Page 7 of Angel

“What do you do for work, Angel?” It has to be something with his hands. Please let it be something with his hands.

“Construction worker.”

Swoon. Can a guy be more perfect? If only he were gay. I’d also take bi or pan—I’m not picky. But that’s beyond unlikely. Angel pings negative on my always-reliable gaydar.

“How about you?”

Uh…

Angel’s expression is one of genuine curiosity, like he really wants to know and isn’t just asking to be polite. Whenever people in the old neighborhood ask me that question, I usually tell them I’m a chorus dancer in some Off-Off-Broadway shows. It’s enough to satisfy them and shut them up.

Except I don’t want to give Angel a brush-off like that. I want to tell him the truth. Ha—that’s not something I would’ve thought was possible in the old neighborhood. But then, I totally didn’t expect to encounter Angel either—not like this.

“Are you sure you want to know?” I have to prepare the guy. It’s the kind thing to do. “Fair warning. It’s gay.”

Angel blinks like the word doesn’t mean anything to him. Then a series of emotions play over his features like there’s a projector connecting his brain to his face. Confusion, understanding, shock, fear, worry, resolution. It takes no more than a couple seconds, but I feel like I’ve watched a full-length movie.

“I can handle gay,” he says, with a tad more determination than necessary, almost like he’s trying to convince himself it’s true.

I hesitate. The last thing I want is to chase the guy away with my super not-straight career choices.

Wait. What? Why do I care if I chase him away? It’s not like we’re friends or anything. I probably won’t see him again for another couple years, and even then, only in passing. If he reacts badly, I never have to interact with him again. I’ll just zip out of the house, Mom’s cake be damned.

I straighten. “I’m a dancer.”

He brightens like he’s pleasantly surprised.

“You know, a dancer.” I lace the word with enough innuendo that it’s unmistakable what I mean.

His entire thought process flashes across his face again, and I can tell the instant understanding dawns.

“You’re a…” He swallows like he’s psyching himself up to say the next word. “A stripper?” he stage-whispers to me, as if there’s anyone else in the room who might overhear us.

Oh, my sweet, sweet Angel-bear. His ears are so red, I might burn my fingers if I touch them. His eyes are wide and his jaw hangs open. For a moment I’m afraid I might have shocked him to death.

I take pity on him. “Well, not exactly. I’m a pole dancer, which sometimes involves stripping, but not always.”

“Pole dancing.”

I don’t know whether I want to cringe or laugh. I definitely want to pull the guy into a hug, but something tells me that would make things worse.

“Yeah, you know, metal pole that goes from floor to ceiling? I spin around it?” I twirl a finger in a circle to help paint the picture.

His eyes go a little unfocused. He’s probably trying to imagine me wrapped around a pole. When he speaks, there’s so much awe and wonder in his voice that it takes my breath away. “You know how to do that?”

I nod. “Mmhmm.”

My hand goes to my phone before I can think better of it. Should I? No, I shouldn’t. Talking about being a pole dancer is one thing. Angel might be okay with it as a concept. But seeing it? With my sparkly thong and platform boots? With my legs spread wide in midair? It might push the poor guy too far.

And yet, I hold up my phone. “Wanna see?”

His eyes grow even wider. “You have pictures?”

I quirk my lips as I unlock my phone. “A video.”

His gaze drops to the screen of my phone, and I rearrange myself so we’re sitting side by side. He scoots in close enough for his leg to press against mine.

Mmm. So thick. So muscular. I bet he could crush me so good with those thighs.

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