Damsel[ed]: Some Rescue Required (#2 of the Damsel[ed] series)

Chapter Fifty-Three: Backstabbing

Angel.

Watching Gats eat is terrifying.

And I guess that's an odd thing to think when I should worry about lots of other things. Say, being stuck in the back of another stranger's car with the windows tinted black, my hands bound in front of me, and my wings trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey's. But no. Too tiresome.

The car jolts, and I decide I miss Gats' BMW. Sure, It wasted a lot of gas and left a terrible carbon footprint, but it was comfy, and I used to fall asleep with my head pressed against the window, eyes slit open to watch the lights of the city whoosh by.

But I'm too wired to sleep here despite exhaustion, my eyes stapled open, my wings smashed flat against my back. And anyway, Owl's riding shotgun, so no one's sleeping anytime soon with that nightmare fuel around. She's turned to me, her chin propped on her hand.

Her smile is cruel and empty, and I refuse to look at her. The window, too, is a no-go, blacked out to make me blinder than I already am. So, I watch Gats and the donuts, listen to his chewing and tearing at the stale pastries, bits of them impaled on his claws and buried under his fingernails. 

It all sucks. I shut my eyes, take a long, slow sip of caramel latte and try to dream myself away. I could be a teen pop star right now, or a handsome celebrity chef, or a chemist on my way to collect my Nobel Peace Prize, chauffeured by a mysterious man in black who might be my biological father—not Fallout, he's just a poser, trying to cash in on my coolness—but some other cool guy, a guardian angel like, and the woman in the passenger seat just a pesky agent along for a sweet, sweet ride on my glory train. I grin and try to capture the thought perfectly, the burning sweetness scalding my tongue, the happy pretending like a soap bubble I'm scared of popping.

 "My little Lucifer," Mom says, jolting my eyes open. Gats hums the My Little Pony theme song a cool kid like him isn't supposed to know. I glance over at the sight of Gats' stuffed cheeks, and in the shadows of the darkened car, he looks more squirrelly than cat-like.

"You suck at naming more than Jupes and Storm," I say, fishing my hands for the last Boston Creme in the box. She bought us eight boxes and an XL latte each, caramel for me, hazelnut for him. You might think that sounds excessive, but Gats and I devoured the first five boxes in about three minutes. Tearing and shoving chunks down our throats unchewed just to get something into our stomachs. And the thing is, the more I ate, the hungrier I became, like all that suppressed appetite come bounding to the surface. I mean, something's gotta feed that aura, and it ain't capture and sibling abuse.

But it's Gats who scares me more than my own hunger. Precious Gats, who lays a lace handkerchief on his lap when he eats, even for popcorn at the movies. Precious Gats, who cuts his Big Macs into itty bitty pieces every time we brave McDonald's. Precious Gats, who crash-coursed me before Mayor Curtis' fundraiser dinner on the difference between a fish fork and a salad fork and I swear to God, Angelos, if you mix one of those up with the oyster fork I'll punch you in the face. 

Watching that same precious Gats tear whole donuts into shreds and stuff them into his mouth, well, that was some scary stuff. Some part of me wonders if he's going to tear up the upholstery and swallow that whole too. It makes every vessel in my body sing with rage at my mother who changed him. My Gats would never eat like that, would never choose to sob out his internal angst in my arms instead of kissing Heaven like the two high school sweethearts they are. 

"And do you know how hard it is to suck at naming children more than they do?" I ask my mom, my eyes heavy from exhaustion. My limbs feel bound up with lead, and I sink on my side, aware in a sort of blithe way of Gats' eyes holed on me. The cat ears flop on either side of his head. I haven't seen them perked since Owl mentioned 'donuts.' My eyes half lidded, I lean back and look out through my lashes, which has a nice blurring effect. Makes me feel like I'm in a movie. Another latte sip. But at this point, I'm so far from saving even caffeine won't bring me back from the dead. My head slides down the glass. "They made my middle name Monsoon."