A slice of Life

Angel Part One

Angel Toussaint liked to keep his life the same way he kept his wardrobe — neat, organized, and in varying degrees of black and white.

Everything had a time. Everything had a place. And unfortunately, every debt must be paid.

And debts to Ronan fucking Elmore, a supreme, princessy pain-in-his-ass, didn't come cheap. He wouldn't settle for money. Oh no, the little fucker's currency came at a much steeper price: Ronan dealt in secrets and favours.

Today, he'd called in a favor.

And the rat-bastard had the audacity to look well and truly pleased with himself too.

"Don't be so dramatic, Angel," the man tutted, nursing his Sex On The Beach. He twirled the decorative umbrella around the glass, mouth curved up in veiled amusement. "It won't be so bad."

With a low grunt, Angel necked back the finger of Lagavulin from his glass. It hit his throat like battery acid but flowed down to his gut with a warmth that had him reaching for a refill. It was barely nine a.m, but after the night he had, it was well and truly needed. Actually, make that nights — his brother was a fucking moron, and the trouble he'd brewed had bled into a never-ending cesspit of drama.

"Get somebody else."

"No."

Another grunt. From the corner of his eye, Angel studied the hot mess — Ronan was still glossed up from a night in the clubs, and hell, wasn't he something. His blond hair, buzzed short around the back and sides, was alive with golden flakes of glitter, matching the appalling volume of eyeshadow that layered his lids. Bright pink fairy wings were strapped to his back, and at some point, he'd lost his shirt. Don't even get him started on the short shorts.

"Ro," Angel began, but Ronan held up a hand. Each nail, long and filed to perfection, was painted a shimmery silver, and his fingers were decked out in flimsy dress rings. They curled downwards in a dramatic, one-by-one display until only his index remained erect.

"Angel," he countered, shaking his head. The golden feather earring in his right ear flashed as the overheads hit it. "Just take him out. Make him feel good about himself. That's all I'm asking. Just one night. Puh-leeeeeeaseeee? For me, doll?"

Squeezing his eyes closed, yeah, like that could block out the walking, talking headache, Angel sighed heavily. His nostrils flared, inviting a waft of the zesty pine wood polish that the cleaners had not long used to scrub down the bar. When he spun in his stool, he threw Ronan a withering look.

"I ain't the man for the job, boy."

"I disagree," Ronan denied. He plucked the umbrella from his drink and tucked it behind his ear, pausing long enough to peer into the reflective glass of the drink cooler behind the bar, blowing himself a kiss for good measure, before letting those big baby blues settle back on him. "But even if you're not, it doesn't matter."

"It matters."

"No," came the tutting reply. "It doesn't. I'm not asking you to mend his broken heart. Just take him out on a date. Just one. He needs it."

"I don't date."

"Not asking you to date him, moron. I'm asking you to take him out on a date. Singular."

Muttering a soft curse, he damned himself for getting roped into this bullshit — When Ronan called, asking him out for drinks, he should have slammed the fucking phone down. It always ended with him being roped into one shenanigan or another.

Except those shenanigans usually ended up reminding him why he owed the kid in the first place.

"What's his damage?" Angel asked reluctantly, lifting his glass to his lips. Empty. He must have polished off his second helping without realizing. He went for a third but paused. Thought it through. Then decided 'fuck it' and hit himself up with a double dose.