Page 16 of Eyes Like Angel (Eyes Like Angel #1)

Behind Dad, there was an obstacle, an obstacle of two people anticipating me, and Mom, who was still pissed at me arriving late at the household.

“Dad,” I began, “I have to—”

“This,” he began, emphasized, is Mr. and Mrs. Curtis,” Dad casually pointed to the middle-aged couple.

A man, beside mom, wore a grey fedora hat and large chunky square glasses behind narrow-shaped eyes, blue eyes twinkling at my appearance.

For the older woman, she wore a buttoned grey blazer and a grey A-line skirt with kitten heels, a fake Prada bag hanging off of her forearm, greeting me with a wide grin, standing on her fake Prada heels it nauseated and ruined the aesthetics, but I halted this garnished and passive belief I constricted.

Pausing for a moment as Dad droned a monologue, where they’ve come from and how they immigrated—moved into Fort Heaven, and has been their home since.

Meanwhile, by the grandiose pillar, Mom was watching on the sidelines, her arms crossed and her eyes pinched, glaring, tequila in her haggard-looking hand.

Evidently still pissed at my rebellious nature I made in a previously bad timing.

“It’s nice to meet you,” my voice was pliable, dipping my head in short, uninterested reply.

Mrs. Curtis playfully cooed at my dad as I found myself weirded out by a scenery which felt more like a groundhog day.

“Aww, your son is so well-mannered and polite,” Mrs. Curtis commented in outrageous delight, clapped her hands altogether, appearing like a seal in a faux getup barking for a scrumptious treat.

“Adrian’s a very handsome fellow,” Mr. Curtis chimed in an agreeable tone. “Doesn’t he look like that one celebrity we see at the TV this morning? He should become an actor if anything.”

“Oh, now that you mentioned it, Adrian does have a look-alike! But Adrian’s way handsomer, I’m sure. He could be a top model,” Mrs. Curtis restated her cooing. “Very desirable for the women! Girls would throw themselves whenever he’s near.”

Dad chuckled awkwardly, rather dryly, blowing a fat smoke from his imported, special edition cigar.

Thankfully, my sweat hasn’t broke on my brow.

The urge on leaving them had on thrown crazy over the edge, not knowing how long it’s going to take.

Like I’ve been set up for a torturous interview, only get rejected at the end, like reaching at the finish line but no restitution involved, like a baseless substance on being meaningless in a forsaken hour.

As disappointing or spiraling at these mind-gaming scenarios I’m in, I better jet before it becomes a worse scenario running in my head. I refused to eye on the onlookers leering at me.

Hence, I cleared my throat, in an awkward reaction, but hid with a pleasant smile, eyes averting without being obvious.

“Sorry, I’ve got somewhere else to go,” I announced, beckoning the parking spot with my motorcycle keys, dangling with a ring. “Do you mind?”

Sensation overwhelmed me when Dad’s delighted expression dimmed in his eyes and squinted as Mom’s glare sharpened, her long latched and scratched against the champagne glass.

“Oh, of course, Adrian,” Mr. Curtis chirped. “Not at all.”

Mrs. Curtis solemnly agreed.

Huffing, I was thankful for once a visitor was not pressuring me to the max.

“What, in that ridiculous getup, Adrian?” Dad questioned, sounded more like an interrogation to a set up an unfunny comedic joke, ridiculously scoffing while smoking out on his thick—and pricey—cigar he recently got from Europe.

“I hardly believe anyone would take you seriously. Besides,” Dad faced his visitors, “Adrian might learn a thing or two on how to dress accordingly instead of acting like a poor thug,” he said to the Curtis couple, pretending like I was invisible. “I thought you’d be better than that.”

Mr. and Mrs. Curtis cracked up like donkeys honking and heaving in screechy noises when being put into cage, like those crying donkeys from Disney’s Pinocchio .

“My dear husband, that’s what he does best,” Mom projected sourly. “Anyone who look and acts —” she emphasized, beckoning her body at me by leaning onward—“like an ugly, vicious thug would never get anything or go far in life.”

All three guffawed louder, except for Mom, who had a sneering outlook in her dim-lit hundred yard glare.

My fingernails dug in.

I could sell them for money at the black market, too.

I don’t mind ripping their bodies while well aware and awake under my red hands, with a help of Saul and his illegal methods in the underground, methods are vile and disgusting where the dying puke and strangled in their last breath as we rip them open.

And pull Mom’s hideous hair extensions and watch her break by a flight of stairs as I throw her, that I could only dream. For now.

“I’m heading out,” I recapped, dignified.

“ Losing as always, like you don’t even want to admit you’re defeat once you’re in a corner. Always finding a reason and pardon to your benefit, it’s fucking pathetic ,” my mom muttered, more like hissing under her alcoholic breath.

No one heard of Mom’s long expressed on her doting nature; Mr. and Mrs. Curtis were too giddy and over the clouds on this little chat.

And Dad is…Dad. Apathetic and listless to his favorite cigar he took a swig on and a thick newspaper folded and tucked under his armpit—and utterly despised Mom’s hair extensions.

“Oh, you do? I was actually looking forward to seeing and having a conversation with you about something,” Mrs. Curtis’s brows furrowed, cooing and staring at me with sad puppy eyes.

“Yes, very important,” Mr. Curtis supported, in a happy sell-pitched tone. “I think you’d like the idea.”

My initial approach was to dig and bury myself in the ground.

This wasn’t it. I was supposed to be heading out, heading to my plans smoothly, not desiring to be cooped up in the household, only to be their ferocious tiger in a red-and-white striped circus.

Getting whiplash was the last thing I needed.

After all, business meetings weren’t really my thing.

“But it’s very nice to meet you, young man,” Mr. Curtis outstretched his palm for a handshake.

I took his open hand, but it only lasted under five seconds—I counted.

“Bye, sir,” I said, in my gritted teeth.

In the corner of my eye, Mom rolled her eyes in a most dramatic way as she can be. As she always did. If the guests weren’t present, she’d yell in my ears in an early morning.

No one wants to be here with a nagging bitch around. Oh, right. It’s only me.

“Likewise, son,” Mr. Curtis said while Mrs. Curtis implied with, “You, too, dear.”

Son? Dear? God, I thought watching a two-hour rom-com film was awful. At this point, I’d rather take a swig while watching a cringed films and shows as partaking in a drinking game. Having a destroyed liver and having a surgery was more tolerable than this crap.

God, it also felt like I was stuck in a time loop inside a musical film, being forced to sing at the most dramatic lyrics.

“Bye,” I said, without looking back at my parents, Dad especially, who was particularly watching me gathering the motorcycle helmet and put it on, after taking the first steps to descend a grand staircase. But what caught my eye that Dad didn’t mention there’s another guest watching me.

Somehow he was trying to trick me, because I couldn’t percept the figure behind the guests.

I didn’t see the person in clear inspection; I sped to a getaway ride.

Passing by the monumental fountain, I prepped the motorcycle, with my foot on the ground, balancing my frame to prevent from the fall, I switched the engine on, and shifted the throttle, and faced upward, only to find the four couples and a curious young woman surveilling me at a distance by the grand staircase—still couldn’t decipher since the sparkling outline of Mrs. Curtis’s gaudy outfit outshined and flickered its brightness on my sight, but saw a blip of long strands fluttering in the wind.

Maybe a crazed up imagination just passed by.

Or not. Who knows?

Roaring the engine, the motorcycle raced through the gated doors, heading to the Fort Heaven town.

***

After driving at a getaway motorcycle, a cumbersome confrontation, an extreme cumbersome first meet with Mr. and Mrs. Curtis.

Parking at the nearest front, the handicapped lane, I shuffled the shift stick to parking mode and set the truck off, entering the liquor store, off to purchase the bottle of martini and two packs of cigarettes—one is for chilling down on a secluded spot, the other is for emergencies when Mom brought stress.

Besides, early breakfast wasn’t in my agenda.

The Curtis family made their appearance this early morning, unannounced—after handing over a ginormous lecture, an effort of not fucking things up by Mother dearest—devised on what style I should wear and how I acted, and a steaming shower, scrubbing my body three times, it’s safe to say I’m the most tender, wearing a false, tender smile like how Mom taught me, to won the crowd’s heart, another way to afford as we presented ourselves with glamour.

Smiling often got me to places and incentive me handsomely, like a full-time gigolo filthily showing my chest and big dong for girls to eat up like candy.

Very handsomely, unbothered due to privileges, the joys and benefits of being good-looking—endless resources heading my way, not a single dead end trapped me—often-wise, I had a safety net, an outlet to look forward on.

I wish I could manufacture a practical joke, a pun, but somehow I couldn’t. Either I couldn’t pick to say a comeback or just followed along. Either way, disastrous results wins.

Life was already a practical joke.