Like Slow Sweet Molasses (36 page)

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.”

“You’re
forgetting one thing, Angela. I’m a risk-taker. And—you’re worth that risk.”

“Chance—”

“No
more talking tonight.” He let her hand massage the area under his eye despite
the discomfort it caused. “I hadn’t planned to, but, if it’s okay I’ll spend
the night. Or what’s left of it since it’s almost two and I have to get up
shortly, anyway. I’ll get up in ample time to rush home and change.”

“I
want you close to me for as long as it takes you to love me. I need you do
that, Chance. Fill me with good memories of this night.”

She
wasn’t joking as she roughly charged him to lock her seeking lips on his,
spurring his immense pleasure, pooling the blood in his body in his fore
region. “Be careful what you ask for, Angel.” Chance didn’t bother to lift her
in his arms or march her out of the bathroom. He simply clasped one corded arm
around her slender waist while she lolled on his muscular frame to walk her,
feet dancing above the hardwood, to her bed. He was a genie unchained from the
proverbial bottle as he smirked, “Your wish is my command.”

“Brock?”

“Aunt
Belle, what’s wrong?”

“You’d
better get over here pretty fast.” Belle stood on her porch in plain sight like
the nosy neighbor in the weekly sitcoms to watch the activity going on at
Angela’s. Having been given the brush-off by the tight-lipped workers, she had
no choice but to call in the Calvary to get answers.

“I’m
in the middle of something and can’t get away. What’s happened? It’s Angela,
isn’t it?”
he surmised
unhappily.

“She
didn’t tell me she planned to move.”

“What?”
he asked in a daze. “
Move?”
His
undivided attention was now his aunt’s.

“Men
are loading up her stuff faster than the water rose during the hurricane.” She
thought for a second. “I should have known something mighty fishy when she
stuck the car all the way in the garage, using the weather as a flimsy excuse
and secretly left the keys on the table.” Belle’s head movement emphasized the
realization that Angela duped her. “On top of that, she tackled me in a hug
almost crushing these old bones until they cracked. I just thought she had the
holiday blues with Christmas so close and her so far from home.”

“Don’t
worry about it, Aunt Belle. I believe I missed the signals she was ready to
bolt, also.”
There was no response which made Chance nervous. “
Aunt Belle?”

“Would
you look at that?” she said into the mouthpiece of her cordless phone. “Hey!”

Chance
heard the huffing and puffing of exertion wondering what transpired but was
unable to capture his aunt’s attention. He waited on the line until he heard
her ongoing conversation.

“That’s
a for rent sign,” Belle yapped in the woman’s face.

“Yes,
it is.” The realtor admitted while pounding the stake into the ground.

“You
know you have the wrong house, don’t you?”

“I
don’t believe so, Mrs.—?”

“Never
mind my name. What’s yours?”

Chance
ears intercepted everything.

“Keitha
Owens.”

“Angela’s
not going to be very happy when she learns what you’ve done.”

“Miss
Munso hired my company to oversee the property, Mrs.—?”

“Hired
me to overlook the property,” Belle mocked childishly, her head bouncing side
to side.

“Are
you by chance Mrs. Thatcher?”
asked the realtor with a laugh.

“Why
do you want to know?”

“Because
Miss Munso left something for you.”
She monitored the procession on the walkway calling to one
of the workers. “
Zee, bring that picture over here. The one leaning behind
the front door.”

“Where
is Angela?” Belle demanded like the dominator she was.

“I
honestly don’t know, Mrs. Thatcher.
” Keitha accepted the framed picture and handed it off to
her. “
She wanted you to have that. Said you had a connection to it.”
Her
job of hanging the sign completed, the real estate agent said, “
Now, if
you’ll excuse me. I really must get back to work.”

Perturbed
at the nerve of the young lady, Belle boisterously expressed her disapproval.
“You don’t turn your back on your elders.”

“Let
it go, Aunt Belle.”
Chance yelled to regain her attention, drawing unwanted attention to himself.

“Brock?
What?”

“I
said the lady’s only doing her job…following Angela’s wishes.”

“Well,
I wish she’d told me what was bothering her to make her go to these lengths.”

“I
believe I know.”
He
sighed. “
Get out of the cold. I’ll drop by after work.”

“But,
Brock,” she objected while clutching the gift to her chest.

“Don’t
worry. It’ll be okay.”
He
hung-up without allowing a response.
“Promise,” Chance pledged aloud.