ANGEL BLUE [1]

LEAD 28: crash course

      “Stevens,” Sam drawls in frustration as I throw a plate on the tiled floor of the kitchen.

      I pretend not to hear him because I’m currently dealing with my one hundred and one problems that start with Henry and end with Blake in a hospital bed. I reach for three other dishes from the cupboard and slam them to the ground, causing chunks of ceramics to break off. I throw one more plate before inhaling deeply through my nose and gripping the counter top tight.

      “You can’t keep blaming yourself,” Sam says.

      “Oh believe me, I can,” I hiss through clenched teeth.

      I’m not feeling the one thousand waves of guilt since Banks calls me every ten minutes asking where I am, why I’m not at the hospital, what can be more important than comforting an unconscious friend in need. I’m tempted to toss my phone into the freezer if I have to listen to Uma Thurman ring again.

      “Grab your stuff Stevens,” Sam snaps his fingers as if he’s had a bright idea.

      “What?” my brow twitches.

      “Grab your stuff,” Sam repeats. “This apartment is obviously a trigger for you and now is not the time to lose control and release Mr Hyde. It’s best if you stay with me.”

      I’m in the midst of planning a rage-filled tangent to explain to Sam that he should stop caring but his words catch me off guard and I have no answer for him. My posture straightens and my mouth hangs open, I try to close it but the muscles are slack. Moving in with my partner/kisser-with-benefits? Wait until the bureau hears about this. 

      “I’m pretty sure what you just said is against protocol,” I say.

      “When it comes to you, protocol doesn’t enter into it,” Sam mutters.

      “I’m sorry what was that? You have to speak up Prat,” I taunt.

      “Blue,” Sam narrows his eyes at me. “I’m taking your better interest into consideration.”

      “Whatever floats your boat Prat,” I smirk. “I’m certainly not complaining.”  

      Sam lives in the ritzy end of Manhattan, meaning that he can afford an apartment suitable to his pay check. There aren’t any dingy boarded-up buildings or large buildings blocking the skyline, no sir; it’s like walking into a mansion except its only one large studio space that’s rather plain compared to the view and surrounding buildings.

      It’s what I can only describe as ‘penthouse’ with the rich mahogany floors and enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that look out across Manhattan. From Sam’s mini-life-story recount that I received on the way here from Blake’s, Sam has only ever lived in apartments and never had the traditional American home with the white picket fence and nuclear family.

      It’s a far stretch from my stereotypical Aussie homestead of English cottage, I mean really? Not only is he a Prat, but he can afford a shack like this. I’m afraid of putting my duffle down; I don’t want to contaminate the immaculate living space with my…unorthodox uncleanliness. 

      “Make yourself at home,” Sam offers with an outstretched arm.

      “I actually might consider working for the Federal Bureau of Cover Ups if I get paid like this,” I say, trying my best not to drag my heels across the mahogany flooring. “I mean fuck me; I could never afford a place if I cleared out my entire inheritance.”