Page 26 of Eyes Like Angel
Thankfully, my sweat hasn’t broke on my brow. The urge on leaving them had on thrown crazy over the edge, not knowing how long it’s going to take. Like I’ve been set up for a torturous interview, only get rejected at the end, like reaching at the finish line but no restitution involved, like a baseless substance on being meaningless in a forsaken hour.
As disappointing or spiraling at these mind-gaming scenarios I’m in, I better jet before it becomes a worse scenario running in my head. I refused to eye on the onlookers leering at me.
Hence, I cleared my throat, in an awkward reaction, but hid with a pleasant smile, eyes averting without being obvious.
“Sorry, I’ve got somewhere else to go,” I announced, beckoning the parking spot with my motorcycle keys, dangling with a ring. “Do you mind?”
Sensation overwhelmed me when Dad’s delighted expression dimmed in his eyes and squinted as Mom’s glare sharpened, her long latched and scratched against the champagne glass.
“Oh, of course, Adrian,” Mr. Curtis chirped. “Not at all.”
Mrs. Curtis solemnly agreed.
Huffing, I was thankful for once a visitor was not pressuring me to the max.
“What, in that ridiculous getup, Adrian?” Dad questioned, sounded more like an interrogation to a set up an unfunny comedic joke, ridiculously scoffing while smoking out on his thick—and pricey—cigar he recently got from Europe. “I hardly believe anyone would take you seriously. Besides,” Dad faced his visitors, “Adrian might learn a thing or two on how to dress accordingly instead of acting like a poor thug,” he said to the Curtis couple, pretending like I was invisible. “I thought you’d be better than that.”
Mr. and Mrs. Curtis cracked up like donkeys honking and heaving in screechy noises when being put into cage, like those crying donkeys from Disney’sPinocchio.
“My dear husband, that’s what he does best,” Mom projected sourly. “Anyone who look andacts—” she emphasized, beckoning her body at me by leaning onward—“like an ugly,viciousthug would never get anything or go far in life.”
All three guffawed louder, except for Mom, who had a sneering outlook in her dim-lit hundred yard glare.
My fingernails dug in.
I could sell them for money at the black market, too. I don’t mind ripping their bodies while well aware and awake under my red hands, with a help of Saul and his illegal methods in the underground, methods are vile and disgusting where the dying puke and strangled in their last breath as we rip them open.
And pull Mom’s hideous hair extensions and watch her break by a flight of stairs as I throw her, that I could only dream. For now.
“I’m heading out,” I recapped, dignified.
“Losingas always, like you don’t even want to admit you’re defeat once you’re in a corner. Always finding a reason and pardon to your benefit, it’s fuckingpathetic,” my mom muttered, more like hissing under her alcoholic breath.
No one heard of Mom’s long expressed on herdotingnature; Mr. and Mrs. Curtis were too giddy and over the clouds on this little chat. And Dad is…Dad. Apathetic and listless to his favorite cigar he took a swig on and a thick newspaper folded and tucked under his armpit—and utterly despised Mom’s hair extensions.
“Oh, you do? I was actually looking forward to seeing and having a conversation with you about something,” Mrs. Curtis’s brows furrowed, cooing and staring at me with sad puppy eyes.
“Yes, very important,” Mr. Curtis supported, in a happy sell-pitched tone. “I think you’d like the idea.”
My initial approach was to dig and bury myself in the ground. This wasn’t it. I was supposed to be heading out, heading to my plans smoothly, not desiring to be cooped up in the household, only to be their ferocious tiger in a red-and-white striped circus. Getting whiplash was the last thing I needed.
After all, business meetings weren’t really my thing.
“But it’s very nice to meet you, young man,” Mr. Curtis outstretched his palm for a handshake.
I took his open hand, but it only lasted under five seconds—I counted.
“Bye, sir,” I said, in my gritted teeth.
In the corner of my eye, Mom rolled her eyes in a most dramatic way as she can be. As she always did. If the guests weren’t present, she’d yell in my ears in an early morning.
No one wants to be here with a nagging bitch around. Oh, right. It’s only me.
“Likewise, son,” Mr. Curtis said while Mrs. Curtis implied with, “You, too, dear.”
Son? Dear? God, I thought watching a two-hour rom-com film was awful. At this point, I’d rather take a swig while watching a cringed films and shows as partaking in a drinking game. Having a destroyed liver and having a surgery was more tolerable than this crap.
God, it also felt like I was stuck in a time loop inside a musical film, being forced to sing at the most dramatic lyrics.
