Page 40 of Eyes Like Angel (Eyes Like Angel #1)

Few days after, the contributions at the church went successfully, accordance to the priest’s plans for a hefty sum of donation has set to the homeless and women alike went swimmingly.

Produce in milk, bread and glaze-honeyed ham and chili-bean soup readied in a silver pot.

Homeless people waited for their rations to warmly feed in their bellies, spared clothes they’ve worn were twice as clean and loose, fresh from laundry and germ-free—freely to move and comfortable in their own skin, wore in blue t-shirts and denim cargo shorts and rubber sandals compared to their tattered ones, food distributed by the church, hands filled in warmth on a windy fall.

Mr. Rivers summoned his currency in a maximum effort—worth of $25,000 for a contribution, marking the event in a town.

Best of all, the man who distributed a hefty sum provided a home for the homeless and provided construction for the bathrooms with stable showers and toilet seats that comes with an offer of bathroom equipment and cleaning supplies in advance.

Safe to say the man who ran the idea of the donation was thrilled on his huge success.

Though Mrs. Rivers was preoccupied on advertising to the younger man beside her, smiling so widely that her cheeks curled to several folds and her crow’s feet crinkled harsher, sun patches on her features appeared bigger, like the flaws overshadowed her harsher.

She never sent a benevolent smile to anyone who’s not her husband as Mr. Rivers solely acknowledge on his new achievements, rejoiced talking on a megaphone—and detached from his beloved wife.

“Enjoy your new homes and enjoy the new life of luxury,” Mr. Rivers announced, his pearly white teeth shined in daylight. “With God in our life, in our heart and soul, nothing’s impossible!”

Everybody clapped and wooed at his last speech.

Beyond the crowded audience, beside Mr. Rivers, the oldest son—Bjorn, as Sister Lucia mentioned beforehand—applauded his hands altogether with disinterest.

Regardless, a thickened crowd scattered, eager for the feast as they were rushing into a tight line. Vehicles impacted and occupied in a parking lot, nurses and workers hopping out, surrounded each areas.

By the food stand, Mrs. Rivers and Sister Joanne, in pearled necklaces and formal pink garments, distributed the rations and steaming hot chili-bean towards them, as the people in line cramped in for a celebration of having homes and fresh, cooked food filled on their metal tray, thin traces of smoke steaming as they plunged the food into their mouths, chatting amongst one another, eyes brightened and smiles widened.

As for me, I received strict portions of food size in comparison to theirs, nearly growing cold, and perched at a far bench distant from the event, monitoring every move, sounds clashed all at once; I could barely register what people were talking about.

My eyes lowered at a steaming sand-colored coffee with creamer inside the foamed cup.

Not once I ever tasted coffee in my years—late to taste in childhood, but remedied the experience in the current present.

I’ve seen Brother Josh and Sister Jane drank coffee once; I don’t personally see them on their daily basis before heading out to their personal business.

On the other hand, I’ve seen Sister Joanne drank, gulped it like wine.

She sometimes drink it in four rounds, refill after refill until she’s full-handed in her belly.

Every morning, weather announced on a news channel broke out on the wide television while the Divine family consumed their newly cooked breakfast—Sister Joanne with her bread and oatmeal and sardines, Josh and Jane with their protein-based pancakes and hot chocolate.

As for Father Divine, he’d prefer to read gospels in one hour in his private study.

Their mornings had often been strictly…predetermined.

Repulsed by her claims, I tended to stay calm; the food filled in, easing the dizziness. I hadn’t felt happy or full due a shortage food I’ve received.

How long has it been since I’ve been properly fed?

Mrs. Rivers strongly suggested for each worker to consume all rations they’ve compiled as much as they could muster, before commencing back to their assigned occupation. She hated people who wasted entire food by dumping in the public trash bin.

For now, Mrs. Rivers is serene, eyeing on the new prize—a young assistant, one of her associates at work, she’s nowhere near as vivacious and brilliance in her visage when it comes to her dedicated husband, handing over a newer set of soup she cooked and stewed in a gigantic metal pot—feelings were mutual with Sister Joanne, who had her eyes in full concentration on a young man, who wasn’t her spouse.

Though one thing I noted was the young man they’ve taken their special interested on, almost resembled as Mr. Rivers.

Wondering what the priest would’ve react, I’m positive she’ll earn a fate of wrath from him, but sadly, the priest was compliant and forgiving, as he’s driven by devotion to his holy works.

Setting the dirty trays over the dirty pile in a large container, organizing the mess scattered, not wanting to get in strife with Mrs. Rivers or the priest.

Scattered all over the place, palms flattened to a dry surface, head bowed as my eyes shut tight, heart hammered in my ears.

Eva, you’re almost there. Get the thirty plates washed and napkins laundry again, and we’re good. Mrs. Rivers might come again and inspect the vicinity. This area must maintain an unattainable perfection.

Count, Eva. Count from one to ten. You can do this.

You can.

One, two, three—

Deep breaths, Eva. Come on.

Four, five, six, seven—

“Why have you been avoiding me?” the sonorous voice complained. “I’ve been searching for you!”

“I wasn’t avoiding you, Micah, I’m just busy,” I justified, listlessly continuing my pace as I settled on stacking the empty trays nice and tidy devoid touching the leftovers in my best effort.

“I’m putting this stuff over here so you could wash while I set the trays in the cupboard and collect the used items they’ve eaten on—we agreed, remember?

Mrs. Rivers is going to yell at us if we don’t do the job.

We might get fired just like the last lady who contaminated some people from being sick. ”

Not once in my lifetime I heard Micah upset over something so diminutive and trivial. He’s been diligent and helpful frequently since I’ve met him during my teenage years. I wonder what has changed in him?

Micah and I were assigned to the kitchens, instructed by Sister Edith, who relayed a message by Mrs. Rivers.

Initially we were supposed to be taking over shifts—three hours each turns.

Micah’s did his duty since eight o’clock sharp, now it’s my turn to take over the kitchens since the other nuns and volunteers were distributing other replicated materials—clothes and blankets for the shelter Mr. Rivers contributed to the town.

Right now, my shift has struck at one o’clock.

To think Micah was okay with doing the dishes after I put them aside, maybe I should try to—

“I’d be happy to help you, sweet angel. But guess again,” the deeper voice insisted.

Sweet angel, my mind raced.

Turning around, my heart stopped, closing in on dropping the tray. I couldn’t move and take another step—trapped.

Staggered back, I drew a soft intake of breath, studying him.

Recognizing the slight curls of his long light-blond hair tied to a low ponytail, his widow’s peak, his lithe, muscled arms crossed tight on a black fitting shirt, soft outlined of his abdomen flexed beneath his leathered jacket and his hands worn in leather gloves, pitch-black eyes monitoring my every move.

The light glowed, accentuated his eyes in anger, though I assumed annoyance rather than personally being infuriated.

Thin trace of fiery silver-blue on the irises observed me, like the silver rings lit in the dark.

My bosom coiled, the air in the kitchen suddenly blistered, assigned chores forgotten, chances of discontent arises within my thinking, filling in unmerciful consequences.

There he was—Adrian Rivers in the flesh—a son of a CEO casually leaning in by the doorway, crossing his strapping arms, his gaze darkened.

One person who I was trying to avoid.

Gathering my composure, I bolted towards the exit door at the back, leading myself back at the main hall, thinking I escaped from him, my hands shaken at his approach, but steadied it when releasing the door’s lock and dashed to the spaced grip in the hall, until a hand clasped my arm and pulled me, pinned me against the solid wall.

Yelping, he kept me still, entrapped, lips pressed in, shutting my yelping screams screeching, not wanting a wrong bystander assuming an immoral judgement.

“This area is for the church staff members only,” I reminded him in strict tone I could muster, as my heart thundered, part of the notions wishes for him to scurry off.

How he infiltrated inside the forbidden area was unknown to me. The ones who have access to the kitchens in a restricted area were me and Micah—we both had access the key.

But Adrian doesn’t have one.

“I had to see you,” he rasped, inhaling. “I couldn’t let you stay far forever. Why have you been avoiding me?” His face leaned in; he dared me to look into his blazing darkest eyes.

Realization dawned on me.

Wait…

Was he…following me?

Gulping, I considered a response, one where I can convince him.

And it drew a blank.

A long ring registered in my consciousness.

I got nothing.

I got nothing, not a sound to blur out.