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Just Call Me Angel . . .                                                                            Chapter   1   2   3   4   6    Home

 

 

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Chapter Five                                                                                 

 

As the one-month anniversary of their first real date approached, Xander decided they should do something special to mark the occasion. Their foray into the Guadalupes had been magical. Rather than trying to recreate the nature thing, Xander thought he'd go in a completely different direction.

As a country music aficionado, Rosie's had always been his roadhouse of choice, but they went there all the time. Mustang Sally's attracted a more rock 'n roll crowd, and he had never been there with Angel, so . . . why not? Sally's featured live bands on Friday and Saturday nights—and a cover charge. As a family man, Ry didn't have the extra money to put out, and Forrest and Graham were too cheap to pay to drink at Sally's when Rosie's was available, so they probably wouldn't run into anyone they knew.

Sounds like a plan! Xander thought.

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

Xander finished hanging the sheet of drywall and rolled his shoulders. He clasped his hands behind his back and gradually raised them to stretch out the muscles in his back and shoulders. He debated whether to take a break now, or to finish hanging the two sheets that would complete this section. He looked up and saw Angel heading for the water cooler. The drywall could wait! He slid his hammer into his tool belt and casually meandered in the direction of the cooler.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Xander lowered his voice, although there was no one near the cooler except him and Angel.

"Wanna do somethin' different tonight, big boy?" Xander wiggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.

Angel choked on the water he was drinking, simultaneously coughing and sputtering and trying not to laugh.

"Don't do that!" He swatted Xander with his hat. When he had regained his breath, Angel retaliated with a leer worthy of Jack Nicholson. "Wha'd'ya have in mind?"

"You'll see. You know where Mustang Sally's is?"

"I'll find it."

"Meet me in the parking lot at nine."

"It's a date."

"Yep. It sure is." With another eyebrow wiggle, Xander returned to his drywall, intentionally rolling his hips as he walked away, wearing a grin the size of Montana.

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

Xander pulled up to his mailbox before turning into his driveway. He pulled down the flap, and there it was! Among the envelopes that contained bills—because everyone he knew lived in Sunnydale and would have no reason to write to him—was a square, heavily padded brown envelope. He carefully slid it out of the mailbox, placed it on the seat, revved the engine as a tribute to his success, and pulled into the drive. He slung his tool belt over his shoulder, dumped the bills into his lunch box and slid out of the truck. His feet did a happy dance from the truck to his door.

Xander dumped his cooler and tool belt on the counter and carefully placed his prize on the kitchen table. He shut the door and rummaged around in the flatware drawer for a paring knife, pulled out a kitchen chair and sat.

He picked up his envelope and gazed at it for a long moment, thinking back to his childhood summers spent on Pawpaw's ranch.

His grandparents had been the most truly happy people he'd ever known, and it was their example that had formed his own optimistic approach to life. Pawpaw's favorite saying was "When the goin' gets tough, the tough get goin'." He'd sure had a lot of opportunities to put it into practice, trying to maintain a small, independent cattle ranch in the face of the big conglomerates intent on squeezing out the family ranches one by one.

Pawpaw worked hard, and every penny he made went back into the ranch. It seemed there was never enough to actually turn a profit, but Pawpaw spent every day of his life doing work he loved, working for himself and his family, and beholden to no one.

He'd ride in at dusk, looking like the Lone Ranger against the blazing sky, and when Xander was there, Pawpaw would always come to a stop in the yard, nudge Goldenrod with his heels, and the horse would rear. Goldenrod's forelegs would wave at Xander as he clapped with delight; Pawpaw would remove his hat, make a courtly bow to Meemaw, and for that instant, silhouetted against the sunset, he'd been larger than life.

Meemaw would wipe her hands on her apron, gather the sprigged cotton of her dress, and curtsy in return, as if she were being presented to the Queen of England. Goldenrod's forelegs would return to earth, Pawpaw would ride off to the barn to feed and curry and get Goldenrod settled for the night, and Meemaw would bustle around getting supper served as things returned to normal. But for that one shining moment out of time, the child that Xander had been was able to define everlasting love and know that he wanted it for himself some day.

Xander turned the package over and over in his hands, in no rush to open it, as he let the anticipation build.

After a hearty supper, Pawpaw and Xander would sit out on the veranda—Pawpaw with his pipe and coffee, Xander with his after-dinner glass of Kool-Aid—while Meemaw cleaned up the kitchen. Pawpaw would tell Xander stories of when he'd been a boy, or he'd tell about his own father riding the rails cross-country looking for work during the Great Depression, but Xander's favorites were stories about Pawpaw and Meemaw.

According to Pawpaw, the worn woman with work-roughened hands and faded calico dresses wasn't a human being at all: she was an angel come down from heaven for the sole purpose of enriching Pawpaw's life, and that made him the most blessed man on earth.

"Don't settle," he'd tell Xander as he puffed on his pipe. "Don't ever settle, boy. You wait for your own angel, an' then no matter what life throws atcha, it won't make a lick a' difference. Ever'body knows sorrow an' pain at sometime durin' their lives, but they'll never break ya if y' got your angel by your side."

After the food was put away and the kitchen tidied, Pawpaw and Meemaw would sit in the living room listening to the radio. Meemaw would select an article of clothing from the Mending Basket That Never Seemed To Empty. No matter how many socks or shirts she mended, there were always more to take their place, and she'd laugh and say, "Just call me Sisyphus." Xander never understood why she wanted to be called 'Sisyphus' when her name was Kathleen, although Pawpaw called her Kathy.

Some nights, when they weren't too tired, Pawpaw would put a stack of 45's on the record player and they'd dance; Pawpaw's warm, chocolate-brown eyes—just like Xander's—locked on her clear gray eyes as if they shared the same soul.

Xander picked up the paring knife and carefully slit the envelope, withdrawing a square covered in bubblewrap. He unwrapped the bubblewrap, and just couldn't resist popping a few of the bubbles. He lifted off the thin sheet of Styrofoam and there it was—the treasure he had seen advertised on eBay and knew he had to have.

When he slid the 45 out of its white paper envelope, he felt like he'd gotten a bonus—the yellow plastic disk was already in place in the center of the record.

Nearly bursting with anticipation, he hurried into the living room and carefully put his record down on the TV Guide. He dug out Pawpaw's old record player that looked like a small suitcase, pulled out the cord, and plugged it in. He lifted the arm and placed Pawpaw's favorite song on the spindle, then turned the machine on.

As he listened to the familiar tune, the words came back to him and he sang along with Debroy Somers.

Got a date with an angel
Got to meet her at seven
Got a date with an angel
And I'm on my way to heaven

She's so lovely beside me
And whatever betide me
Got an angel to guide me
So I'm on my way to heaven

Soon I'll hear bells ring out
And the choir will sing out
When the pearly gates swing out
She'll beckon to me

I've been waiting a life time
For this evening at seven
Got a date with an angel
And I'm on my way to heaven

Xander played the song twice, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt exactly why he hadn't been able to go through with his wedding to Anya in Vegas. Anya was a wonderful girl, but she wasn't The One, and Xander thought he must have known that, at some level, all along. Don't ever settle, boy, Pawpaw had said, and he'd been right. Xander turned off the record player and reverently closed the lid. He had to get ready for his date with his own Angel.

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

Xander took a long shower, thoughts of his grandfather still on his mind. Sometimes he missed Pawpaw and Meemaw so much that the pain became physical, like a rat's sharp teeth gnawing at his guts. He wished Angel could have known his grandparents.

What would Pawpaw have thought about him and Angel? Xander considered carefully everything he'd learned from his grandfather. Pawpaw judged a man by his actions, not his philosophy, and by how he treated others. Pawpaw believed that the most important force in the world was love. Xander figured Pawpaw would be just fine with their relationship.

One summer evening while he and Pawpaw sat on the veranda watching the fireflies, Xander had asked why Pawpaw and Meemaw never seemed to fight and argue like his parents did all the time. Pawpaw sat, quietly smoking his pipe, while he thought about the answer. That was one of the things about Pawpaw that Xander loved most—Pawpaw never treated him like a stupid little kid. He never gave Xander a brush-off answer, or told him he'd understand when he was older, no matter what Xander asked. Pawpaw gave him the same respect and honesty he'd give a grown man.

“Well, Xander,” he'd said, after what seemed to be a real long time. “People gen'ly argue when somethin's real important to 'em an' the other person doesn't see things their way; or when they're convinced they're right an' the other person's dead wrong. It's not enough for them to know in their own mind they're right—they feel a need to convince the other person, too. An' they're not happy till the other person flat out admits that they were wrong, justifyin' the first person's position. So they get to fussin' an' fumin' an' tryin' to impose their will on somebody else when they wouldn't like it one little bit if somebody tried to do it to them.”

Pawpaw had gotten up then to go into the kitchen for a beer. He returned with his glass, and a tiny paper Dixie cup of beer for Xander. Pawpaw sat back in his chair and Xander sat on the floor, leaning up against Pawpaw's legs—just two men havin' beer an' conversation on a fine summer evening.

“Now, I'm not sayin' your grandmother an' I never disagreed about anythin', 'cause we did. We surely did. But we gen'ly agreed about the important things. We hold the same view o' the world, y' might say. An' neither Kathy or me ever felt any partic'lar need t' be right at th' expense of th' other. If there was a problem—an' there are always problems, boy; it ain't life without problems. So, I shoulda said when there was a problem, both Kathy an' me were more innerested in findin' the solution than in fussin' about who was right an' who was wrong.”

Xander slowly sipped his beer.

“But, Pawpaw, you don't have any more money to spend than we do, but mom and dad are always arguin' 'bout money an' you an' Meemaw never do.”

The wooden match flared as Pawpaw re-lit his pipe, leaving a glow around Xander's vision even after the match had gone out.

“Well . . .” Pawpaw said. “All I kin tell y' about money, boy, is that findin' work you love is more important. Getting' up in the mornin' lookin' forward to doin' your job pays better in the long run, 'cause the currency it pays in is life satisfaction, an' that's better'n hard cash, any day. You find a job you love, an' you work hard at it. You might not always get ever'thing you want, but you'll gen'ly get ever'thin' y' need. An' if y' love your work, that satisfaction seems t' carry over inta other areas of your life, just like magic.”

And then Pawpaw's head lifted as he heard the old truck approaching and his eyes shone with light. He jumped to his feet and hurried to the truck as it came to a stop in front of the house. Pawpaw opened the door of the truck, lifted Meemaw into his arms and twirled her around, as if he hadn't seen her for days, rather than just a few hours.

“How was the quiltin', Kathy?”

“Just fine, Alex. Just fine.”

Pawpaw carried her over to the veranda and set her on her feet. Meemaw leaned over and ruffled Xander's hair.

“How 'bout some peach ice cream, Xander? If you'll turn the crank for me, we'll be eatin' ice cream in no time.”

The ice cold blast of the water brought Xander out of his reverie and he quickly turned the knobs off and stepped out of the shower. He'd have to heat water on the stove to shave.

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

Xander pulled into the parking lot at Mustang Sally's at 8:40. He was wearing the cream silk shirt, his soft 501 jeans and the red Ariat Full Quill Ostrich boots. He'd slipped Pawpaw's big turquoise nugget ring on his right hand at the last minute. He climbed out of the truck and scanned the parking lot. There were several Harleys and a Honda, but no Indian, yet. Good. He'd made it here before Angel.

Xander leaned against his truck and waited. He hoped Angel wouldn't have any trouble finding the place. Xander glanced up at the huge neon sign of a cowgirl—Sally, he presumed—riding a bucking neon mustang. Nope. Shouldn't have any trouble findin' it at all. Not unless he was both blind and deaf! The door opened as some patrons entered and even louder music spilled into the night.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all? But Sally's had booths where he could sit right next to Angel, and with the house lights off and all attention focused on the band on stage . . . Dammit! He just wanted to go out in public with his guy, like any normal couple, and Sally's seemed like the safest venue.

Xander's head snapped up as he heard the distinctive roar of the Indian. He was grinning from ear to ear as Angel pulled into the parking lot, swerving to a stop as he saw Xander.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Angel's answering smile matched his own. “I'm just gonna park down there.” Angel nodded to the far end of the lot where the motorcycles congregated, as a hedge against drunken cowboys in big trucks failing to notice a bike parked near them.

Xander nodded. “I'll wait for you here.”

Angel slotted the Indian into an empty space and removed his helmet, running his fingers through his hair to make sure it was standing up properly. Xander pretended not to notice as Angel surreptitiously removed a bottle of gel from the saddlebag and combed the product through his hair. But he couldn't help grinning as he tossed his own floppy bangs out of his eyes.

They each paid the $10 cover charge, and Xander scanned the room. There was an empty booth on the right, the fifth booth back from the stage. The glare of the stage lights didn't reach that far, which would leave the booth shrouded in darkness when the house lights went down. Perfect! Xander hurried to claim the booth, leaving Angel to save it while he made his way to the bar. There was a long line, as everyone queued to get food and drinks before the band came on. It was tradition at Sally's to just sit and listen to the first set of the night; the dancing didn't begin until after the band's first break.

Angel leaned back against the red vinyl cushioning of the booth. This really wasn't his scene any more—too many old memories—but it made Xander happy to be here, so he'd forbear. And maybe make some new memories to push back the old. Angel shut his eyes and tried to relax, as he waited for Xander to return.

“Well, well, well . . . fancy meetin' you here, pet.”

Angel's whole body stilled, and then he opened his eyes and slowly turned to face the interloper draped over the top of the booth.

“Spike.”

“Never thought I'd run into you in a podunk town in west Texas, luv.”

“What are you doing here, Spike?” Angel hissed.

“I thought you knew. I'm the entertainment, luv.” Spike tilted his head and raised one eyebrow. “You mean this is all a coincidence, and you didn't come 'specially to see your old pal Spike? I'm deeply hurt.”

“You're an ass, Spike.”

“Yeah . . . one you just loved to shove that big dick of yours into, right?” The eyebrow raised a second time and Spike's lips curved into a familiar smirk which quickly faded, to be replaced with an expression of hurt. “Bloody hell, Angel! It's been years. After all we meant to each other, you could at least pretend you're glad to see me, for old times' sake.”

Angel's jaw clenched, the muscle forming a visible knot.

“Just go away, Spike. That's what you're good at — that and betrayal.”

“Now, now, pet! Don't tell me you're still pissed that I shagged your ex? Only fair, after all. I seem to remember you havin' a bit of the rough an' tumble with my ex. Oh, wait! She wasn't my ex then, was she? Dru didn't become my ex until after you swept her off her feet . . . and onto the closest horizontal surface.”

“Shut up, Spike.”

“Make me!”

Angel's hands clenched into fists with the desire to do just that. Spike laughed and leaned down to run his tongue over the curve of Angel's ear.

“For now. But we're not through. Here comes your boy . . . but we both know who you really want, don't we, pet?”

With a swirl of black leather, Spike headed for the backstage area, leaving Angel with the strong desire to either beat or fuck him senseless, and it bothered Angel that he couldn't say which he wanted more.

Xander carefully balanced a heaping plate of nachos in one hand and a pitcher of beer in the other, with napkins, two glasses and a bottle of Red Hot tucked into the crook of his elbow.

“Needin' a little help, here!” Xander carefully set the pitcher down as Angel relieved him of the nachos. Xander deposited glasses, napkins and Red Hot sauce on the table, then slid into the booth, scooting over until his thigh was pressed against Angel's. “Wow! It's really crowded tonight. This band must be good.”

Angel reached for the beer and poured a glass, drinking it down. His hand tightened on the glass, and then he glanced at Xander, but didn't meet his eyes.

“Be right back,” Angel said as he slid out of the booth. He was giving off vibes that practically screamed to the crowd Don't fuck with me. I'm dangerous, and no one had any trouble picking up on the signals. The crowd parted before him like the Red Sea as Angel strode directly to the bar. He returned to the booth carrying a bottle two-thirds full of Irish whiskey, a single shot glass upside down on the neck of the bottle.

Before Xander could ask what was wrong, the house lights dimmed and a single spotlight lit the stage. A woman in her mid-50's, who looked a lot like Dolly Parton without the expensive reconstructive work, stepped into the spotlight. The reflected glare from the rhinestones covering her hot pink, heavily fringed cowgirl shirt and matching hat, perched atop what may have been the biggest hair in Texas, nearly blinded Xander. He closed his eyes and still saw the after-glare sparkling behind his closed lids.

“Hi, y'all! I'm Mustang Sally, an' have I got a treat for y'all tonight! Crash an' Burn bills themselves as a Billy Idol tribute band, but let me tell you—in my book, they're better'n the real thing. They're from New Yawk, an' we managed to snag 'em for two nights on their way through to Los Angelees. So, if y' like what y' hear—an' ladies, I'm damn sure you'll like what y' see—c'mon back tomorrow night, an' tell your friends ta c'm over, too. An' now, without further ado, Mustang Sally's is proud to present . . . Crash an' Burn!”

“Oooo, Billy Idol! I loved The Wedding Singer,” Xander whispered, leaning toward Angel. “Adam Sandler was great in that movie.”

Xander slid his hand down Angel's thigh, and then hastily withdrew it. The muscles of Angel's thigh were as hard as rock. It felt like touching a stone statue, rather than living flesh. Xander stared at Angel. He watched Angel throw back a shot of whiskey and immediately pour another. He'd never seen Angel in this kind of mood.

Xander opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, when he was startled by a scream that sounded like a hunting painter—a Texas mountain lion—and he literally bit his tongue. The scream ran down the scale ending in a low growl as the band began to play. Xander hadn't even noticed them taking their places on stage. The singer wasn't visible yet; the low, sexy growl of the words of the first song, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

“Last night a little dancer came dancin' to my door

Last night a little Angel came pumpin' cross my floor
She said "Come on baby I got a license for love

And if it expires, pray help from above"

With a swirl of black leather duster, the lead singer stalked onto the stage, platinum hair gleaming in the spot lights, knife-edged cheekbones shadowing the hollows under them, eyes so electric blue, Xander figured they had to be contacts. Nobody could have eyes that color naturally.

“In the midnight hour she cried- 'more, more, more'

With a rebel yell she cried- 'more, more, more'
In the midnight hour, babe- 'more, more, more'
With a rebel yell- 'more, more, more'

More, more, more.”

He strode back and forth across the stage, every eye in the house riveted on him. Xander didn't think he could look away if he tried. The singer raised his right eyebrow and seemed to look directly into Xander's eyes, although that was impossible—the spotlights would have made him unable to actually see anything beyond their glare. His lip curled into Billy Idol's trademark snarl.

“He lives in his own heaven

Collects it to go from the seven eleven
Well he's out all night to collect a fare
Just so long, so long it don't mess up his nancy-boy hair.”

The singer seemed to be staring directly at Angel this time.  What the fuck was going on?  And what was 'nancy-boy' hair?  

That part wasn't in the original version. Xander was feeling very weird vibes from this guy.  Angel seemed to be ignoring the 

band completely, choosing to steadily work his way through the bottle of whiskey, instead.

"I'd sell my soul for you babe
For money to burn with you
I'd give you all, and have none, babe
Just, just, justa, justa to have you here by me
Because. . .

In the midnight hour she cried- 'more, more, more'
With a rebel yell she cried- 'more, more, more'. . .

Xander and Angel sat silently through the first set. Something was very wrong, but Xander couldn't figure out what it was. He was pretty sure it wasn't him, so he decided that for once in his life, he'd keep his big mouth shut. He just wanted to be there for Angel. If Angel wanted to talk about what was bothering him, Xander would listen; if not . . . Xander decided he wouldn't push. He'd just be supporto-guy.

When the band left the stage for their break and the house lights came on, Angel put down his glass and turned to Xander. Angel reached for Xander's hand under the table, lacing their fingers together and resting their clasped hands on his knee.

Angel's knee was bouncing up and down like a pogo stick, and Xander was sure Angel had no awareness of the nervous tic or whatever it was. It was very un-Angel-like, and really disconcerting. Angel, who was usually so calm and controlled, was as jittery as a June bug on a griddle.

Angel bummed a Marlboro from a passing guy and lit it, drawing the smoke deeply into his lungs and exhaling with a drawn out hiss.

“This isn't a good night for me,” he finally said, not looking at Xander, but staring off into the distance with unfocused eyes. “I've got some things on my mind, and I think I need to be alone for awhile.”

Angel's hand tightened on Xander's with a painful grip, but Xander made no move to extricate his hand.

“It's nothin' to do with you—” Angel's eyes finally focused on Xander, and they looked like dark, black pits. “Nothin'!” he reiterated. “I'm sorry, Xander. I know you wanted this to be a special night and I'm sorry I spoiled it for you. I'm sorry for everything.”

Angel released Xander's hand and stood up. “I'm not fit company tonight, so I'll see you later.”

Xander scrambled to his feet. “It's okay. I understand. Let me drive you home in the truck, an' I swear I won't bother you. I'll just drop you there and take off. You said you need to be alone and I respect that, but you had an awful lot to drink, an' I don't think you should be drivin'—especially not the bike—so let me drive you home, okay?”

Angel gave him a half smile that didn't even come close to reaching his eyes. “I'll be fine.”

Xander drew himself up. Angel was too important to him—he cared too much about Angel—to let him get on that bike without a fight. “You'll be fine if you let me drive you home.”

“You're not my mother! I've been takin' care of myself for a long time, and it'll be fine!”

“No, it won't be fine! And, no, I'm not your mother. I'm your lover, and that means somethin' to me. I thought it meant something to you, too?”

“Xander, please! Not tonight. Let's not do this tonight. I'll see you tomorrow. We'll talk . . . you can bitch me out . . . do whatever you want . . . tomorrow.” Angel turned to leave.

“You let me drive you home, or there might not be a tomorrow!”

Angel whirled and gripped Xander's upper arms, fingers biting into the muscle. “Are you threatening me? Sayin' you'll leave if I don't do what you want? Well, fuck you! Nobody tells me what I can an' can't do!”

Angel spun on his heel and stalked out of Sally's. Xander hurried to catch up with him.

“No! Angel! I wasn't threatening you. I wasn't threatening to leave! That's not what I meant at all! I just meant I was afraid you'd have an accident or something if you tried to drive in this condition and if you were hurt . . . or in the hospital or . . . something, I wouldn't be able to meet you tomorrow! Angel! Listen to me! Please!”

 

Angel threw his leg over the bike and cranked the starter.  Xander stood frozen.

“Angel, please . . .” he called, and then whispered, “I love you.”

Angel revved the engine and walked the bike backwards out of the slot.  He turned the bike, revved the engine again and 

rode past Xander.   Xander reached out in supplication, but Angel's eyes were staring straight ahead, and Xander didn't know 

if Angel didn't see him, or if he just no longer existed for Angel.

Angel gave the bike gas and had almost cleared the parking lot when suddenly, a dark figure stepped into his path.  Angel 

swerved the bike, narrowly missing the figure, who stood perfectly still and made no effort to get out of the way.  The Indian 

leaned, and almost went down, but Angel managed to keep it upright.  Xander jammed his fist in his mouth and bit down on his 

knuckles to keep from screaming.

While Angel fought to stabilize the bike, the dark figure threw a leg over the back and slid into the seat behind Angel.  As Angel 

roared out of the parking lot, he passed under a halogen light at the edge of the lot, and Xander saw the gleam of platinum hair, 

the black leather duster billowing out behind the bike like the wings of a giant bat.

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Continued in  Chapter 6

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