Forever My Angel (5 page)

Dad folds his arms across his chest. He doesn’t scold, or argue, just regards me quietly. God, I used to hate that shit when I was a kid. I don’t particularly like it even now.

Someone raps on the door, and at my father’s invitation, Chelsea pokes her head into the room. “Dinner is ready.” Her nervous smile is more fake than Vanessa's tits.

“We’ll be right there,” Dad tells her, making it clear whether it’s okay for me to leave early or not.

Because I’m used to following his rules as much as my own, I don’t bother to protest. Dad has always given me leeway in a lot of things, but when he makes an expectation clear, there’s no arguing with it. I’m not afraid to go against my father, but I learned a long time ago not to waste energy fighting losing battles just for the sake of my pride. Pride is a cruel bitch, and she won’t care how hard you fought on her behalf. She’ll make her wounds known just the same.

Our formal dining room is just off the kitchen. As soon as I step into it, the aroma of home-cooked food draws me toward the table. Wow. This house hasn’t been filled with scents like this since...well, since Mom left, really. My mouth is watering, and my stomach growls. Angel cooks for us more nights than not, but so many of those meals don’t get eaten until two in the morning, when I make it back from the bar and pop it in the microwave. Plus, there’s just something to be said for a traditional holiday meal that reminds you of your childhood.

Angel is already seated at the table, and I slip into the open spot next to her. The spot on my left, the head of the table, is where Dad will sit. Chelsea is directly across from me, and Warren settles next to her. Mom comes in carrying the turkey, then pauses, looking around the table. I think there are tears in her eyes.

Whatever. If she’s thinking about all the holiday meals she’s missed, it’s her own damn fault. Dad settles into his chair, we say a quick grace, and then the room is quiet except for polite requests to pass this or that. By the time we’ve all filled our plates, the silence is so complete that we can hear each other chewing. Maybe that’s better than talking. Angel winces beside me when her fork scrapes against her plate, echoing around the tense table.

Chelsea is looking everywhere but at Warren. Angel mostly keeps her eyes on her plate. Dad is barely eating, intent on watching Warren. And I can feel the weight of my mother’s heavy looks tossed frequently in my direction.

Dad is the first to speak. “The weather man said it might snow this week. Bit early for that, I think.”

I expect Chelsea to be the one to respond, because she’s usually good at helping defuse awkward situations, but she just stares at her plate. I don’t even want to be here; I’m sure as hell not making idle conversation. Angel surprises me by speaking up. “I think I’d like to make a snowman.”

“That sounds lovely,” my mother says. And then we’re all quiet again.

“The turkey is great,” Angel says from beside me, her voice soft.

My mom smiles. “We were just lucky that the turkey turned out to be the heat-and-eat, pre-cooked kind, or else we would’ve been here all night waiting for it to finish cooking.”

Lucky indeed. The longer I’m here, the more I want to get away.

Dad sets his silverware on his plate, which is still nearly full. “We’ve got a few horses who will foal this winter, some great bloodlines.” Leave it to him to revert to talking about business when he’s nervous. No one else at the table really seems to care. If Lexi were still here, she’d be happy to discuss each mare and their pedigrees, but that shit bores me to tears.

Mom shrugs apologetically, as if it’s her fault that no one’s really talking. Though really, it is, so yeah.

Dad, never one to give up easily, tries again. “So, Warren, what do you like to do?”

“Ware,” Warren says before falling silent again.

What kind of name is Ware? Like ‘be-ware, trouble ahead,’ I bet. My brother has a rough look to him. Not really scrappy, but also not refined by any means. Like he’s willing to fight, and fight hard. I’m willing to fight too, I just don’t broadcast it as clearly. Plus, I can pay people to do most of my fighting for me, keeping my own hands clean. Speaking of which, Kevin and I need to have a talk.

“I know!” Dad says, flashing a hopeful smile around the table at all of us. “Let’s go around the table and say what we’re all thankful for.”

I groan openly. I can't remember the last time I heard a more awful idea.

“I’ll start,” Dad says with a bright smile. “I’m thankful that I get a chance to get to know a son I didn’t know I had. Having Axel has been such a blessing, and now I feel twice blessed.”

Dad turns to Chelsea, and she looks around nervously. “I’m thankful for the raise Axel is going to be giving me, since I’ve been taking on more responsibilities at the bar.”

Leave it to my sister to work this to her advantage. I acknowledge with a nod that I’ll do as she suggests, while Dad chuckles, a proud gleam in his eye. She
has
been taking on more responsibilities, since I've been at the bar less, although she doesn't do things exactly the way I would. You'd think she'd know how I want things done after all this time, but now isn't the time to press that issue. I think maybe details just aren't important to her.

Ware turns away from Chelsea, his eyes locking with mine. “I’m grateful for the beautiful girls Philly has to offer. Pretty sure I can think of a great way to spend my time here.” The wicked wink he gives me makes it pretty damn clear what he’s referring to.

I see fucking red. Dad made him agree to spend four days a week here in Philly to work hard and earn the money he’s asking for, not to screw random women. And if he
wasn’t
talking about random women, and was suggesting he might try a go with Angel, I’ll—

Angel’s hand finds its way onto my knee underneath the table, gently squeezing. She’s mine, I remind myself, not because I claimed her, but because she gives herself freely. If my brother thinks he has a shot in hell with her, I can sit back and laugh, because it’s going to be entertaining. My girl doesn’t want anyone but me.

It’s my mother’s turn. “I’m thankful for second chances.”

How presumptuous of her to assume she’s getting one. But her eyes aren’t on me. They’re on my dad.

Seriously?

I don’t think I can handle much more today.

“I’m thankful for the way you all have accepted me and made me feel like part of your family.” Angel squeezes my leg again, casting her eyes nervously downward as everyone around the table smiles at her.

And then it’s to me. I’m supposed to say something nice, I guess. What was that rule I learned when I was a kid? If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all?

I stand and pull Angel to her feet beside me. “I’m thankful that I’ve sat through enough of this that I can get the hell out of here and go home. Chelsea, take Angel’s Mustang when you’re ready to leave. She’s riding with me.” That way, I can spend the rest of the night on the only thing that matters: making sure my Angel knows she’s what I’m thankful for.

A
ngel is quiet on the ride home. Even though she’s in the passenger seat, I feel like there’s an ocean between us. When we stop at a red light, she turns sad eyes to me. I want to stare back at her, try to figure out what’s going through her head, but I’ve gotta keep my attention at least partially on the road. The light turns green, and I press the gas. She and I can talk when we get home.

Her voice cuts through the quiet darkness of the truck's interior. “You’re angry with me.”

Angry is an understatement. When she first showed up on my doorstep, I gave her all the time she needed to face her demons, even when the waiting was killing me. But she couldn't give me the same courtesy. “Yes,” I say quietly. I might as well be honest about it. Couples fight. Couples get angry. But it doesn’t change anything. “I’m angry that you did this without talking to me about what I wanted. You just decided you knew what was best for me.” Like Dad did when he kept Mom away.

“It’s not that,” she snaps. “I just... I’m so close to my mom. And I saw how it hurts you that you don’t have that. You try to fix things immediately the moment anything bothers me. Why can’t I try to fix something for you?”

“It’s different.” I don't want to say it's because I'm a man, but that's honestly the first thought that comes to mind. I
need
to take care of her. It's deeply ingrained in who I am.

“How?”

“It just is!” I raise my voice without meaning to, then feel like an ass. “I’m supposed to take care of you,” I say more softly, “not the other way around.” If I can't take care of her, then what good am I? I don't expect her to hold herself to the same standard. Maybe it's sexist, but it's also honest.

“Aren’t relationships supposed to be a two-way street?”

“Look, I love that you wanted to do this for me. Truly, I can’t help but love you for it. But you blindsided me, even if you didn’t mean to. I just need some time.”

She huffs out a hot, angry breath. “In other words, you don’t want to talk about it. Ever. You’re just going to ignore it.”

“That’s not what I said.” Goddammit! Why is she trying to put words into my mouth?

“Well, let me ask it a different way. You told your mom you need time, but do you have any actual intention of pursuing a relationship with her?”

My silence is my answer, and we both know it.

“That’s what I thought.” She turns her head and stares out the window.

“You have enough things to worry about without worrying about fixing the things you think are wrong in my life.”

“Really?” Her voice rises to a dangerous octave. “Like what? Fixing your dinner? Letting you get me barefoot and pregnant? What do I have to occupy my hours, A?”

For the first time today, I realize I’m in trouble. Like, big trouble. My girl is not happy, and I didn’t know. The elation of this morning, when she said she was ready to marry me, is gone, crushed into a fine dust that clogs the air and makes it hard to breathe. How did I not know she was feeling like this? I don’t deserve to be her husband.

“I don’t know,” I say quietly.

“Me either.” She resumes staring out the window, and the ocean between us grows wider.

I should tell her I’m sorry. Or thank her. Or, fuck, I don’t know. Everything I consider sounds lame and contrived in my head. I still haven’t said anything by the time we pull up in front of the apartment, and she hasn’t either.

Not while she turns the key, unlocking the apartment.

Not until she steps inside, a few strides ahead of me.

And then she screams.

I can’t get through the door to her fast enough, and then I’m at her side, scanning for the danger. It’s pretty fucking obvious as soon as I look for it. The end table is knocked over, the lamp it used to support in pieces. Couch cushions have been displaced. The comfortable chair Angel likes to curl up in when she reads is sitting at a funny angle. Every drawer in the kitchen sits open, or has been pulled out onto the floor. And that’s just in this room.

Angel’s hand finds mine, and she’s squeezing hard enough I think she might cut off my circulation. I immediately pull her with me, out of the apartment. I glance at the door jamb as we go, and my heart nearly stops. There are obvious marks of forced entry. If I hadn’t had my head stuck so far up my ass thinking about the shit between me and Angel, I would have noticed it.

“Wait.” Her voice wavers. “Molly!” she calls out, planting her feet and refusing to follow me any further than the hallway.

Of all the times for her to be fucking stubborn. I want to tell her that we’ll worry about the dog later, but while I can prioritize, I know for damn sure Angel will worry about the dog now. I sigh, unable to curb my irritation. Angel flashes me an angry look of her own. This day from hell is never going to end.  “Go down and let yourself into Mrs. Peters’ townhouse if she doesn’t open the door. I’ll look for Molly and then I’ll be right there.”

I try to take a mental inventory of the things that might be missing as I search, calling softly for Molly. It’s hard because so much of the stuff here is Chelsea’s, not ours. I’m getting angrier by the minute. Angry at Angel about my mom, angry that I’ve got to find the damn dog instead of holding Angel close, angry at the motherfuckers who’ve made this night worse by breaking in. And angry at myself for letting things spiral so out of control.

I find Molly in the linen closet, huddled behind a stack of towels. Oh thank God. Her and Angel have a bond, and if anything had happened to her... I don’t even want to think about it. Angel is safe. Molly is safe. Everything is going to be okay. Once I’ve scooped the pup up into my arms, I take her down to Mrs. Peters’ place. She huffs lightly against my cheek, soft fur and warm puppy breath mixing together to ease some of my anxiety as Molly gives me a tentative lick.

“Molly!” Angel cries out, darting forward to take the whining, wriggling pup from my arms. She immediately presses a million kisses to the dog's forehead. Well, I’m sure she’s glad that I didn’t encounter the robber still hiding in the townhouse or something, too, right? She just knew that as a big, strong man I can take care of myself.

More likely, the dog just ranks a hell of a lot higher on her ‘people and things I like’ list than I do today.

Mrs. Peters pats my arm. “Don’t take it to heart, dear.” She gives me a knowing smile. “We called the police. They’re en route.”

They weren’t going to be my first call, but I’m glad just the same. If I had to guess, Mrs. Peters probably insisted. My phone is to my ear, but my eyes don’t leave Angel. What if whoever it was had broken in this morning, before she left to head to the farm? She was here alone and unprotected. And then there's the question I'm sure we're both thinking, even if neither of us want to voice it: did Nick do this? He’s in prison, but sometimes it seems like people in prison have awfully long arms. Long enough to reach out and fuck with those they think have wronged them.

If I dwell too much about how much worse this could have been, I might fucking break. I’ve got to harden my heart and just handle shit.