Page 15 of Watch Me Turn
It's as if they belong there.
I barely notice that I've started to rub them, pushing the pads of my thumbs into his unnervingly soft skin and unknotting some of the built-up tension of the last few days. I used to do this for my mom when she'd spent all day at the convenience store on her feet. After a long shift she'd come to me with her hand pushed into the small of her back and groan until I promised to rub them.
Eventually I got smart enough to charge for my services. She never complained. I think she secretly admired the moxie and always handed over two hard-earned dollar bills when I was done.
"What was it like growing up so rich?" I ask.
Angel doesn't meet my eyes, like he's weighing his words before replying. "It was...difficult." I open my mouth to speak, but he hastily adds, "I know how that sounds, but it's the truth."
"How so?" I ask, flexing his toes back gently.
"I used to get driven to school in a bulletproof car by two armed men who watched me from behind tinted glass at recess. Not exactly an invitation for friendship." He pauses, watching my hands work. "Every now and then a new kid would show interest. I'd think maybe this time it was real, so I'd invite him over to play. Then he'd show up and just want to mess with my stuff. Or want the rich kid at his birthday party with expensive gifts. I'd go full of hope, and they'd dump me right after they got what they wanted."
"I'll be honest, that doesn't sound like much compared to growing up in poverty," I say. I lean back against the thick, grey couch cushions. "I once knew a kid who would come to school without lunch in dirty clothes. The teachers even had to feed him one time because his meth-head mom had gone on a three-day bender and forgotten about him."
His voice rises an octave. "Okay, well how about this? I grew up never seeing my parents except for when my father summoned me to give me a life lesson or tell me what a disappointment I was. I was raised by nannies and teachers and strangers. My mother was emotionally distant and used credit cards and cocaine to numb the pain of her own miserable existence. My father used cruelty and extravagance as currency, and believe me, he was a big spender."
Fine. He's got me there.
"What kind of cruelty?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "You don't want to know."
"I do."
He hesitates, but I press a spot under his third toe, and his whole body relaxes. "There was plenty. Always these so-called lessons to teach me how to be a man. He never did this kind of stuff to my sisters, only me. When I was nine, he invited me into his office and made me smoke a cigar and drink tequila until I threw up. Another time he hauled me out of bed at three a.m. and forced me to count stacks of money in front of him so I could understand 'where my privilege came from.' I was so tired I kept messing up, and every time I lost count, he'd slap me across the face and make me start over."
He pauses, swallows hard. "One time he even?—"
He stops himself, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Go on," I murmur. "It's okay."
He takes a deep breath, wincing at the memory. "Right after my thirteenth birthday, he decided to bring me to 'work.' My mom tried to stop him, but he wouldn't listen. Told her to stay out of it. Said it was time I learned the business." His jaw tightens. "I was scared—I knew enough about what he did to be afraid—but I was also excited to spend time with him. I thought that maybe if I could just do what I was told, prove myself somehow, maybe I could make him proud. Maybe he'd finally..." He trails off and shakes his head. "Anyway, it doesn't matter."
"What happened?" I ask, but I'm already scared of the answer.
But he's already pulling back. His jaw sets. He shifts awkwardly on the couch, like he’s trying to put distance between us.
"That's enough," he says, avoiding my eyes. He straightens up and gestures vaguely at his feet. "You done?"
"No." I don't release his foot. I keep my hand wrapped around his ankle, like I’m afraid he’ll drift away if I let go. "We're not done."
"I think we are." His voice is flat. The shutters have come down. The softness behind his eyes is gone.
"Angel—"
"There are parts of me, Sophia, that no one will ever know." He's looking past me now, into the distance. "Parts that are too shameful. Too dark. I wouldn't want anyone to see me like that." His eyes flicker to mine for just a second. "Especially you."
I smile. "You think a little shame is going to scare me off?"
"I think some things are better left buried."
"Is that what your father taught you?"
His jaw tightens. "Don't."
I shake my head. "Angel, I'm a sixty-five-year-old vampire who's seen some shit. You really think you're going to tell me something that'll make me think less of you?"
