by K. S. Adkins
I look at my phone and realize Peaches is late.
“She’s late,” I say, before dialing her number. “She’s never late.” When I get voicemail, I leave a message for her to call me back.
“So what’s the plan?”
“I need to make another call,” I say, dialing Baby. He continues to knead my tits, and it’s damn near impossible to hold the phone.
“Kharma, girl how you been?” she says picking up on the third ring.
“Solid, Baby. Listen, you hear from Peaches?” I ask, trying to focus on the phone conversation and not Rogan’s fingers pinching my nipples.
“Girl, she ditched out on me Friday, and I ain’t heard from her since. I’ve been worried. I was gonna talk to you about her tomorrow,” she replies.
“She ditched out on me today, too,” I admit.
“She didn’t come to the club Friday, neither? She said she was comin’ to see you. Heard you got busted. That’s some shit,” she says.
“I didn’t see her. She could have come when I was at the station, though. You hear from her, you let me know, and I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” I say.
“Weird shit’s been goin’ on. Girls are goin’ missin’. Heard you hit up on Darnell, but we need to talk. Bitch to bitch, you know,” she says.
“Yeah, I know. Watch your back, and try to stay off the streets,” I tell her. “We’ll talk tomorrow, and I’ll come up with something.”
She agrees, and then we disconnect. My gut is knotting up. This isn’t good. Hookers may be of the gypsy mentality, but this was important to Peaches. We aren’t friends, but I do worry about her. Her not calling me has me concerned. But her ditching out on Baby? Something’s wrong.
“What’d she say?” Rogan asks, bringing me back from my musings.
“She hasn’t heard from her since last week.”
“Is that normal?”
“No. They’re tight,” I say. “She would have told Baby, me, or Darnell.”
“What’s your gut telling you?”
“Fuck if I know, but it’s screaming at me.” I sigh. “Something’s wrong, I just don’t know what yet. You wanna come with me tomorrow to meet up with Baby?”
“Yeah. I got your back, remember?
“You hungry?”
“I could eat,” he says, with a grin on his face.
“What sounds good?” I ask, realizing too late what I just asked, and what I knew his answer would be.
“Taking you to my place.” Now I’m hungry as well, but not for food.
“Your place, then.” I smile while he leans over and tightens my belt.
“Safety first,” he says, kissing me. “I got precious cargo.”
Rogan lives about two miles from Russell, which is about a mile from me. I like knowing that he’s close to me, you know, in case I need him for anything. I notice that the traditional two story brick is in good shape when we pull up. There are no flowers or bushes, but I didn’t really expect him to have them. He opens the door for me, and once I let my eyes adjust, I take in his space.
The basics are here: couch, flat screen TV, dining table, and a clock on the wall. Not much of a personal touch, but he’s a pretty private guy. I follow him into the kitchen and sit down at the table. Rogan then proceeds to make me the biggest ham sandwich I have ever seen. He adds a pickle spear on the side, hands me a napkin, and asks me if I want a beer. I tell him that I don’t drink, so we settle for water.
We eat and make small talk, and then he takes me to see the rest of the house. I particularly liked the bedroom, because it has the biggest bed I’ve ever seen.
“Hey I have to make a call to Rafe, so why don’t we go downstairs to chill,” says Rogan, and we make our way back downstairs.
After his phone call is finished, I’m all set to ask Rogan all about his life and what made him become a cop when my phone starts to buzz and chime in my pocket. I try to ignore it, but he’s not going to let me.
“You gonna answer that?” Rogan says, staring at me intently.
“Hadn’t planned on it, no,” I answer, not looking him in the eye.
“Could be Peaches,” he says, and I feel like shit because he’s right, and I hadn’t thought about that.
Looking down at my screen, I’m depressed to see that it’s not Peaches, but Tony. I decide to tuck it back in when Rogan gives me a look.
“Who is it?” he demands, having seen the look on my face.
“Tony.”
“What’s he want?” he asks with disgust. Yeah, like I asked him to blow up my phone.
“I don’t know, considering I didn’t answer,” I reply sarcastically
“What does he want, Venessa?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. I can tell he’s getting angry. I’m not avoiding anything, it’s just that I don’t care about what he wants. He’s interrupting my time with Rogan, and I want to forget Tony exists.
“He said to call. Then he said to come by the club.”
“Call him back,” he snaps, getting angrier with me.
“Alright, fine,”
“Put it on speaker,” he growls menacingly
I give him my best dirty look, but do as he says, only because I don’t want Tony between us. He picks up on the first ring.
“Baby, you’re really making me work for this, aren’t you?” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Don’t call me baby,” I snap. “What do you want, Tony?”
“Well, now, that’s a loaded question,” he says, openly laughing now.
Rogan’s glaring daggers and me, and I don’t like it. Last week men weren’t even on my radar and now I’ve got two of them whipping their dicks out and slapping me with ‘em, and it’s exhausting.
“You have three seconds before I hang up.”
“I want to see you,” he says hastily. “I thought we could go grab dinner.”
“I can’t Tony. I’m busy.”
“Can’t, or won’t?” he demands, getting angry.
“Both.”
“Bullshit,” he snaps. Taking a big breath he says, “But like I said, I can be patient, for now. That is, unless you want me to come by your place?”
Before I can respond, or better yet hang up, Rogan white knuckles the cushions, going full on red in the face. “She said no, Gallo,” he growls into the phone. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Oh, it’s you,” he says, oblivious to the tension in the conversation. “Keeping my girl safe, then?”
“It’s what you’re paying me for,” he answers back sharply.
“Indeed. That being said, I remember your job description clearly being protecting her, and leaving the rest to us. So, the next time I fucking call to talk to her, I suggest you do not put her phone on speaker, or you’ll find yourself unemployed, and I will fucking protect her myself,” he yells and disconnects. Rogan throws my phone at the wall; it bounces off and lands next to the fireplace. God bless the Otter box.
He invades my space, breathing heavily. His fists are clenching, and the aggression is working me up. I don’t like that he’s holding back. I reach out, but he stops me. I definitely don’t like that. Rogan covers the sides of my face with his hands and looks ready to stroke out. My hands wander to their favorite spot, and he straight up growls at me. He leans over me, but keeps the weight off of me, and so I open my legs to pull him closer.
“He touches you, I’ll fucking kill him,” he snarls.
“He touches me, I’ll fucking kill him.”
“Take your hair down,” he tells me. No, demands me.
“Take it down for me,” I say and he does, very carefully, as not to pull my hair. Looking down at us, then back up to me, he looks thoughtful. He looks younger like this, I decide I like this look too.
“I fit here. Me,” he states.
“You do,” I agree with a smile.
“I fit here, too,” he says, moving to lie on his side with my back to his front.
“It’s a perfect fit,” I murmur, and it is.<
br />
With him running his hands all over me, I take my shirt off and even manage to remove my sports bra, which is no easy task. Happy to let him explore, my eyes get heavy, his soothing hands making me sleepy. He’s tracing the wings on my shoulders and it feels fucking amazing. I love the roughness of his hands. Man hands. Hands of a killer, if necessary, the hands of a gentle giant, if he’s with me. He moves all of my hair to my right shoulder, and starts kissing my wings. I close my eyes to fight the emotion.
“The wings of an angel,” he whispers against my skin.
“Broken wings,” I say quietly.
“Tell me.”
“I’m still trying to figure out who I am, but I do know I’m not what I was.”
“And who were you?”
“An angel,” I sigh, with grief. “That’s what my dad called me, then.”
“You’re still an angel,” he tells me. “You’re my angel.” He continues kissing my wings and touching me. As much as I want to tell him that he’s wrong, I don’t want to ruin the moment. He’ll figure it out sooner or later. For now, I’d like to hold onto him for as long as I can.
He wakes me sometime later, and we order carry out, taking it to my place. We’re both quiet when we get to my place, and I realize how tired I am. While we eat, he turns on “Angel” by Massive Attack, and I want to bare some part of my soul to him. I love this song, so I close my eyes to listen. When the song is half way through, I open my eyes to see Rogan watching me. His eyes are heated, and he’s struggling to stay seated.
Opening my arms, he comes to me, and puts me on his lap, with us facing each other. Touching his face I get lost in it. We speak to each other without words. The next track starts, but I don’t hear it. Music filling my ears is as close to therapy as I’m going to get. But being with Rogan is the closest to heaven I’ll ever get, and I know it.
“You’re tired,” he says, telling me and not asking.
“Yeah,” I say on a sigh. “Will you stay with me?”
“I’m not leaving ‘til you tell me to go,” he says with a gentle smile.
I smile at that, and he carries me to my bedroom and puts me into bed. He undresses me with care and makes no effort to rile me up. I’m so tired, I actually appreciate it. He softly kisses me and covers me up with the comforter. He tells me he’s going to listen to more music before coming to bed, and I nod in understanding. I fall asleep feeling safe and warm knowing he’ll come back to me when he’s ready.
She’s out cold. Angel needs her rest – and she is my Angel, too – broken or not. I walk into the main room and look over her stereo system. She really loves, needs, her music. There are speakers in every room, including the bathroom. I recognize a few, but most are beyond me. Rafe would know a lot of this stuff. Then again, he likes going out, too. Odd fucker.
I hit a button, and a haunting voice comes on and a woman sings of lost love and dying. Next. Another female starts singing about prostitution? Next. This one’s a duet. They’re both fucking miserable. Next-next-next.
Some guy screaming has me shutting the damn thing down. Jesus, she has an eclectic taste in music.
I make a quick call to Rafe, and ask him to be on the lookout for Peaches, and after a few minutes of yelling about being a babysitter, he agrees. I call the Captain to let him know that Gallo is going to be a problem, and that he has too much interest in my girl. The Cap agrees to not let her out of my sight.
Sitting there in the dark, I start to doze off, but jump awake when I hear guitar. I decide to get up and investigate.
I lean into the doorway of the guest bedroom and watch my Angel, with her eyes closed, playing her old guitar, readying herself to sing a song I’m not sure I’m meant to hear. She’s so into it, I have to wonder if she’s sleep walking.
Either way, I ain’t leavin’. When she starts to sing, my heart expands then breaks at the same time.
The song is fucking sad. It’s about seeing each other with no bullshit, it’s about freeing each other and not even realizing you were frozen inside until that one person shows up to bring you home.
She keeps singing: not too loud, not too soft. She sings about being brought back to life. Feeling dead, then waking up. She’s singing about being saved, staying out of the dark, and finding peace. I get it, I get all of it.
I stand there, stunned. She doesn’t just need music. Music speaks for her. Through her. She’s singing about us.
About me. She doesn’t have to ask me. I’m here. I’ll gladly save her. She brought me to life just by holding my hand. There was no life before her; just these few days I’ve had with her so far convinced me that there is no future worth living without her, either. My entire life was darkness before her. One touch by this female, and I was done for. I never wanted pussy, never went looking for it, didn’t need the hassle. Me and her? It’s not about pussy, it’s about peace. We do that for each other. We bring each other peace.
For me, though, there will never be a woman or pussy more righteous than what I’m staring at right now.
I feel Rogan’s eyes on me, and it’s a comfort. I’m not embarrassed to play for him. I can be very verbal when I need to be, but when it comes to matters of the heart, turns out I’m a chicken shit. I woke up scared that he wasn’t next to me, but when I saw him asleep on my couch, I was able to relax again. Sleep was eluding me, so I decided to play my guitar instead. On the really rough nights, I go to town on my drums.
I end my piece looking him in the eyes. He looks…determined? He walks over to me, and occupies the chair next to mine. He fills a room with no effort. The fact that he fills mine brings me peace. Sitting there in those tight camouflage boxer briefs isn’t hurting either. He looks like he wants to talk, and I cock my head inquisitively to see what he had to say.
“You write that?” he asks me.
“No,” I say. “Amy Lee did.”
“You write any songs?”
“No.” I sigh. “I leave that to the pros.”
“Your voice calms me.”
“Well your presence calms me.” I smile.
“You tired?”
“I am,” I say on a big yawn.
“Let’s crash, then.” He extends his hand to help me up.
“Thanks for listening to me.”
He leans down to kiss me and then hugs me hard.
“I’d do anything for you,” he promises softly, leading me back to bed.
Even after he’s asleep, I can’t stop touching him, because I was telling the truth when I said his presence calmed me. Everything about him calms me. I’m not sure when I went from wanting him to needing him, but I have and I do, and I’d do anything for him, too. That promise comforts me while I drift back to sleep.
“Venessa.”
“Venessa.”
“Venessa!”
Wake up, god dammit! I scream in my head. She’s having a nightmare, or night terror, whatever the fuck it is. I woke up with a busted lip and a hysterical female. It’s not the thrashing, or the clawing, or even the martial arts she manages in her sleep, it’s her screams that I can’t take. Sitting here so she can ride it out is fucking torture. Can’t my Angel ever get any peace? Fuck, she doesn’t deserve this.
Asking for death is one thing, which is what she’s currently doing. Listening to the woman that holds your heart in her hands beg for it is another. I can’t take this anymore. I shake her, and yell her name. She isn’t responding and I’m desperate. I pull her over and turn her into my lap so we’re facing each other. I try holding her still but she ain’t having it. Holding her arms down sends her into a fucking tailspin, so I do the only other thing I can think of.
I touch her breasts with both hands and beg her to open her eyes. She might kill me for doing this, but at least she’ll be awake when she does. I squeeze them harder, and she starts to whimper my name. I run one hand down her stomach and spread her legs open. She fights me at first, but I think she recognizes my touch, even in sleep.
She’s saying
my name over and over, begging me to make her better. I bury my face in her neck letting my hands wander. Feeling her relax somewhat, I rub my beard back and forth over her skin. When she sighs, I take it a step further. Taking my hand I slide it down to rub her lips, noticing she’s wet for me. Jesus. Wanting to go further, but knowing to stop, I stop begging and command her to open her eyes. When she does, it takes her a full minute for her to register where she’s at and what’s happened. I haven’t stopped touching her; I’ve just slowed the pace. She turns her head to look back at me but then she freezes up.
She’s staring at me in horror – pure fucking horror. What the fuck was I thinking, putting my hands on her when she was asleep? Fuck. I would never abuse her trust like that. I fucking know better. I just thought… Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Venessa” I say “I'm—“Covering her mouth, she starts screaming. She stares me right in the eyes, and screams her fucking head off. I try to move her hands back but she’s pure stone. She’s screaming so loudly her voice is cracking. Shit, I should fucking leave here and never bring my sorry ass back. She needs a professional, not me. Then, like a switch she turns it off and there’s no emotion. She’s just staring at me, face blank. This is worse than the screaming.
“Say it and I’ll leave,” I tell her. “I shouldn’t have touched you while you were sleeping. I didn’t know what else to do.”
She saying something but I can’t hear. I lean in to hear her when she touches my face and then brings her hands into her lap and opens them. There’s blood staining them; my blood. Wait. I’m bleeding? Fuck! My busted lip.
“I’m no good for you,” she says into her hands. “I’m broken.”
“Bullshit,” I growl. “Fuck that. You. I want you.”
She takes a break from staring into her hands to look up at me.
“Listen to me,” I demand. “You are my god damn Angel. Mine. I’m not giving you back, ever.” She looks back at her hands and I don’t like it.
“I hurt you,” she says quietly. “I made you bleed.”
“I do more damage shaving,” I say. “Hence the beard.”
She gives me a small smile. It’s a small victory but I take it. “Rogan?”
