Fallen Angel by K. S. Thomas

he’s hungry.
    “Good. I’m glad you’re getting out of the house.”
    She nods and turns to leave, then stops in the doorway. “I know I don’t need to clarify this, but the extent of physical contact you’re allowed to offer Angel when you go to see him is a fucking hug.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Don’t give me that. You’re wearing lip gloss and heels. I know you’re going to make a detour while you’re out even though you know how I feel about you crossing paths with Moe-lester by accident. More importantly, I saw how your little face lit up when Angel tugged you down into his lap the other morning. I know how you feel about him. And I know you. You’ll do whatever you can to make him feel better while he’s busy trying to convince himself he’s not like his shit father. I just don’t want either of you to get hurt in the process. This is Angel. His ideas about physical affection and yours are vastly different. And I don’t want him doing something in the midst of his down spiral you’ll both regret later. So, just, hug. Okay? That’s it. ‘Above the clothes’ hugs.”
    I’d be offended if I hadn’t done so much over the last few years to earn that speech.
    “Hugs. I got it. Because anything more would mean nothing to him and everything to me. Thanks for pointing that out. It’s not completely heart crushing or anything.”
    She reaches over and flicks me in the forehead. “It’s all out of love, Addy.” Someday I’d like to live in a world where love isn’t always related to some sort of pain, physical or otherwise. Of course, if it was, I probably wouldn’t recognize it as such.
    “I know it is,” I mutter as she leaves for real this time.
    Since I no longer have to come up with a story as to why I magically wound up heading to Angel’s house while I was out, I go straight to the sushi place I know he likes and then cruise over to his house. Derek’s car is absent again when I arrive and I’m starting to wonder if Angel was wrong about Sammy and Derek being done for good.
    I knock on the door multiple times, but I don’t bother with the doorbell. Thing’s not hooked up anyway. Angel has some inexplicable aversion to the sound of it. When I’m still standing outside in the heat with my raw fish goods five minutes later, I reach for the knob and try it. The lack of security around here is shocking when one considers the reality of stalkers and crazy sperm donors running rampant around these parts. In other words, the door is unlocked and I let myself in without so much as a home security buzzer beeping to announce the open door.
    Inside, everything is pretty damn dark and depressing and I’m thinking Ava wasn’t wrong about her comment regarding Angel and his down spiraling. I’d hoped she was misinterpreting boredom over being pretty much on lockdown until the media mess simmers down as something deeper, but judging by the drawn curtains and the limited use he’s making off electricity around here, he’s already forgotten all the excellent points I made during our last little chat. The man needs me. Clearly.
    I’m about to call his name when I hear music. Drums to be more specific. And maybe it’s not music at all. Maybe he’s just beating the shit out of them. I set the bag of food down on the table in the hall and head up the stairs to his bedroom.
    He’s completely caught up in the rhythm he’s pounding away at. He doesn’t even notice I’m there. It’s not until he repeatedly slams the sticks into the same spot, making me seriously concerned he may start breaking things, that I step into his path and take hold of his hands, forcing him to stop.
    Startled, he stares up at me. “I didn’t hear you.”
    “I know.” Still holding onto him with one hand, I use the other to free the drumsticks from his grasp. The palms of his hands are red and he’s got creases burrowed into his fingers, some where the skin is broken from where he was