Page 2 of Angel

“Dina! Ricky’s here!”

I’m shuffled along with random hands picking at my clothes, my hair, my cheeks. Arms pulling me into hugs and heavy slaps on the back.

Listen, I’m a pretty tactile person. I’m used to people getting handsy with me—I have to be, considering I’m a camboy and I moonlight as a pole dancer at a nightclub. But I don’t get a quarter of this attention when I’m strutting around in my g-string at The Bronzed Rail.

By the time they spit me out on the other side of the living room, I need a minute to put myself back together.

Mom’s in the kitchen, directing an army of neighborhood women. She turns when I stumble in and marches over to me.

“Did you eat yet?” she asks, as she pulls me into a short, but bone-crushing hug.

“Not yet,” I manage to choke out.

“There’s food in the backyard.” Then she pulls back, holding me at arm’s length, and I can feel her laser-like gaze scanning me from head to toe.

She narrows her eyes. “What did you do to your hair?”

I reach up to pat the messy bun that took me half an hour to get just right. It’s probably actually messy now, rather than merely artfully tousled. “What about it?”

She plants her hands on her hips. “It’s purple.”

“Just barely,” I mutter. It’s a very dark purple. Dark enough that if you don’t look too closely, it could pass as my natural black. She’s lucky I didn’t come with the bright pink I had last week.

Mom shakes her head disapprovingly. “Dyeing your hair will make it fall out faster.”

Not the first time she’s said that to me. Apparently, it’s a little-known science fact that only applies to me. It certainly doesn’t apply to her, since she’s been dyeing her hair for decades to cover the gray, and yet, she still has a full head of the stuff. It also doesn’t apply to Dad, who’s never dyed his hair because, well, he doesn’t have any.

“Okay, Mom. Sure.” There’s no point in arguing with her. Grin and bear it, remember?

She gives my shirt a skeptical look, and I brace myself for whatever disapproving comment she’s about to throw at me next. But surprisingly, she just nods toward the back door. “Dad’s out there. Go wish him a happy birthday.”

She dismisses me then, turning back to her army of cooks. I slip out with a sigh.

One down, one to go.

It’s not hard to find Dad in the backyard. His voice booms over the din of conversation as he holds court. I recognize the story he’s telling. It’s the one about him “being kidnapped” when he was a kid. Spoiler alert: he wasn’t kidnapped. He wandered away from the playground and none of the adults noticed he was missing until hours later when a police officer brought him home.

But his hands are waving in the air and his facial expressions are more animated than the characters on a children’s TV show. His audience is rapt, listening to him like he’s a king sitting on a throne rather than an attention hog sitting on a lawn chair. Dad’s never happy unless all eyes are on him, so it looks like the party is going well.

And I guess I know where I get my performance tendencies from.

I wander to the drinks table to survey the meager offerings. Beer—Coors and Coors Light. None of that artsy microbrewery stuff my roommate, Hayden, likes to drink. A bowl of punch for the kids and… ah, there we go! Wine coolers to the rescue.

I crack open a can and wait for Dad to finish his story. I’ve heard it so many times, I could probably recite it word for word. “They had no idea! Can ya believe it?!”

“Yeah, I can believe it,” I mutter under my breath, then take a drink. I’m mid-swallow when an arm swings over my shoulders and drags me backward. Fruity alcohol goes spraying out of my mouth and a little goes up my nose. Ow.

“Oh shit, sorry, kiddo. You okay?” My super great, really amazing, totally-not-trying-to-kill-me big brother smacks me hard on the back.

I nod frantically. “Mmhmm, yep, all good,” I squeak.

Nico laughs. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t. I just…” I wave my hand around, dismissively. “Never mind.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d come today,” Nico says, voice lowered.

I shrug. “Mom didn’t give me much choice.”

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