Like Slow Sweet Molasses (41 page)

“Smoke
inhalation is serious. Your inability to breathe properly after that slight
exertion requires additional treatments from a hospital facility. The bruises
ringing your eyes require immediate attention because pressure in that area
could damage your sight.”

Angela’s
heaving chest showcased her struggles even as she plucked the mask from her
face to enter her protestations. She never got the chance to utter one word
since Chance intervened to replace the mask, set the canister in her lap, scoop
her up to enter the emergency bus and situate her on the gurney for the ride.
The blatant disrespect he showed for her wishes, ordinarily, would have fueled
her fire.

Now,
she just didn’t give a flip. Being together was all that mattered to her.

After
the lengthy wee-hour ER visit, the police debriefing and getting to Chance’s
loft only a little over an hour ago, now, they occupied the center of his
bed—him propped against a headboard crammed with pillows—her snuggled,
absolutely at ease, between his thighs, her back to his hairy chest. His
nostrils detected the smoke remaining in her hair.

“The
texture feels like straw,” she said after shampooing with his grooming products
and suffering the consequences of massive tangles. Pretty soon she gave up on
combing her hair to simply tie one of his bandanas on her head.

Theirs
was a communicable silence based on the need to share physical contact. Content
to mellow out after such a harrowing experience was all that was required of
their time together. Chance’s arms tightened around Angela extracting a
satisfied sigh that also served to reduce the tension riddling her body.

She
readjusted his tee and boxers on her body to loosen them after his
love-reinforcing clutch. The TV played just for the noise and distraction
because neither paid the least bit of attention to the broadcast. Her eyes, he
knew, strayed to her darkly soiled clothes thrown carelessly across the chair
in the bedroom.

“I’m
going to the kitchen. Want anything?” His muscular calf cleared the top of her
head as he swung his leg into position to rise. He wasn’t surprised to receive
a negative headshake, opting to tell her with a kiss—everything would be okay.
“Be right back.”

The
main purpose he broke their connection was to remove the reminders of her
narrow escape from the immediate area. Chance strolled across the room, sleep
pants tied low on his hips, to confiscate her smelly wardrobe and disappear on
the other side of the dividing wall. His stomach, roiling with pent-up
frustration at almost losing her in a plane crash, bubbled all the way
downstairs where he hurled her things in the washroom. The discomfort was
severe enough to force him to seek out the antacid on his return to the upper
floor. A pepperminty dose clogged his throat and put him in the mind for a cup
of coffee to erase the taste.

The
quiet was fog shrouding the living area urging him to pad back for a peek into
the bedroom. Angela was exactly as he left her, sitting straight up awaiting
his return. Hustling to the kitchen, he fixed the coffeepot, enjoyed the smells
of the fresh brewing elixir and while doing so made her a cup of hot cocoa. The
final drops of coffee splattering from the coffeemaker’s nozzle complemented
his cell’s ringtone coming from the bedroom. It rang the set number of rings
before going to voicemail. Oddly enough, the ringing shattered the hush in the
house again ending with similar results. When the house line rang, that caused
him to rustle over to get it. But, it, too, went to the answer machine before
he got there.

“
Bro.
Pick up if you’re home.”

Chance
was none too pleased at the phone call fracturing their peace in concerted
harmony with the rising sun so early in the morning. He ranted. “Do you know
what time it is?”

“How
is she?”
Trell asked
in agitation.

“How
is who, Trell?”

“Don’t
pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about, Bro. Gram has called all of
our kin folks with your story of heroism.”

“Stop
yapping in riddles and tell me what you think you know.” Chance withheld any
information on the pretext their involvement would remain anonymous.

“You
were on the news and Gram saw your stone-face on television.”

“What?”

“Oh,
now, I’ve got you interested, huh?”
Trell bristled. “
You know how old people are—up before
the crack of dawn. Or like Gram likes to say ‘before the milk leaves the cow’s
udders.”

“Angela
was on that plane from Chicago—the one narrowly averting disaster with an
emergency landing.”

“Was
she hurt?”

“Bumps
and bruises. Smoke inhalation. But, otherwise, unharmed.”

“Glad
to hear that,”
Trell
said relieved. “
I got to see your cop stare myself on CNN.”

“What?”
he yelled, quickly lowering his voice remembering Angela was in the other room.
“CNN?”

“National
news, man.”

“Crap!
Crap!” His arms waved punctuating each outburst as he shadowboxed rowdily. “I
thought I did a pretty good job of protecting her from discovery.”

“Actually,
her face was well hidden. You were right on the money in concealing her
identity. For sure, the media hounds would track her down for a titillating
human interest story.”

Chance
grumbled, “That’s the last thing she needs.”

“I
know that’s right. Hold up, Bro.”
Chance listened at Sasha in the background asking what she
could do to help. “
The busybody wants to know—”

He
didn’t have to think hard for an answer. “Hair products.”

“Hair
products,”
Trell
repeated losing his grip on the phone as his wife stole it from under his nose.

“Bro,
she’s alright, then, if she’s worried about how her hair looks,”
Sasha comforted.

“She’s
a fighter,” Chance commended.
 

“I’ll
drop off what she needs later today.”

“Look,
Sasha.” He worried about hurting her feelings when she spoke up.

“I
know she probably doesn’t want company, Bro. I won’t stay long.”

“Thanks
for understanding, Sasha. Let me holler at Trell, again.”

“Yeah.”

“My
car’s still on the airport’s long term parking lot.”

“Long
term lot?”

“Man,
I was on my way to Chicago to claim my woman when she called me with her
surprise flight plans.” He let go a heaving blow.

“Is
that fate or what? Me and Pops’ll get it for you today.”

“Thanks,
Trell. I might need it if her parents spot the story.”

“Not
a problem. Later.”

“Later.”
Chance’s call ended sending him into fast motion to reheat her cocoa, pour and
sugar his coffee and beat it back to the bedroom.

“Work?”
she asked as he walked into the room.

He
could honestly say
no
without expounding on the reason Trell called as
she absently landed on CNN during her channel surfing. “I brought you something
to help get you to sleep. Turn the set off. Let’s rest.” Chance gladly accepted
the proffered remote, his finger poised to send the screen to black.

He
wasn’t quick enough.

She
jerked it back, manipulated the volume and listened to the news anchor
embellish the story for dramatic effect—going so far as to imply a story within
a story divined by the rescuer’s mannerisms.

The
broadcast had her in a hypnotic trance as she watched the incident play out on
the plasma TV in remarkable hi-def resolution. Angela had a view from another
angle.

“Angel?”
Flames from the engine came to life fanning a glittery red in the air against
the pitch-black sky. “Angel?” He set their drinks down, forced the remote from
her hand and clicked the TV off.

“I
lost Daddy’s cell,” she grieved.

Chance,
reclaiming his place at her back, settled her into the gap she carved out
earlier, retrieved the hot beverages being extra careful not to spill them and
handed one off to her. “We’ll get him another. Don’t worry.”

“Thank
you,” she whispered, choking the mug on the way to her mouth with shaky hands.
“I guess I should call them.”

He
reached her his cell.

“What
do I say, Chance? ‘Hi, Mama and Daddy. I really didn’t lie. I
am
staying
a couple of nights with a friend—who happens to live in—New Orleans. Oh, by the
way, Mama. I now know firsthand what you meant about living or losing life.”

Chance
set his mug on the upright two drawer chest that served as a nightstand to
swaddle her body close. “What did she mean?”

Angela’s
neck owled for her to see him. “She told me to either love you or leave you so
you could get on with your life. That it boiled down to—I could let life end by
worrying myself into an early grave. That a freak happening in life’s daily
routine could…could end it all and where would I be having let life pass me
by.”

The
chance she took on him warmed him all over. “You love me.”

“I
love you, Brock Alexander.”

He
didn’t say anything for a fraction of a second merely replied with a tightening
squeeze as his look explored her soul. “That’s twice in less than six hours
you’ve used my first name.”

“And
you got quiet both times.” She clipped the side of his mouth with a kiss. “Here
goes.” Chance secured her cup while she dialed. “It’s going to the answering
machine.” Her message was lighthearted and quick. “I guess the party was a
whopping success. I’ll call you later.”

“Try
Connie’s cell,” he suggested at her crinkling expression.

She
did. “That’s funny. It’s turned off.”

“Not
to worry. They’re probably doing what we’re about to do.” Chance confiscated
her cup to set it next to his. “It’s nap time.”

They
scooted under the covers with Chance fitted to the fetal position of her body’s
repose. He wanted to mesh their bodies together in a show of solidarity for her
trials as she sought to influence and reaffirm her loyalty to their growing
romance in returning to New Orleans. Angela’s arm lapped over his as she
strangled his hand in a silent appeal for comfort to which he responded with a
sympathetic kiss to her ear.

“Chance?”

“Hmmm?”
he responded nuzzling her ear.

“There’s
nothing more convincing for one to take chances in life than a near-death
experience. It sounds corny, I know, but, tell me you love me whenever we part
in case we don’t…” Her voice trailed off.

“Shhh.”
His eyes closed to shut out the rerun of the aircraft’s wavering descent. “It’s
a joy to have you here in my arms, Angel. Telling you how much I love you a
hundred times a day barely scratches the surface of what I feel for you.” His
fingers posed her for a fault-grating kiss.
 
“Now, go to sleep.”

Chance
lay awake to cheer in the brightness of a new day that came complete with
glittering sunrays falling on them from the skylight on the roof. His happiness
was triple-fold: her survival of a cataclysmic event, her acknowledgement and
proof of the love she had for him and her acceptance of the cost of loving him.
He always did all within his powers when on assignment regardless of how lax
the atmosphere to enable himself to walk away from a mission. Another somebody
counting on his survival besides Kelsy felt good.

His
body arched towards hers as she realigned herself in the notch of his drawn-up
knees unconscious of the havoc created with that move, even sensuously tempting
in sleep. He was a red bloodied male whose desires kicked into high gear, sort
of the way a woman goes hormonal at certain smells, colors or at specific times
of the month. His libido raged in need of critical and long-lasting
fulfillment. The proper time for that hung in the balance as now was not
appropriate to take things in that direction. She needed him to be supportive
of her desire for closeness, genuine in his understanding of that need, loving
enough to be able to suppress his wants of the moment and caring in his efforts
to provide the essentials for her mental healing.

Angela
never sensed his struggles for he aptly applied mind over matter to cage the
lustful qualities hijacking his body. Pure pleasure was the rapture coursing
through his veins as he continued his vigil over her. Chance addressed whatever
came up in her slumber from keeping the covers pulled over her arms to nudging
her to breathe when times between breaths seemed to him too long a hiatus. Her
gasps for air had him holding his breath until her lungs replenished its much
needed supply of oxygen to full capacity. Without question, he knew her mind
trapped her in that awful place onboard that plane.

He
yawned and batted at the sleep overtaking him while in the race to champion her
cause. His stamina, worn out from the long drive to the coast and back, flagged
as he fought hard to stay awake just in case her dreams came to life. Add to
that, the ordeal of his plans gone awry—for a good reason—and that mashed him
deeper into the Posturepedic. Fundamentally, he was just plain old fatigued and
that was nothing of which to be ashamed or—that a good night’s sleep couldn’t
cure. Sleep so good he never knew he lapsed into dreamland or when it enfolded
him in its various layers restoring his energies enough to subdue the demons
terrorizing his rest.