Lullaby For The Sadist {ManxMan} {Radish Fiction)

Chapter Four

Angel is different, he's confident, and willing to tell me to fuck off. He has the natural traits to be in our family, the strength, the hardheadedness, everything.

"Fine," he relents, but looks incredibly reluctant to do so. He backs off and moves over to the bed, flopping down and folding his arms. I smirk in triumph and turn around to deadlock the door and put the chain on it, along with the dinky door lock that really won't do much against an intruder. Honestly none of it would do much good because there's a glass window right next to the door. The only thing that makes me feel safe is knowing I have a Glock.

"Thank you," I reply. I turn around to face him and realize he's staring at me with curiosity.

"Paranoid much?" He muses. I don't smile though, instead I nod, dead serious. I have every right to be paranoid, and he thinks it's a joke, but I know the only reason I'm still alive is because of this crippling paranoia.

"Yes actually." I reply honestly. He shifts slightly, looking a tad uncomfortable so I grin to lighten the mood. I walk away from the door and go into the mini fridge that holds a bottle of vodka along with a few local Firestone 805 beers. "Want a beer?"

When he doesn't answer I turn to him in question and realize he's staring at me in disbelief. "I'm nineteen," he deadpans.

I'm mildly surprised by this, having assumed that he was roughly the same age as me, granted he's only a year younger but still. I figured he was older.

"So?" I ask in amusement. He looks exasperated, even opening his mouth to fight about it but instead he sighs.

"No, I don't want a beer."

"Vodka?" I offer. He shakes his head, sighing.

"No." I shrug and pull out the vodka, recalling the rhyme Andre constantly referred to, and I have learned from experience, 'beer before liquor, never been sicker, liquor before beer you're in the clear'. I take the bottle with me over to the bed and lie against the headboard, tilting my head to stare at the ceiling. I open the bottle and begin to drink, feeling the liquid burn down my throat into my stomach where it settles.

"Is this what you do in your spare time? Drink and get high?" Ángel asks. I open my eyes and tilt a brow.

"No, I smoke, drink, and fuck in my spare time," I reply, leaving out the drug dealing and running of a gang. He cringes but attempts to hide it with a cough.

"Must get boring," he responds, avoiding my eyes now and opting to stare at the smoke stained yellow walls that I assume used to be white.

"Nah, pretty fun really. What do you do in your spare time?" I shoot. I take another large drink of the cheap vodka while I await his answer. The burning has subsided and now is replaced by a burning sensation throughout my body.

"I play the guitar," he informs. I notice his voice changes, a happier, more content tone to it. I recall after a moment that he did have a guitar with him when I hit him, emphasis on did because it was ruined after the crash. Suddenly I feel very guilty, because although I don't have any hobbies like that, I can imagine how he felt when he realized it was destroyed.

"You any good?" I question. He snorts and finally his eyes, full of a light of passion I never thought I would see in his eyes, meet mine.

"I've been told I play beautiful music. But I know I can get better and I will. I will play until my fingers are bloody if it means getting even a little better." He replies with so much determination in his voice. Finally that glare his gone, replaced with something akin to love, a love for music.

I find myself smiling goofily at this, finding his passion for it astonishing. I don't know anyone with any hobbies, unless getting fucked up is a hobby. In which case I have a hobby that takes up my entire life, job and free time. No, I take that back. Celeste's hobby is tying Killian to the headboard and torturing him. Or me if Killian has to stay late for work.