Page 20 of Eyes Like Angel (Eyes Like Angel #1)

Adrian

“Thank god you’re back!” Mom exclaimed. “Guess who just stopped by?”

Sighing, I pressed on, leading my gaze onward at a door, locking it, letting my keys dangled as I ambled inches through the grand living room.

The phone vibrated and checked the new message, hoping it’s from Saul.

“Adrian,” her voice boomed, “that’s rude of you to walk away and not look at us. Why don’t you come here and greet your special guests?”

My face paled.

Guests?

“What?” I uttered, perplexed.

“Come, say ‘Hi’ to them,” Mom insisted, pushing a forceful smile onto her sunken face, powdered in cosmetics so much it appeared cakey and rough texture.

My head whipped and glanced at tonight’s guests, who were smiling at me, as my shoulders and posture tipped and slackened.

Of course.

She had a spur in the moment.

To Dad’s view, it’s considered inappropriate on Mom jumping ahead without him.

Technically, in Dad’s lawful ways, in the house, he’s the law, and everybody else follows—no questions asked.

But Dad found himself questioning her as she jumped ahead without considering on slowing her pace down to summarized a full explanation.

I guess I missed the whole crucial of the event.

Considering the unanticipated guests pointed their wide-tight grin at me, they’re anticipating harder than Mom did watching me from the window, then jumpscared me after I enter the household.

As ridiculous as it is, I find the guests to be more tolerable, but not entirely acceptable—I finally understood Dad.

Gradually stepping forward, I gave them a brief handshake.

But what shocked me the most was there’s a young woman right next to them.

On the far right corner of the wide couch, a dark-haired young woman proceeds to stand tall before me.

Standing, she’s adorned in a citrus-colored dress tied on her neck, orange and yellow ruffles swayed at her small movement, making her way towards me with her hand extended outward.

Her extensive hair coiled into a ballerina bun, which her hairstyle reminded me of a preppy cheerleader rather than sophisticated woman.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Adrian,” she said, seductive eyes eyeing on my body, or height, depending what girl likes to look at. Her head tipped sideways, her sandy blonde locks fell onto her one shoulder, making it seem like she’s interested in my outfit.

“Likewise,” I affirmed dryly, and withdrew my hand back.

Mom rose to her feet. “So, shall we dine?”

Cringing at her improvisation with a customer service smile, I wanted nothing more to be a stuffed marinated turkey cooked inside the heated oven.

***

Despite the tremendous effort I made, Samantha’s gone, and the weight on my shoulder blades have been lifted.

But not close enough. Not even an inch. So far, no police were alerted by my killings and Saul’s disposal.

Nothing’s good enough if I set myself into that place again, not after the spectacle I caused at the lavish church, imagining Dad’s patience broken and fuming in maximum rate, Mom would panic, mixture of anger and upset, as for Bjorn…

he’s nowhere to be seen, and if I did see him, I would know his reaction before anyone else’s.

Subtleties outstood, and for Bjorn’s were taciturn, but louder under a forming expression.

Formal dinners weren’t Bjorn’s thing; he’s much rather be in a confined solitude than dealing with the guests at tonight’s dinner.

In comparison, this dinner and Thanksgiving was majorly an improvement.

As much as I’d like to comment on the Curtis family delicacies, it might cause a wreck on Mom’s sensitive emotions.

But chewing their cooked fodder was a delay gratification while Mom’s cooking felt like it was prison for me to shit on a toilet, especially her holiday specials.

Ah, speaking of Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving was an occasion—a tradition to uphold as families attended and eat lavish food together. Up until a grown age, I don’t see the full potential of a one holiday.

As pretentious as it was, I was never a type of person to follow a path—let alone a parasitic occultist’s path to respect and to give thanks without question.

Thanksgiving dinners were anything but homely nice or comely sweet.

Some holiday happens once a year in our lives.

In fact, if I were to describe the feast, the closest thing to mind was the occasion was as dry as a black-toasted turkey, even the burnt-toasted bread with loaded butter tasted delicious.

And if I were to be generous in a thoughtful manner, Mom’s cooking was stale and lacked flavor, despite the plentiful efforts on adding spices and salt, as for Dad’s drinking choices for the sundown wasn’t as splendid.

His wine choices were fruitier, less strong—stronger in sugary substances and less burn for the throat— Mom suggested to make the drinks for everyone to have a softer palette, whatever that means, as far as I could recall. Dad made no attempt to comment on this.

Bjorn, on the other hand, prepared the plates and silverwares, without so much of spewing from his pouted sneer and constantly plastered on his lips.

Just as boring as a C-graded restaurant or as lacking as McDonald ’s happy meal in a full set of ten-piece chicken nuggets and icy drink that’s mostly flavorless.

For the record, fast food restaurants were coming in prepared, but it’s no more than a plain decoration.

The C-graded restaurant had pleasant decorative palette than what the family dinner offered.

The stench loitered in the air as far as I can describe the previous occasions.

As far as I concerned, turkey wasn’t a real turkey; it was pure organic vegan styled meat.

So does the meat in the stuffing or the meatballs on the pasta.

Mom tricked us for the last few years or so.

The gravy and cranberry sauce were the only ones that stand out from the dinner meal, and those weren’t a proper meal to solidify from engorged appetite, hence why I prefer a less formulaic meal.

If Mom decides to eat vegan pancakes and drink vegan milk for breakfast, I went straight to starvation, hoping she wouldn’t spot me munching on spicy chips with soda on the side.

Mom goes ballistic if I do it or if I do it in front of her.

She’s particularly sensitive to her thin-waist and dainty ankles she’s trying to stabilize after giving birth at the hospital room. Dad didn’t want to hear her nagging.

Regardless, if I were to dine, I eat at a table with authentic meat and a carbonated drink—no negotiations.

But this, this is much slight better alternative than an ordinary dinner meal Mom makes.

As it turns out, I was never going to be at the party Samantha expected; it was a poor excuse on my end. If I go at the party, things will get ugly; she’ll humiliate me on the spot. That’s what girls do best. I had a feeling what that girl’s name is, if I had her name correctly.

Besides, I had my own idea of party, my ways of starting a celebration.

Yet here I am, being stuck in between guests, bored than ever.

Here I sat, playing with my food while listening to a grown up conversation. They were all over the place.

Nothing’s good enough, not after the spectacle I caused at the lavish church, imagining Dad’s patience broken and fuming in maximum rate, Mom would panic, mixture of anger and upset, as for Bjorn…

he’s nowhere to be seen, and if I did see him, I would know his reaction before anyone else’s.

Subtleties outstood, and for Bjorn’s were taciturn, but louder under a forming expression.

At least Mom’s enjoying herself, despite the food they’ve brought in set her off.

I tried the meal they ate and swallowed its tender contents in my hungry mouth.

This one is real chicken. This one is real beef and pork.

Thank god for beef!

And thank god for the real meal!

“Did you hear? Sister Joanne is getting a gift from her husband again,” Mrs. Curtis began, digging into her food.

Playing with her food, more like.

“What was it?”

“Another souvenir from Italy,” Mrs. Curtis answered with a hinted jealousy, “my, you’re quite a shopaholic.”

Mom visibly shrugged. “Anyone could buy that. It’s not a big deal.”

“So about the collaboration,” Mr. Curtis began, “I hope you’re still thinking about it, Hendrix.”

Hendrix is my father’s name, a slight variation to my grandfather’s name Henry, but he’d prefer to be called as Mr. Rivers, to maintain his CEO reputation.

Dad sliced the steak. “I’m still considering the offer. You must be quite passionate about this project.”

“Yes, I am!” Mr. Curtis chirped. “One minute I was bored, and the next, I was thinking about a collaboration that benefit for the both of us. I like to wonder where it’s heading and wander around. I can’t sit still, you know?”

“Speaking of wandering, where were you this morning, Michael?” Mom intervened at the conversation that has nothing to do with official business.

“Just roaming around,” I said to her, poking the steak and ate the piece whole.

“Oh, he saved someone’s life today!” Miss Curtis chimed in voluntarily, chirped in her seat. “He’s so heroic and charming!”

“Really?” Mom was intrigued. “Well, that’s my son! Anyway, how did you like your visit here so far?” Mom asked Miss Curtis in a sickly nice voice.

“Oh, it’s great. I already like it here,” Miss Curtis answered cheerily.

“Good, I’m glad!” Mom perked up at the young woman’s energetic response.

“I like it a lot,” Miss Curtis said, eyeing me as if I was a piece of juicy steak, licking her lips.

Her little sister, Annie, curled her lips into disgust, her large bow on her back head was lopsided, playing her food with a plastic fork, still upset she didn’t have her favorite meal for tonight since the Curtis family was entertaining us, for the benefit, I couldn’t tell.

They’re too cordial, or maybe their smiles had covered up something so secretive I find myself impressed with their convincing.

Under the table, I felt a pointed shoe trailed onto my leg and up to my thigh.

I looked up and saw Miss Curtis giving me a playful wink while our parents were in deep discussion regarding to collaborations and other things I can’t comprehend.

I was busy deeming about how I saved the girl with her eyes from falling at the church this morning, her green eyes whispered confessions the cross couldn’t silence.

Where can I meet her again? How will I meet her? Does fate and destiny decide for us?

A kick caught me off guard when I spotted Miss Curtis was trying to catch my attention.

She cleared her throat. “I’m so sorry; I have to use the bathroom.”

Mom insisted with, “Oh, no worries, sweetie. Just take upstairs, and go to your right.”

“I don’t want to get lost, so I might need some help,” Miss Curtis hinted by having her eyes on me once more, indicating I should assist her.

And when I do, she went upstairs willingly, like she wasn’t in a hurry.

As we ascended to the staircases, she led me into one of the rooms and shoved her kiss against mine.

The kiss exchange was brief and directed on her part.

Not wanting to kiss her, I shoved her down on her knees as I watched her unzipped my pants and taking my enlarged cock into her mouth, after making out with me with eagerness, making a basic excuse about how she’ll get lost in the house, so Mom requested me to escort Amelia…

is that her name? Or was it Emily? Ah, I’m not too sure; my memory is hazy and unreliable. I’ll just call her Miss Curtis.

She choked at my girth, appearing like she was starting to regret her choices.

“You sound like a man when you choke. Squeak higher,” I told her firmly.

Holding onto her ballerina bun, she tried again, slurping and spitting on my engorged cock, leaking with its pre-cum after she spat her warm saliva again, sucking harder. When I thrusted, she went back to choking like a man again. Soon, I spurted a scarce measurement of hot semen in her mouth.

Swiping the sperm off her cheek, she licked a trickling substance onto her finger, humming. “Hmm, you taste delicious,” she said, smacking her lips in a sensual way, winking at me.

I didn’t react to her praises; I was annoyed at her manly gagging sounds and her forced efforts.

Instead, I forced myself to pretend I’m speaking to a girl with emerald eyes say this to me, with her meek, sweet sound without the bread and wine onto her palms. A girl with emerald eyes and a violet-and-obsidian crucifix pendant resting on her, as my recollections snapped—and it recollected perfectly.

The veil unwrapped in my blurred vision, catching her from a drastic fall back at the church, her petite form in my arms. The crucifix caught the afternoon sunlight as she turned—mocking me, maybe.

But her eyes…her eyes made me believe in tasting of sin more than reaching for salvation.

Eva.

“I think you should go,” I said firmly, averting her attention from my face.

“Your mom and dad might be waiting for you, wondering what took you so long. The bathroom’s on the other hall.

Wash your hands and face there. Wash your mouth also.

” I pointed to the bathroom across the hall, near inches apart from Bjorn’s private room.

At once, she left to redo her makeup and lipstick; hopefully she washes her hands clean beforehand.

It might shortened her usage in the restroom; going back down to dine with my family on a long, droning process I wish to not endure myself on.

My phone beeped. I got a text from an unknown number and a bright screen flashed as I opened:

UNKNOWN NUMBER : Here’s your money, shithead.

I checked another number, where Saul sent the income, since the night before.

I blew a low whistle.

I shook my head, colored me impressed.

Saul was quick as a lightning.

On my spare bank account—one that my family were unaware of—I created separately—thanks to Saul’s help—from their system and connections, I have earned $555,000 within the instant, a result of killing Samantha, her boyfriend and her family.

Old or young, it doesn’t matter. The dead don’t hold their life and belongings anymore. I do.

Selling organs at the black market was worth it.

And paying the visit to an angel in the attic tonight was even better.