The Angel Alejandro

by Alistair Cross

  The tattooed kid with the pierced lip stood, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, and said, “I’m Patrick and I’m an alcoholic. I relapsed … but I’m sober two days now.”

  “Hello, Patrick, welcome!” The room chorused and clapped.

  Patrick sat back down next to Grandma, who patted his hand and smiled.

  Dave F. gave another bony nudge, and Nick considered arresting him for assaulting an officer with a deadly elbow.

  Father Thomas spared him by opening the floor to anyone who had a “burning desire” to share.

  There was no shortage of burning desires.

  Although he’d expected to spend the hour stealing glances at his watch, Nick found himself riveted. Some stories were mild and others were downright grueling, but they all resonated to Nick who, even as he listened, was craving a drink.

  There were many mentions of being a “grateful alcoholic,” and why anyone would be grateful to have become dependent on alcohol was beyond him. There were a few mentions of a “Higher Power,” which he could deal with, but when Karen W. got up and recounted how “God” had pried her from the claws of addiction, it sent a jab of distaste through him. Dave F., who nodded and Mm’hmmed beside him, caught the cringe, and leaned in to say, “Don’t worry, Nick G. That’s only what she believes in.”

  By the time Father Thomas called the meeting to an end, Nick’s cravings had subsided some. He stood to leave and was startled when Dave F. clasped his hand and the group formed a circle. The pretty woman in the power suit smiled at him, took his other hand, and bowed her head.

  As they recited the serenity prayer, the guitar riff of Barracuda played in Nick’s head and he stole quick glances at Power Suit’s breasts. I guess I can’t ask her out for a drink, he thought.

  The prayer ended and he hoped Power Suit would introduce herself, but she didn’t. Dave F., on the other hand, had all the time in the world to shoot the shit.

  “So what did you think?”

  “It could have been worse,” answered Nick.

  “If you need someone to go to meetings with, I’m always available.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks.”

  “Do you have a sponsor yet?”

  “Well, no, I-”

  “Come on. I’ll introduce you to Father Thomas.” Dave F. dragged him by the wrist.

  As they approached, the priest stood, offering a warm smile. He was a few years older than Nick - late forties.

  “Father Thomas, this is Nick G. He’s new.”

  “Thomas Wainwright. Pleased to meet you.” He held out his hand and Nick, grateful he wasn’t being offered a hug, shook it. “We’re always glad to see new faces.”

  Whether he meant new townspeople or new alcoholics, Nick didn’t know. “Thanks. It’s nice to be here.”

  Dave F. spoke up. “Nick G. is the new chief of police.”

  Nick couldn’t recall sharing this information, but chalked it up to the nature of the small-town beast.

  “Guilty as charged.” Nick offered a weak smile.

  “Welcome to town.” Father Thomas’s gaze dipped to Nick’s red and yellow bumblebee sweater. Nick’s cheeks warmed and threatened to flush. Comfort over vanity, and to hell with them if they don’t like my sweater.

  But Father Thomas had already lost interest in the knitted monstrosity. “And what do you think of Prominence so far?”

  “Dave!” A sweating man with a bad toupee held up the old tin coffee maker. “Where should I put this?”

  Dave F. sighed. “That’s my cue. It was nice to meet you, Nick G. Keep coming back.” Nick nodded and the little man disappeared, looking like a taxicab driving down the road with both doors open. Several people milled about, folding up chairs and stacking them against the wall.

  “It’s a nice place,” Nick told the priest. “Quaint little town.”

  “That, it is.” Father Thomas sat and gestured to a chair in the front row. “Better snag it before they take it away.” He flashed a grin. “And where are you from?”

  Nick sat. “Crimson Cove.”

  “Ah, yes. A beautiful place. I have an older sister there.”

  “Really?”

  “Perhaps you know her. Dora Langley. She runs a little bookstore-”

  “Langley’s Literary Labyrinth,” said Nick.

  “That’s the one.”

  Nick tried to imagine Dora Langley - a gypsy-appareled loudmouth with a crystal-gazing habit - as the priest’s sibling. He couldn’t. “Small world.”

  “Too small, sometimes, if you ask me.”

  Nick, assuming the priest wasn’t particularly fond of his older sister, changed the subject. “I hear you used to head St. Agatha’s.”

  Something flickered in the priest’s eyes, but fled like a passing shadow. “Yes. We moved here a couple of years ago. Better location.” He stared at Nick a moment. “I take it this is your first meeting.”

  “That obvious, huh?”

  “You look a little lost, but I think you’re in the right place.” Father Thomas gestured at a stack of blue hardcover books at the edge of the table. “Do you have a Big Book?”

  “A … what?” He cringed, hoping the man wasn’t trying to sell him a bible.

  Father Thomas laughed. “It’s not what you think. It’s the book of Alcoholics Anonymous. It’ll tell you everything you need to know.” He held one out to Nick.

  “I, uh, thanks. How much?”

  “It’s on the house.”

  “But I-”

  “Do you have a sponsor yet?”

  “I haven’t really had a chance to meet anyone.”

  Father Thomas pulled a pen from his pocket and scribbled his number on the inside of the “Big Book,” then handed it back. “Call me anytime, day or night. Before you stop by the liquor store, call me.”

  A lightning-bolt of panic shot through Nick. “Wait. Are you … my sponsor?” I can’t have a priest for a sponsor, for Christ’s sake!

  Father Thomas laughed. “If you need one, I’ll be happy to do it. But why don’t you come to a few meetings, read a little of the book, and get a feel for the program before you make any decisions? I just want you to have my number in case you need it.”

  “Thanks.” Nick flipped through the pages. “I guess I’ll do a little light reading this week.”

  “And hopefully we’ll see you Friday?” Father Thomas gathered some papers together and handed one to Nick. “This is a list of the meeting times.”

  He took it and looked it over. “I’ll be here Friday, then.” He was surprised that he meant it, but something needed to be said before he got any deeper. “There’s just one thing …” He bit his lip. “I’m, uh, I’m not sure about all this God business. I don’t really, uh, get into that.”

  Father Thomas gave him a beamer. “A lot of people here feel the same. The good news is, you don’t have to believe anything you don’t want to. We all have our personal ideas about creation and the universe, myself included.”

  “But, you’re a …”

  “A priest, yes. And if you think I know any more than you do, you’re wrong.” His laugh was hearty, infectious. He leaned forward. “Just go read some of the book, keep coming back, and don’t drink between meetings. The rest will work itself out.”

  Nick grinned. “All right, will do, Padre.”

  He stood and turned to leave, and as he moved his chair toward the stack against the wall, Father Thomas said, “Oh, and Nick?”

  “Yes?”

  “That is one hell of a sweater you’ve got there.” He laughed.

  Nick gave him a wry smile. “This, coming from a man who wears a cassock and a collar.”

  The priest laughed. “Touché.”

  Woolgathering at Midnight

  Midnight in Prominence.

  Madison O’Riley stared up at the ceiling. There’d been a war raging within her since the moment she’d discovered Alejandro naked in her kitchen. The battle roared on at full blast and she couldn’t silence the bomb
s.

  Her chats with the chief of police, Nick Grayson, and the psychic, Beverly Simon, had only deepened her conflict. She wanted to solve the mystery of Alejandro - not only to satisfy her curiosity, but because it was the right thing to do. Her fear of losing him, however, was just as strong, if not stronger.

  What if Nick Grayson is able to identify Alejandro … Then what? She thought of Beverly Simon. She recalled the woman’s face as she began telling her how he’d “healed” Abby Strane. Something told Madison that she wasn’t a quack-psychic looking to cash in. Beverly had truly been rattled by what she’d seen.

  Maybe she could even tell me who Alejandro is. The next thought jarred her: And what if I learn something I don’t want to know?

  What if, what if, what if.

  These questions were the battlefield on which the war inside her raged, and as the days passed, she knew it would only be harder when the time came for him to leave. And he will have to leave eventually.

  She tried thinking of the shop, but lost interest. She skipped past her father - too painful - and Clint Horace - too infuriating - and settled on Bernadette’s car accident. She wondered how the man Dette had hit was recovering. She also wondered why her friend had been so tight-lipped about the whole thing. Usually she was an open book, but this was different. Dette was hiding something from her. Madison wondered what it might be.

  Her mind jumped to the way Dette had looked at Alejandro, the way she’d taken him in, scanning his naked torso on the day of the flood, all wide-eyed and lust-crazed. Not that Madison could blame her. Alejandro passed up gorgeous and raced straight into Adonis territory. She smiled in the dark, thinking of the way he sometimes hung his head, looking at her through black lashes with those metallic eyes.

  And she knew that fighting her train of thought was a lost cause now.

  So she resigned, letting her mind go where it wanted. And just as she’d suspected it would, it continued analyzing Alejandro: the blade-sharp cheekbones, the kissable lips, the way the white aviator shirt strained against his broad shoulders … and his skin beneath it - warm, golden and strokable, scented with vanilla. And the way he moved - sometimes with the careful, deadly grace of a jungle cat, and other times striking like a tine of lightning, pouncing ... like the way he pounced on me when the earthquake struck. No forewarning, no thought, just raw instinct. The instinct to protect. To protect me.

  Madison sighed.

  Her heart hurt at his beauty. Hurt because she knew she couldn’t keep him. And none of this would be happening if I hadn’t insisted on patching the roof in the rain. If she hadn’t been growing drowsy, she would have grabbed her phone and added that little Life Lesson to her list.

  * * *

  Officer Clint Horace, desk sergeant of the Prominence Police Department reached under the sheets and touched himself.

  Old Faithful.

  That was what he called it. Not because it was huge - it wasn’t. No, Old Faithful’s charms were different. What it lacked in length and girth, it made up for in other abilities, which had come to Clint’s knowledge back when he was in Cub Scouts. Sexual experimentation was perfectly healthy for boys that age - he’d read about it - and on a camping trip near Mono Lake, Old Faithful had become famous among Clint’s contemporaries for winning the semen-shooting contest - not by a little, but by several feet.

  And the rest was history.

  Now in his early thirties, Clint still had the ability to blast a string of pearls past his own head, and after an especially vigorous online porn session, Clint Horace had done just that. Twice. Then he called it a night.

  Now, he was having trouble falling asleep; a few things were bothering him. First, he didn’t like the new chief of police, Nick the Dick Grayson. He was almost as bad as that fuckhead lieutenant, Marty Pullman. They were probably sucking each other off in their spare time. Despite the fact that Nick the Dick had been on the force less than a week, he strutted around like he owned the place, barking orders, giving Clint icy stares, and soaking up the attention of the local women. And that brought Clint to the second source of his restlessness: Madison O’Riley.

  Clint kept a close eye on Madison and he’d seen the new chief in O’Riley’s Rocks this afternoon. It left a bad taste in his mouth, but that wasn’t the worst of it. What really irked him was that she had that dude - The Disrobed Daredevil - shacked up with her. He was certain Madison was fucking every guy in town - except me! - and he was tired of standing around watching it happen. Jealousy ate at him like an aggressive cancer, and at this point, he’d just about been hollowed out.

  A few months ago, he’d finally talked Madison into going bowling with him. Since that night, she’d been as cold as a corpse’s tit, ignoring his calls, not answering her door, and telling him to get out of her shop. He hadn’t listened and she’d threatened to call the cops. I am the cops, he’d told her, smiling. This had struck fear in her, he’d seen it. But not enough to warm her up. He’d since tried everything: being nice, being aggressive, and being indifferent. He’d even threatened her with some old parking tickets her mother hadn’t paid. None of it worked, and Clint didn’t understand why. He’d been on his best behavior lately. After showing up at her house a few times and being told he wasn’t welcome, he’d decided to cool it for a while.

  But enough was enough.

  He acknowledged that he’d been a little forceful with her the night he’d dropped her off after bowling, but that wasn’t the problem. Madison wasn’t fooling anyone; she’d wanted it. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have worn the tit-hugging, low-cut sweater and all that lipstick. And she wouldn’t have spent the night eye-fucking him and toying with her straw - fingering it, touching it to her lips, and treating it for all the world like the cock Clint knew she’d wanted.

  He’d read hundreds - if not thousands - of magazine and online articles that told him women liked a guy who knew what he wanted and took it. So, that’s what he’d done. Or tried to do, anyway. Unfortunately, when he’d got his hand between her knees, she’d slapped him away, writhed out of his arm lock, and dashed into the house, pretending to be offended by his advances. Just like a whore - always getting guys revved up, then playing the virginal victim. Her resistance made her hotter though, and she knew it.

  He was determined to have her.

  Clint Horace smiled to himself and began another earnest session with Old Faithful. And this one wouldn’t require his computer. He had all the porn he’d ever need right between his own two ears, and on this stage, Madison was the star … she was always the star.

  * * *

  Nick Grayson had to pee. Again.

  Sighing, he threw the sheets off and headed down the hall. At sundown, he’d been overcome by a powerful craving for a drink. That had been his nighttime ritual for years and without it, he felt like a man with a broken leg who’d misplaced his crutches. It’ll pass, he told himself. He’d still had no major withdrawal symptoms - at least none of the really bad ones he’d read about - but the sweating, the restlessness, the racing thoughts, the distracted irritability - were enough. The days were okay, probably because he was busy. The nights, however, weren’t pleasant at all.

  He flushed and washed his hands. The hot water felt good and he considered taking another warm bath - that would make three today - but knew it would do no good. No amount of relaxing baths, boring reading material, or warm milk was enough to bring sleep. He wondered how long this was going to last. Be patient. You’re only a few days sober.

  As he scrubbed, steam rose from the sink and he noticed an unusual design where it fogged the mirror. He turned the hot water to full blast, and watched in fascination as a single word began to form.

  REMEMBER.

  Startled, Nick looked behind him, gazing around the bathroom. He was alone. He stared at the mirror.

  REMEMBER. Condensation dripped from the letters, giving it a cheesy horror-movie appearance.

  What the blue fuck? It must have been there before. The previous occupants
must have done it. He hadn’t cleaned the mirror since moving in.

  A chill raised hair on his body. Maybe my withdrawal symptoms are worse than I thought. He’d heard of men who, in serious DTs, heard disembodied voices and saw things that weren’t there. Is that what’s happening to me?

  No, that wasn’t it. He remembered the phantom footsteps on his first day, the silhouette he’d seen behind the curtains, the bed unmaking itself while he’d showered. All of this when he hadn’t yet quit drinking.

  He wiped the word away with a swipe of his hand and returned to the bedroom. Even though it wasn’t hot, he was hot. He cracked the window, then got into bed. He listened to the soft sounds of wind in the pines, his need for a drink stronger than ever. He knew the liquor store wouldn’t be open, but was sure he could get some beer at the 7-11.

  No, not a good idea.

  But the possibility tempted him, haunting him like the worst ghost of all - a real ghost. It would be easy enough. Just one six-pack. I’d drink two and dump the rest. I could taper off. But previous experience told him that didn’t work. One beer was like the breaking of a dam; one beer and Nick stopped caring about how many followed. But I can quit tomorrow. He reasoned that he’d quit drinking to avoid ruining his new job, but weren’t all these sleepless nights going to do that for him anyway? So which was worse, a hangover or a week without sleep?

  Just a couple of beers. Just tonight. So I can get some sleep.

  And he would quit tomorrow.

  And how many times have I told myself that?

  Nick rolled onto his side and tried thinking of other things.

  Roxie Michaelson.

  An especially vigorous second rendezvous with her would probably put him right to sleep … but then I’d just be substituting women for booze. He knew how it worked; his addiction, now tamped down, would be looking for a new outlet. Like an open wound, the bleeding would find a way around whatever he tried to stanch it with until it healed. But alcoholism can’t be healed, can it? The people at the A.A. meeting had talked about that a lot; they were still alcoholics, even if they hadn’t touched a drop in years. Is this what the rest of my life looks like - lying in bed, unable to sleep, thinking of sex and booze?