Nominated for best AU and best Slash fic
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Just Call Me Angel . . . Chapter 2 3 4 5 6 Home
by spikeNdru
Written for crazydiamondsue and brandil's Xander: Music of Pain Ficathon.
Genre: Human AU: Xander is a construction worker in West Texas. There's a mysterious new guy on the crew. Xander is intrigued.
Pairing: Xander/Angel
Rating: R, becoming NC-17 beginning with Chapter Three.
Inspired by the Waylon Jennings song I Ain't Livin' Long Like This.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and 20th Century Fox. The song belongs to Waylon Jennings. I'm just playing with them all for my own amusement, and hopefully, yours, too.
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“I tried to run, but I don't think I canYou make one move and you're a dead man, friend
Ain't living long like this
Can't live at all like this, can I baby?”
~Waylon Jennings~
Xander pushed back his hard hat and staggered over to the large yellow cooler. He grabbed a paper cup from the stack and pulled back the spigot on the cooler, filling his cup with water. He drank it thirstily, then pulled the sweat-soaked red bandanna from his head and ran it under the spigot. He mopped his face with the bandanna, wet it down a second time, and tied it over his hair again. He drank another cup of water, replaced his hard hat and, with a sigh, went back to work.Xander felt a prickling between his shoulder blades that told him someone was watching him. He turned and noticed the new guy on the crew, leaning against the framing, staring at him. Xander stared back. That was usually enough to make the other guy look away, but not this time. The new guy's eyes never wavered. A faint smile crossed his lips and he touched his finger to the brim of his hard hat in a brief salute. It was Xander who dropped his eyes, feeling vaguely uncomfortable.
Damn, it was hot as hell—how could the new guy just looking at him cause him to shiver like a goose was walking over his grave? Xander was reluctant to turn his back on the guy, but they couldn't spend the rest of the day just staring at each other. Squaring his shoulders, Xander turned and sauntered off in the direction his best friend was working. Was it his imagination, or did a faint echo of mocking laughter follow him? Xander quickened his pace. He climbed the scaffolding and dropped to a crouch beside Riley Finn.
“Hey, Ry.”
“Hey, yourself.”
“What do you know about the new guy?”
“Angel?”
“That his name?”
“That's what I heard.”
“What kinda name's Angel . . . what's his last name?”
“Nobody knows. All I ever heard was 'Angel'.”
“So . . . what do you know about him?”
“I don't like him.” Riley thought for a minute. “Heard he did time.”
“Yeah? What for?”
Riley shrugged. “Why you so interested in him anyway?”
It was Xander's turn to shrug.
“You wanna come over to eat tonight? Sam said I should ask you.”
Xander considered, but then shook his head.
Every Friday night for the past two years or so, Xander and Anya had gotten together with Riley and his wife, Samantha, for dinner and the evening. Sometimes they'd go bowling or dancing—some nights they'd just stay in, drink beer and play cards. Xander figured his Friday nights were accounted for, for the rest of his life—him and Anya and Ry and Sam.
But then, one Friday they'd all decided to go to Vegas for the weekend. And Xander had decided that it would be a good idea to ask Anya to marry him. He'd bought a ring and all. But when they were actually standing in the wedding chapel, he just hadn't been able to go through with it. God knows why, 'cause he sure as hell didn't! There was just something holding him back. He couldn't put his finger on it. He loved Anya . . . of course, he did. They'd been living together for two years and Ry and Sam didn't seem to mind being married, but he just couldn't do it. Anya'd been real upset, and she'd moved out after that, and somehow, Friday nights with Ry and Sam just weren't the same without Anya.
“Nah. Tell Sam thanks, but I think I'll pass tonight.”
“She'll be real disappointed. Seems like we don't get to see you no more since Anya . . .”
“Yeah. Well, tell Sam I'll be over soon, but not tonight, okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever you want, Xan.”
“Well, better get back to work.”
Xander climbed down the scaffolding and picked up his hammer. Damn! His shoulder blades still felt prickly. He darted a glance in Angel's direction, but he was working and didn't seem to be paying Xander any attention.
Xander rolled his shoulders to ease the uncomfortable feeling and decided maybe he'd stop by the roadhouse and get drunk tonight. Nothing else to do, now that Fridays were Anya-less.
~~~~~~~~~~
The stentorian blare of the hand-held air horn made Xander jump and hit his thumb. He'd been placing a row of nails, and he stuck his thumb in his mouth, mumbling curses around it. Riley laughed and Xander glared at him.“Quittin' time,” the foreman yelled, following the blast of the air horn. “Finish up what y'all are doin' an' see ya Monday.”
Shaking his thumb to ease the ache, Xander finished placing his row of nails, then smoothly pounded each one home. What the fuck was the matter with him? He'd been jumpy and twitchy all day!
Xander unhooked his tool belt and threw it behind the seat in the cab of his truck. His hard hat followed. He pulled off the bandanna that had been keeping his floppy hair out of his eyes and reached in to start the truck. He leaned against the open door while the hellish heat that had built up in the cab at least slightly dissipated.
When he figured he could sit without frying his ass right through his jeans, he climbed into the cab and leaned over to roll down the other window. He pulled on a pair of black leather driving gloves so he could touch the broiling steering wheel, and then slammed his door. He peeled out of the construction site, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.
His 'beater was soaked through and his skin itched with dried sweat, but Xander knew if he went home to take a shower first, he'd never get his ass in gear to go out again. He'd do what he'd done for the last four Fridays—take a shower, flop on the couch, flip through the TV channels, decide there was nothing he wanted to watch, turn the radio to his favorite country music station, crack open a bottle of Jack or JW and put a frozen pizza in the oven. Then he'd wake up the next morning with a crick in his neck from passing out on the couch, and the empty bottle at his feet.
So, tonight he'd go directly to Rosie's instead—have a few drinks, get something to eat, talk to people and maybe shoot a few games of pool.
Much better plan!
~~~~~~~~~~
The glare coming off the sun-baked landscape had given him a headache by the time he got to Rosie's; he let out a small groan of pleasure upon entering the cool darkness. He waited a minute for his eyes to adjust, then headed for the bar and ordered a draft. He drank it down, the crisp coolness soothing his parched throat, and ordered a second.Every stool was taken, so Xander leaned against the bar, sipping his beer as he surveyed the room. His gaze halted at a small table in a dark corner. Angel sat there, slouched in his chair, legs propped up on the second chair, rolling a long-neck between his big hands. Xander's breath caught in his throat, and he felt twitchy again. He tore his eyes from Angel and downed his beer, ordering another.
He could still feel the pull of Angel's eyes and he risked a quick glance. Angel's feet were on the floor now, and he nudged the second chair a hair's breath from the table in invitation.
Xander had no intention of joining him, and felt a flash of surprise as he picked up his beer and began to saunter over, his feet seeming to move of their own volition. He came to a halt next to the spare chair, and Angel gave a barely perceptible nod of his head at it. Xander turned the chair backwards and straddled it, resting his arms on the chair back. He took a long swallow of beer before placing the glass on the table with a thump.
“Hey,” Xander said.
“Hey.”
“Not from around here?”
Angel shook his head.
“Name's Xander.” Xander stuck out his hand.
“Angel.” Angel gripped it briefly enough for Xander to feel the strength in those big hands, but not hard enough to get into a pissing contest.
“So, where you from?”
“Around.”
Xander gave a brief nod and took another drink of his beer. The music was loud and the roadhouse was crowded, but he and Angel seemed to be sitting in a pool of silence. Xander felt the tension between his shoulder blades begin to ease. He started when Angel's voice broke the well of silence.
“You from here?”
“Yep. Born and raised. Prob'ly die in Sunnydale, Texas.”
“You never got the itch to leave? See the world?”
Xander shrugged. “You a Navy recruiter or somethin'?”
Angel smiled briefly and it transformed his whole face. Xander frantically searched his memory for a good joke, just so he could see that smile again. But he was drawing a blank. For some reason, he couldn't bring to mind any of the dozens of sure-fire jokes he knew, so he let it slide.
Angel didn't seem to be one for conversation, so they sat in companionable silence. For once, Xander didn't feel the need to rush in and fill the silence with a quip or a joke. Strange. Silence had always made him uncomfortable, and he'd frequently find himself babbling just to avoid it, but this silence felt . . . nice. Relaxing. It was like he and Angel already knew each other so well there wasn't any need for words. And that was just plain weird, 'cause he didn't know Angel at all.
After a bit, Angel pushed back his chair and Xander started at the noise. He must have been zoning out—three beers on top of a hard day of manual labor in the sun'll do that to you. He thought Angel was getting ready to leave, but he picked up Xander's glass and his own bottle and headed to the bar instead.
Angel came back with two beers and a platter of nachos and Xander reached for his wallet. Angel made a dismissive gesture and said, “You can get the next round.” Xander felt unreasonably happy at the thought of a 'next round'.
~~~~~~~~~~
Xander woke early when the sun filtered through his curtains and an errant beam struck him in the eyes. He felt great! For the first Saturday in a long time, he woke refreshed and relaxed, looking forward to the weekend. He had gotten used to waking hungover, headachey, fuzzy-mouthed and wondering how he'd get through the next two days until it was time to go back to work. This was a nice change.Xander dumped a load of clothes in the washer and then stripped his bed. He hadn't changed the sheets in a month and they were past funky, beyond rank, and heading toward bleach-or-burn time. It was another hot, dry day in west Texas—if he hung his laundry out on the line, the first load would be dry by the time the second was through washing.
It was only 8:30 am when he hung the first load up, so he figured he'd clean up a mite while the second load washed. He got out a garbage bag and picked up the scattered pizza boxes, Chinese containers, beer bottles and coke cans, and the place already looked more habitable. It was still a long way from approaching the level of comfort he had taken for granted when Anya lived here, but it was starting to resemble a home again, rather than a pig sty.
By lunchtime, the laundry was folded and put away, the dishes were done, the counters wiped, kitchen floor swept, and Xander felt inordinately proud of himself. He popped the top on a can of beer and sprawled on the sofa, surveying his domain with satisfaction. He wondered what kind of place Angel lived in. He'd just bet it'd be neat as a pin, with everything in its place. Angel just had that spare, ascetic look about him. He was so . . . graceful when he moved. No wasted motion—or words, either. He couldn't imagine Angel ever allowing his place to get into the kind of shape his own had been until this morning.
Xander flipped through the channels, stopping to watch a game for a while, then turned the TV off. He felt alive and energetic—he wanted to be up and doing; not just sitting vegetating. Strange. He usually looked forward to just sitting around, doing nothing, on the weekends. He'd told himself he was 'recharging dead batteries'.
Well, right now, his batteries felt fully charged! He snatched up a classic Willie Nelson cassette for the tape deck and decided to go wash and wax his truck!
~~~~~~~~~~
Xander took a long shower and carefully shaved. He guessed he'd known all along, in the back of his mind, that he was going to Rosie's again tonight.He dressed with care—pulling on an old pair of 501s that had become so soft, they felt like flannel rather than denim. He looked over his boots and hesitated between the Ariat Full Quill Ostrich, and the Sanchez's Champion Boots—Iguana or Golden Horseshoe. He finally chose the Iguana.
Thanks to his earlier industriousness, all his shirts were clean. He pulled on a white 'beater that smelled faintly of sunshine and sage from being hung out to dry, and reached for his favorite T-shirt. Changing his mind, he went to the closet instead. His hand hovered over a creamy silk shirt Anya had bought him on sale, that he had never worn. Cream-colored silk—that needed to be dry-cleaned, no less—didn't exactly fit in with his lifestyle!
He drew it off the hanger and slipped it on. The material felt like cool water against his skin. He slowly buttoned the shirt, leaving the top two undone. He tucked the tails into his pants, and added a belt with a turquoise buckle. He folded the sleeves back to mid-forearm and went to look at himself in the mirror.
A stranger looked back at him—tall, lean and assured . . . and sort of cool and dangerous, too. The cream silk set off his burnished tan; his dark hair gleamed and his eyes were alive and sparkling. Whoa! Was this him?
Xander leaned closer to the mirror. The whites of his eyes were actually . . . white. The film that had clouded his eyes for weeks was gone. He felt like a new man . . . and he looked damn good!
As he stared into his own clear brown eyes, he remembered a program he'd once seen on the Discovery channel. Anya was always checking the Discovery channel, looking for shows about monkeys. He had turned on the TV and gotten interested in a program about sexual attraction—in people, not monkeys.
The scientist guy had said that people were naturally attracted to others with the same color eyes as their own. Xander thought about that. His first major high school crush had been on a cheerleader with hazel eyes—which was sort of brown. He'd dated that Peruvian exchange student—brown eyes. Another cheerleader, Cordelia—also, brown eyes. He'd lost his virginity to that biker chick, Faith—dark, bittersweet chocolate eyes. He'd fallen in love with Anya—warm, honey brown. Maybe there was something to it. He'd never even dated anyone with blue eyes. Xander laughed. Maybe there was a special, brown-eyed girl just waiting for him tonight!
He ran a brush through his unruly hair. Yep, he guessed he finally accepted that Anya wasn't coming back and he was ready to get back in the saddle again. He'd go to Rosie's—maybe Angel'd be there again and they could hang out together and pick up some pretty brown-eyed girls. Brown-eyed for both of them . . . 'cause Angel's eyes were a soft, rich, milk-chocolate brown. He'd noticed that last night.
~~~~~~~~~~
Xander's pulse quickened, and the throbbing beat of Keith Urban on the sound system echoed throughout his own body. Tonight felt . . . special, somehow. Like anything could happen. His eyes roamed over the women wearing tight jeans and even tighter crop-tees or halter-tops. They seemed to sparkle with life and energy. Maybe tonight he'd meet the love of his life, and his boring same-old-same-old existence would be changed forever.A petite blonde with curly hair that tumbled over her shoulders, clear down to her waist, sidled up to him and asked him to dance. He looked into her sky-blue eyes and knew she wasn't The One, but he danced with her anyway.
The music changed to You Were Always on My Mind. She slid her arms around his waist, pressing her firm, hot breasts against him. He could feel her hard nipples through the thin covering of shell-pink Lycra that was the only barrier between them. Xander found himself hoping . . .
. . . hoping she wouldn't get make-up on his brand new, dry clean only, cream silk shirt! Her hands roamed lower to cup his ass and he felt a tingle of electricity go through him like a lightning bolt. He looked up, searching the tables at the edge of the dance floor. There he was—sitting at the same table as last night. A grin crept over Xander's face, and his hands slid up the blonde's back, tangling in her hair, to gently grip her shoulders and hold her away from him.
He thanked her for the dance, but said he had to go now—he was supposed to meet someone. Her eyes narrowed, but as she saw him start toward Angel's table, she relaxed. When Kathy finally gets here, we'll go join both those cute guys, Brandi thought, and turned and headed to the bar.
Xander hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans and made his way to Angel's table.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Angel smiled that brief, heart-stoppingly beautiful smile, and taking the smile for an invitation, Xander pulled out the other chair. He hooked an arm over the chair back and slid his butt clear to the edge of the chair, long legs stretched out in front of him.
“Want a beer?”
Xander gathered himself to get up, but Angel made a staying motion.
“I'll get it. You can get—”
“The next round?” Xander grinned.
Angel nodded and started toward the bar.
Damn! The man moved like a panther! The impression was heightened by the tight black T-shirt and black leather pants he was wearing. Even his boots were black—relieved only by the silver band at the top of the boot heel and the silver tip guard. A silver Claddagh ring on the middle finger of his right hand carried out the dichromic look. Xander's breath caught. There was something mysterious and . . . ancient about black and silver. Or . . . maybe it was just a holdover from his childhood fascination with Zorro. Either way, Angel definitely needed a long back cape of some kind! Xander imagined the cape billowing out behind him, as Angel leaped from a rooftop onto his black horse with silver bridle and silver tooling on the black leather saddle . . .
Brandi noticed Angel ordering a pitcher, and she nudged Kathy. Somewhat taller than Brandi, Kathy wore her red hair straight, just brushing the tops of her creamy shoulders; both hair and shoulders set off by a lime green halter top. Kathy never tanned, and Brandi thought Kathy's pale skin contrasted nicely with her own deep, bronze tan. Those guys were toast! They'd never know what hit them!
Angel picked up the pitcher in one hand and two glasses in the other. After a whispered consultation, Brandi snagged two additional glasses and she and Kathy followed him back to his table.
“Mind if we join you?” Brandi asked brightly.
Xander glanced at Angel, and then got up to drag two additional chairs from the row lining the wall behind the tables. The table was small, and Brandi scooted her chair over until she was practically in Angel's lap.
“Hi! I'm Brandi, and this is my friend, Kathy.”
“Angel.”
Kathy looked inquiringly at Xander.
“I'm Xander. How ya doin', Kathy?”
She looked at him searchingly. “Do I know you?”
He shook his head. “Don't think so.”
“I'm sure I . . . wait . . .” she thought for a moment. “We were in kindergarten together! I broke a yellow crayon and started to cry and everybody laughed at me, but you. You were nice to me and I had a major crush on you all through grade school, after that.”
Xander frantically searched his memory, but he didn't remember her at all.
“Uh. Were you in Mrs. Hobbs' class for fourth grade?” he hazarded.
Kathy shook her head sadly. “Nope. My parents decided that the whole crayon-breaking incident was just too traumatic for me and all the kids—except you—were mean, so they home-schooled me from then on.”
O-o-o-o-o-kay. Home-schooled. No wonder he couldn't remember her. That'd explain it. Xander wished that blue-eyed Brandi and green-eyed Kathy would just go away so that the easy compatibility he and Angel'd been enjoying would come back. But, it looked like they were settled in for the duration.
Brandi grabbed the pitcher and poured them each a glass of beer. She drank half of hers down and then jumped up, grabbing Angel's hand, urging him onto the dance floor. Xander figured he might as well ask Kathy to dance, too, so he wouldn't have to worry about making conversation.
“How come I haven't seen you here before?” Kathy wondered. “'Cause I sure would've noticed you, Xander.”
“Uh. My girlfriend and I usually go to Mustang Sally's on Saturday nights.”
“Oh.” Kathy seemed disappointed. “You have a girlfriend?”
Xander nodded like a Bobblehead.
“How come she's not here, then?”
“She, um, had to go to a . . . shower . . . a baby shower, tonight, so . . . uh . . . Angel an' me just dropped in for a quick drink . . . uh . . . till we have to go pick up the . . . uh . . . girls—after the shower.”
What was wrong with him? He'd been so sure he was over Anya, but here was an attractive woman, who definitely seemed interested in him, and he was doing his level best to get rid of her! Okay, it wasn't like he was ready for a commitment, but why couldn't he just relax and enjoy the evening?
The dance ended and Xander escorted Kathy back to the table.
“Thanks for the dance, Xander . . . I think I'll go . . . um . . . powder my nose.”
He watched Kathy shove through the dancers until she located Angel and Brandi. She grabbed Brandi's arm and dragged her off in the direction of the Ladies' Room.
Xander met Angel's eyes across the dance floor. He felt that surge of electricity go through him again. Angel returned to the table, but he made no move to sit down. He rested his fingertips on the table and leaned toward Xander.
“Guess I'll take off. I'm kinda tired.”
Xander nodded and Angel spun on his heel and glided through the dancers, heading toward the exit.
Xander decided he'd had enough of Rosie's, too, and pushed back his chair, hurrying after Angel. No, he was not hurrying after Angel! It was just that the air in the roadhouse was stuffy and weighing down on him and all the energy had seemed to go out of the room, and he could really use a breath of fresh air! That's all! He just needed some . . . air.
He pushed through the door and looked around for Angel. There he was, at the far end of the gravel parking lot. He'd already thrown his leg over the seat of a vintage Indian motorcycle. He was reaching down to crank the starter, when Xander heard the slamming of a pick-up door. The faded red and gray primer truck was even older than the bike, and Xander stared at it covetously. He was so busy admiring the truck, that he didn't notice the compact, yet well-built, driver hurtling toward Angel, clutching a tire iron, until Xander heard him yell.
“You bastard! You fuckin' murderous bastard!”
The smaller man leapt at Angel, who ducked the swing of the tire iron, grabbed the assailant's wrist and dismounted the bike—all in one smooth motion. Angel twisted the wrist and the tire iron flew from the assailant's suddenly numb fingers. He took a swing at Angel with his other hand, which Angel smoothly blocked.
“I'll kill you, you bastard! I'll kill you just like you killed her! I loved her! You never did! You never loved her, but you killed her . . .”
Gut-wrenching sobs broke through the tirade, and Angel swung once, catching the assailant on the jaw. The smaller man crumbled to the gravel. Angel picked him up and dumped him in the back of his truck so he wouldn't accidentally get run over. The bike roared to life, and with a spray of gravel, Angel tore off into the night.
Fumbling for his keys, Xander unlocked his own truck and slowly drove home.
~~~~~~~~~~
Xander didn't sleep well Saturday night. He'd gotten home before eleven, but all the dramas of the evening conspired to keep him awake and restless. After tossing and turning for over an hour with no sign of the Sandman, he got up to get a coke and switched on the radio. Another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody. I got some money 'cause I just got paid . . . He quickly turned it off again. He didn't need Cat Stevens reminding him of his situation and making him even more depressed!Maybe he'd go fishing tomorrow. Yeah, that's what he'd do—pack a lunch, grab his gear and head up to the lake for the afternoon. Nothin' like a day of fishin' to give a man perspective . . .
~~~~~~~~~~
Xander slept in the next morning. It was almost ten when he got up, so he started right in getting his stuff together. He pulled on an old pair of cut-offs and his lucky fishing T-shirt. The shirt was old, stretched out and faded and had a splattering of holes from where bleach had spilled on it and eaten through the material. The picture of the leaping wide-mouthed bass on the front was a mass of cracks from repeated washings. Anya had thrown the shirt in the garbage—twice—but he'd noticed and managed to retrieve it both times. He thrust his feet into old rubber flip flops and carried his rod, reel, tackle box and bait bucket out to the bed of his truck.Bringing his cooler in from the truck, he filled it with a 6-pack of Pepsi, four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, two ham and cheese, three hard boiled eggs, an apple and a banana. He'd pick up ice at the bait shop. He grabbed a bag of Doritos and was ready to go.
Balancing the cooler on his hip, the bag of Doritos gripped in his teeth, he flung open his kitchen door and almost barreled straight into Angel, who had his hand up, ready to knock.
“Hey.”
Xander just nodded, the Doritos making any kind of intelligible speech impossible. Xander dumped the cooler in the truck bed and unlocked the door to let some of the heat in the cab escape. He dropped the bag of Doritos behind the seat and turned to face Angel—who looked decidedly uncomfortable.
“I better go. You're gettin' ready to head out . . .”
“No, that's okay.”
“I just thought . . . I mean, last night . . . oh, never mind.” Angel turned to go.
“Angel—”
“Yeah?”
“I was just fixin' to head up to the lake . . . do a little fishin'. You . . . wanna come with?”
There it was again—that beatific smile. Xander felt his whole face light up in an answering smile.
“I don't wanna put you out . . .”
“It's no trouble—I've got extra gear and I packed enough food for an army . . .”
“Well . . . if you're sure . . .”
“Be right back!”
Xander hurried into the house and grabbed his spare rod and reel and an armful of (thankfully) clean towels, in case they decided to go swimming. He put the rest of the gear into the truck bed and snapped the canvas cover down.
“Ready to roll?”
Angel nodded and climbed into the truck.
The first ten miles or so passed in silence. Xander could feel Angel glancing at him occasionally, but he figured Angel'd talk when he was ready, and the time he'd been spending with Angel had really helped him cut down on his nervous babbling. Ten more miles, and Angel finally cleared his throat.
“I wasn't sure you'd still want to hang out.”
Xander turned to look directly at Angel, surprise evident on his face.
“Why not?”
“I know you saw me an' Lindsey last night, and—”
Xander turned his eyes back to the road. “It's none of my business.”
“Yeah. You're right.”
“I mean . . . you can tell me if you want to. You don't have to—you don't owe me any explanations.”
“It's weird . . . I've always been real private-like, even when I was a kid. And, I never much cared what other people thought of me. Let 'em think what they like—they'll do that anyway. I've never felt the need to justify myself—about anything. But now . . .” Angel gave a wry smile. “It seems I do care what somebody thinks of me—what you think of me. Aw, fuck!”
Angel tilted his head back against the seat, his hat sliding forward to cover his eyes. The sun traced the strong lines of his throat and burnished his beard stubble with glints of gold. He crossed his arms over his muscular chest and rested his left ankle on his right knee. The sun picked up the golden glints in his arm hairs and threw a shaft of light on the windshield from his polished silver boot tip.
“I'm not a murderer. I just wanted you to know that. Not sayin' I wasn't responsible for killin' somebody, but I'm not a murderer, like Lindsey seems to think.”
Xander turned off the highway and pulled up under a cottonwood in front of a decrepit-looking convenience store with a “Live Bait” sign in the window.
“You want anything?” Xander asked as he jumped down from the truck.
“Cup a' coffee'd be good.”
Xander lifted the cooler from the truck bed and put it on the ground. Grabbing his bait bucket, he disappeared into the small store. He returned a few minutes later with a bag of ice. Removing the sandwiches and fruit, he dumped the ice in the cooler, putting the food back on top. He hoisted the cooler into the truck and went back into the store.
When he came out the second time, he carried the yellow bait bucket in one hand and balanced a flimsy cardboard carrier holding two enormous cups of coffee in the other. He put the bait bucket at Angel's feet, giving him an apologetic grin.
“Too hot in the bed for bait.”
“No problem.”
Xander passed Angel one of the coffees.
“I wasn't sure how you took it, so I put cream and sugar in . . .”
“Either way's fine.”
Xander started the truck. “Not too far to go yet.”
Angel nodded and sipped his coffee. “Hits the spot. Didn't sleep too well last night.”
“Yeah. Me neither.”
In a little less than twenty minutes, they saw the signs indicating the turn-off to the lake.
Ringed with pine, pińon, and aspen trees, the lake sparkled in the sun. The public beach was crowded. Children were frolicking in the shallow water, which was roped off by a series of empty Chlorox bottles. Rows of teens lay on beach towels, their well-oiled bodies grilling in the sun. A group of elderly men played checkers under a huge umbrella, while their wives chatted and knitted under their own enormous beach umbrella.
Xander skirted the beach, passed a comfort station, and continued part way around the lake, finally pulling into a gravel parking lot. He parked the truck in the shade and got out.
“You might want to leave your boots here,” he suggested, and Angel nodded. Angel pulled off his boots and socks, shoving the socks into his boot tops. His feet were pale and elegant. Xander hoped he still had that tube of sunscreen in his tackle box, or Angel wouldn't be getting his boots back on after a day on the lake!
Xander hoisted the cooler and fishing rods, tucking the towels under his arm, leaving Angel to bring the tackle box, bait bucket and Doritos. They made their way down the sloping path to where a long dock jutted into the lake. A series of small rowboats were tied to the left side of the dock. Two old men sat in plastic folding chairs at the end of the dock, desultorily casting their lines into the water.
Xander deposited his gear on the dock and started toward the small wooden building labeled “Boat Rentals—by the hour, half-day or day.” He approached the open-air counter and a teenager put down his comic book and got to his feet.
“Goin' fishin'?” the kid asked.
“Thought I might,” Xander answered, biting back on the No, Captain Obvious—we're hunting polar bears! he'd been tempted to reply. Wow! Two guys with rods and tackle, renting a boat—and you figured out all by yourself that they were going fishing? Amazing! What gave it away? “Half-day rental,” Xander continued, reaching for his wallet.
“Eighteen for the half-day. If you're out past six, it'll be four dollars each additional hour.”
Xander gave him a twenty, and was given two dollar bills and a pair of oars in return.
“Take whatever boat you want.”
Xander nodded and chose one. The kid leaned out and noted the number stenciled on the prow of the boat on Xander's rental form, then went back to his comic book. Xander spread towels on the wooden seats and glanced at Angel.
“You swim?”
Angel nodded and jumped lightly into the boat with cat-like grace. Angel slid the cooler and bait bucket under the stern seat, displacing a mildewed yellow life-vest that he pulled out to use as a foot rest. Xander dug in the tackle box for the sunscreen that he flipped to Angel.
“Better put that on your feet, or they'll burn like a sonabitch.”
Angel nodded. “Thanks.”
Xander watched Angel's big, sun-bronzed hands stroking the cream onto his long, pale feet and his stomach gave a weird little flip-flop. He fitted the oars into the oarlocks, and then leaned toward the bow to untie the small boat.
Carefully skirting the old men's lines, Xander pulled away from the dock and began to row, following the shoreline. After about five minutes of strenuous effort, he rounded a small promontory and pulled into a tiny, shaded cove. The dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves of trees growing over the water made the cove cool and inviting.
“When the sun's high, the fish go where the shade is,” Xander explained.
“Makes sense.”
Xander dropped the anchor with a quiet splash, and then stretched, rolling his shoulders. He flashed a brief grin of pure joy, and then got down to the serious business of fishing!
Almost an hour had passed, when Xander felt the first tug on his line. He gripped his rod with both hands, as his line played out with a loud whirrr.
“It's a big one!”
The fish fought, darting in one direction, then another. Xander stood, bracing his feet against the sides of the boat, playing out his line. Time seemed to stop for him, and his concentration was absolute as he fought the age-old battle between man and fish. It felt like hours, but had probably been closer to five minutes, when he sensed the fish beginning to tire. Xander began slowly reeling him in. He glanced over his shoulder to grin at Angel. As if sensing Xander's momentary inattention, the fish took the opportunity to make a break for it. There was another whirrrrr as the fish swam for its life. It dove under a submerged log, hooking the line in the process. Xander gripped his rod tightly, and was reeling in the line, when his rod gave a sudden jerk and Xander found himself in the water. He came up sputtering and laughing, the broken line trailing from his rod.
Xander handed his rod to Angel and said ruefully, “Well, it was about time for lunch anyway.”
Xander swam toward the shoreline, while Angel rowed the boat in his wake.
Xander scrambled up the bank and shook himself like a wet dog. He reached out to catch the mooring rope Angel tossed to him and tied it around a slender tree trunk. Angel passed him a towel, and he ran it over his face and hair before draping it around his neck. Angel lifted the cooler out of the boat and vaulted over the side. He handed the cooler up to Xander, grabbed some additional towels, and climbed the bank.
“C'mon—this way,” Xander beckoned.
They pushed through brush and trees until they came to a small, sun-dappled glade.
“Perfect spot for a picnic,” Xander commented. “In fact, if I remember right, there's even some blueberry bushes over that way.”
Xander had found this glade when he was a child, on one of his family's infrequent trips to the lake. Those trips were special to him because of their rarity. After he'd learned to drive, he came more often, but he'd never shown this place to anyone before.
Most of the visitors to the lake tended to congregate at the other end, near the beach, bathrooms and snack bar. The fishermen utilized the docks and boats. There were hiking trails on the opposite side, but hardly anyone was anxious to poke around in the brush and picker bushes leading to the glade. He imagined this as his own private, secret place—waiting in silent splendor until he came again. He'd been fishing with Riley lots of times, but he'd never even brought Ry here.
Xander chose a patch of sun to sit in—he'd dry off from his unintentional swim in no time. Angel stretched out in the shade, his crossed arms pillowing his head.
“It's nice here. Peaceful.”
Xander nodded. He felt a brief thrill that Angel saw the place as he did. He rooted through the cooler and tossed Angel a Pepsi, opening one for himself. “You want a sandwich?”
“I'm good.”
Xander ate two of the PB&J—after all the rowing and fishing and swimming he'd been doing, he was hungry.
He'd sworn he wouldn't ask—he knew it was none of his business. He wanted Angel to be able to relax and enjoy his special place, the way he always had—as a sort of refuge from real life. So, he was sort of surprised when he opened his mouth to comment on the blueberries and said instead, “So . . . Lindsey has some kind of grudge against you?”
“He thinks he does.”
“Oh.” Stupid! Why couldn't I just keep my mouth shut! Now, he'll be all wanting to leave, and he'll probably never speak to me again, and I know he's not a murderer, so why do I want to know what really happened? Not that it's any of my business anyway . . .
Angel turned on his side, propping his head on his hand and opened his Pepsi. The sound was loud in the quiet of the glade, and Xander gave a nervous titter at the sudden pop-fizz. Angel took a drink. He looked directly at Xander, but Xander couldn't meet his eyes. Xander played with the top of his Pepsi can, bending the tab back and forth, waiting for Angel to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business.
“I got married right outta high school. Darla'n I'd been together awhile, and it just seemed like the thing to do. We were together a couple a years and then we split up. That's when she met Lindsey. He fell for her—hard. But Darla? Well . . . I don't know if she was capable of loving anybody. Oh, she wanted me—but I don't think she ever really loved me. An' I wasn't in love with her, either. She sure as hell didn't love Lindsey, even though he wanted her to . . . hoped she might. She moved in with him—for her it was a place to stay, but for him, it was . . . more.”
Angel took another drink of Pepsi. Xander didn't move . . . barely even breathed. He got the sense that Angel didn't share his private life with many—any—people, and Angel's confiding in him felt special.
“So, she was staying with Lindsey, but she kept coming over to see me. I guess she was angling to get back together. Then she just took off. I found out later it was 'cause she was pregnant. Guess she needed time to figure out what she wanted to do. She came back and told me, and I figured maybe we could give it another shot—'cause of the kid and all. So she moved back in with me, and then she . . . died in childbirth. The baby was adopted out and Lindsey blames me for her death.”
“But . . . but . . . how can he blame you?”
“We were on our way to the hospital and . . . her heart gave out. She stopped breathing and I tried to give her CPR—broke some ribs in the process. Fuck, Xander—I didn't know what to do! There we were . . . out in the middle of nowhere. I didn't know whether to keep up the CPR and hope somebody'd pass by eventually, or to stop and try to get her to the hospital. It seemed like hours . . . nobody came . . . So, I hauled her back in the truck and lit out for the hospital. They did an emergency operation and took the baby, but said he might be . . . damaged . . . from the lack of oxygen. She had bruises, and a couple a cracked ribs, an' Lindsey showed up and was carrying on about how I killed her an' they took me in 'til they could investigate. I know I shoulda kept up the CPR once I started, but it was just a bad situation any way you look at it.
“Lindsey's old man's a lawyer, and I got charged with negligence in her death and with all that goin' on, I couldn't take care of a kid, so I signed the papers, and he went to a good home where they'll take care of him better'n I ever could.
“I wasn't in love with Darla, but I didn't want her to die. And I sure as hell didn't kill her on purpose. But it doesn't make any difference to Lindsey. He loved her, she's dead, and it was my fault. My fault for knockin' her up in the first place; my fault for living so far outta town. My fault for not gettin' her to the hospital sooner . . . for startin' CPR and then stopping . . .
“So yeah, I was responsible for her death, an' I have to live with that. But that's not enough for Lindsey. He figures I took something precious from him, an' he'll never accept that she wasn't ever really his. An' that's what he'll never forgive me for. He's sure that if she'd stayed with him, they'd be a happy little family right now. And who knows, maybe they would've. Maybe she would've come to love him in time. But that didn't happen, an' she didn't love him, and now she's dead. And I am responsible. And Lindsey will never let it go . . . And . . . I never told anyone this before. You're easy to talk to, Xander.”
Xander felt a glow of pride. “I'm honored,” he said simply. “It means a lot that you . . . trust me. Want a sandwich?”
“Ham and cheese?”
“Sure. One or two?”
“Two, thanks. If you've got enough.”
“Got plenty. Hard boiled egg?”
“Sure.”
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