ANGEL BLUE [1]

LEAD 28: crash course

      “Stevens,” Sam chastises light-heartedly.

      He’s been acting strange, ‘strange’ as in not taking the piss out of me every chance he gets. Is this what gradual affection does to a person? I wonder what living with Sam would be like, perhaps he’s a complete prude and by the end of the week I’d want to be in the hospital bed next to Blake’s―or he could be a complete slob and pushed all of his junk into the cupboards and draws. The thing is, I don’t see any damn storage space.

      I follow Sam through the living room which consists of two mediocre couches and a mounted sixty-inch flat screen, towards the bedroom―which, I might add, there is only one. I can feel my heart thrum against the bones of my ribcage, awaiting the order to burst, is Sam serious about me being his bunk buddy? What if Dad finds out I’m shacking up with my ‘partner’? What would he do?

      The thoughts leave me instantly when I see Sam’s bedroom. It’s not the simplicity of the room that intrigues me, but the fact that there’s a whole spider-web of questions and conundrums tacked to the ceiling. Red pins hold down threads connecting to leads and photos of suspects, people whom I assumed were part of Sam’s cases back in Washington or Louisiana. How he had the time and patience to construct a map like this, I will never understand.  

      “Huh,” I huff, impressed. “Now I know what you do in your spare time, and I thought I was a work-o-holic.”

      Sam rolls his eyes at my immaturity and gestures to the large dresser in the corner of the room, “Um, there’s space in the draws for your clothes.”

      “Have you been expecting my arrival or something?” I ask, amused.

      Sam just shrugs.

      He turns to give me some space, allowing me to take in the enormity of his kindness. Partners in crime fighting was one thing, but flatmates is a whole new level―for both of us. Putting up with each other’s violent mood swings and trigger-happy fingers is a challenge by itself, I’m not sure how Sam will handle my extremely unladylike habits, some of which I can’t name.

      “Prat,” I mutter under my breath.

      I slowly lower my duffle on the black silk sheets of Sam’s King size bed. I’m sure their silk from the way the line leaves a sheen on the fabric and its smoothness beneath my fingers. I unzip my duffle and pull out my five white dress shirts, including my Detective one with the silver lapels.

      I scoot over to the dresser and open it with my free hand. Inside are countless button ups of every colour I can imagine in different shades and vibrancies―either Sam is secretly gay or he really is a Mamma’s boy. I wonder if he irons his underwear, I snort at the thought and haphazardly stuff my shirts into the drawer.  

      I move on with the clothing items until I get to my own underwear, embarrassing as it is to have boy leg panties and small as hell bras, I have no shame. The third drawer from the top holds underwear and I frown. Sam doesn’t iron his jocks like I suspected nor does he have silk tighty whities to match the bed sheets, they’re normal Bonds boxers and briefs. After a few moments of staring, I feel like a creeper and shut the drawer once I deposit my own lingerie.

      Once I’m finished unpacking what meagre belongings I have, I place the Criminal Minds boxset on the bedside table next to the lamp. I notice the crumpled photo tucked beneath the foot of the light and being the sticky beak that I am, I tug the photo into view and squint at the writing.

      It’s blocky uppercase in a felt-tip pen, a man’s writing no doubt from the slanted script. It’s a message from a father to a son, saying how proud he is. I flip the photo over so I can see the creased surface of film. A hazel haired man, who no doubt was a ginger as a child, is dressed in a black suit and is knelt down on one knee of the sidewalk, with one arm around a pale boy―no older than eight, clutching his father’s FBI ID and shield smiling.