Page 11 of Angel

My cheek is on fire.

It only lasted a second, but I can still feel the soft press of his lips. I can still smell the whiff of his cologne—or is it perfume? I breathe deep, dragging in any lingering trace of it.

I glance at my phone. The screen is still on, showing a new text message thread. But the contact name doesn’t say Ricky. It says Rhys Rawlings.

By the time I get downstairs, he’s gone, and no one seems to have noticed him leave.

Later that night, after I’ve said goodnight to Mama, my sister Sabrina, and her infant son Jonah, I head upstairs to our duplex’s second apartment. I moved up here after I got my construction job and started earning enough to cover the extra rent Mama charged the other tenants.

For a while, it was just the two of us—Mama downstairs in the apartment me and Sabrina grew up in, and me upstairs by myself. Three months ago, Sabrina moved back in with her newborn son after her douchebag boyfriend walked out on them. And now we have a screaming baby in the house.

I love my nephew, I really do. The kid is cute as heck when he’s quiet. But look at him the wrong way and he’ll burst your eardrums. The little dude’s got lungs like an opera singer, and he seems to think the middle of the night is the perfect time to exercise his vocal cords. When he’s wailing, it sounds like he’s right next to my bed in the upstairs apartment.

We’re all suffering.

Upstairs, I kick off my shoes and drop onto the couch, head falling back to stare up at the ceiling. If I was smart, I’d try to get some sleep now, when it’s still quiet. But my mind is still racing from my conversation with Ricky earlier.

Maybe I hallucinated the whole thing. Following Ricky upstairs, sitting on that frilly, pink bed, accidentally seeing the sex video, asking insane questions about gay porn. There’s no way any of that was real, right?

And yet, my cheek is still warm from the kiss Ricky—or maybe Rhys—planted on me. My hand floats up to the spot. It doesn’t feel any different under my fingertips. There’s no cut or burn or anything. But the ghost of that kiss lingers, a very real wisp that I can’t quite grasp.

I sit up and shake my head. What am I doing? Why am I still thinking about Ricky? He left before the party ended and he won’t be back in the neighborhood for months, if not years. I won’t see him, won’t talk to him, won’t have anything to do with him, maybe forever. That conversation was a onetime freak accident.

Heck, maybe I was possessed or something because I definitely wasn’t acting like myself. I don’t go out of my way to chat with people I’m not close to. I don’t talk about naughty things like stripping and porn. I definitely have no desire to actually do porn myself—gay or straight.

Except, maybe I’m still possessed, because suddenly I’m opening my laptop and searching for Ricky Gallo.

There’s an old, defunct Facebook profile with mentions of our high school. But that’s it. No other social media accounts. No clues pointing to what he’s doing with his life now. It’s like Ricky Gallo fell off the face of the planet after he turned eighteen.

I should stop. I should close my laptop and go to bed. I did the search and didn’t find anything. There’s no point in continuing. Nothing good can come of this.

I type in Rhys Rawlings. And strike gold.

Not only is there an Instagram account, but there’s also a website called The Camboy Network, another website for a nightclub called The Bronzed Rail, and even a Wikipedia page. Ricky has his own Wikipedia page?! Jeez.

I’m a little afraid to click on any of the links. They feel like doors I won’t be able to close after they’re open. I won’t be able to unsee things, unknow things. Just like I can’t unsee that video or unknow what Ricky looks like naked.

But there’s a tiny, minuscule, microscopic part of me that maybe, kinda, sorta wants to?

I take a breath and squeeze my eyes shut. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.

My finger presses down on the trackpad with a distinctive click. Oh no.

I peek, just one eye at first. I squeeze it shut again. There are pictures… pictures with a lot of skin… way more skin than I’m usually comfortable with. And yet…

I squint at the screen, as if it’s too much to look at directly. Air rushes out of my lungs and my eyes fly open as if the photos have punched me in the gut. I struggle to breathe, but the clear and unobstructed view isn’t doing anything to lower my heart rate or settle the churning in my stomach.

Dear lord. The pictures. Ricky—or Rhys—isn’t entirely naked in any of them, but he’s not wearing much. Sometimes only a scrap of fabric that passes for underwear. Sometimes one of those corset things or a crop top.

Sometimes he’s wrapped around a pole, legs spread wide, with dangerous-looking boots on his feet. Sometimes he’s with another guy, or several other guys. They’re all wearing just as little as he is, piled on top of one another. Hugging. Touching.

My gaze zeroes in on the places where skin meets skin. Thighs. Arms. Chests. Backs. Acres of skin that looks so soft and supple.

My eyes flick up to his face. His eyes are dark and sultry, outlined in makeup. His lips hold just a hint of a smile. His hair falls in waves over his shoulders. It’s purple, red, blue, pink, green, orange, a different color in every picture.

I can’t help staring at the angle of his jaw or the length of his neck. There’s something so…

I try to draw in a strangled breath. Oh god, what’s happening to me? My chest feels like it’s about to explode.

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