked in here, she completely up ended my program.  In that time, we’ve actually shared a lot about ourselves.  Secured an unusual bond which for me builds with every passing day.  I need to know everything about her life.  I can’t stop myself.  I admit, I’m obsessed.  And jealous as fuck.  I nearly snap when anyone other male looks her way.

It wasn’t more than a month after I’d been coming in I asked her what she did over the previous weekend. She mentioned she’d been out Friday night with the gal that works with her, Andrea.  I immediately asked her where they went, who else they were with, what time she got home, who drove, if they were drinking.  I bordered on fatherly interrogation.  I felt it was my right.  My obligation to know everything.