Safe Words 3: Angel's Grace, Chapter 10

Saturday afternoon, time and a half, and fresh plump snow billowed out behind the glossy pickup truck as Brian pushed it to its limits along the Il-80. It had snowed all morning, and he was the first along the road, making fresh tracks and leaving a frosty cloud in his wake. He caught his fractional, bent-corner smile in the rearview as he watched the plumes behind him. He was doing sixty down the country road, but in his boss’s new truck, it felt like nothing.

He never thought an expensive truck would be much different from a cheaper one. Weren’t they all supposed to be sort of basic? Gus, his boss, had really treated himself when he bought this beauty just a month ago. It was meant for work, with GUS STEVENSON PLUMBING HEATING AIR CONDITIONING, est. 1987, written on the side—not blazed all over like the trucks the crews drove out on the jobs. Classy. This would be, like, the executive model. Leather seats, premium radio, Sirius, GPS, backup camera. Brian squeezed the wheel, skin squeaking against the tight leather. Pure envy.

Six-point-eight, diesel something. He didn't know really what that meant. He knew the sound the truck would make and how, with the touch of his toe, he could make the thing respond. Like petting a tiger in the right spot, but a tiger that you could control. He knew that six-point-eight was better than five-point-eight. Engines weren’t really his thing, but he could definitely find value in being seen in a vehicle like this.

He was out of the suburbs now, but not far. Trees, farms, and wide open roads. Homes set way back from the road so you could barely see them. He let some more speed out of the truck and drummed on the steering wheel. With Angel coming home soon for break, there was a lot on his mind. He hadn't seen her now for three months straight. It was tough, but they talked almost every other night. Or used to. It wasn't the same, though, anyway, as going out and hanging somewhere, doing stuff, like when she was living at the farm.

“Among the Living” became “Caught in a Mosh,” pounding out of the stereo. His iPhone’s thin white cord violated the USB input of Gus’s perpetually sports radio tuned stereo. Anthrax had to be about the best band ever. How had something so powerful and such a perfect companion for his emotion been missed all these years? He’d known the logo from T-shirts and old posters but hadn’t heard a note until this fall, one day lifting weights with Tintin.

One day he’d be pulling a truck like this into one of these driveways, coming home to Angel. Gus liked him, he worked hard, and one day, he bet, Gus would make him a supervisor, and supervisors drove take-home trucks. Angel was smart. Like genius level. She could be a lawyer or a politician. Or a lawyer, then a politician. Either way, it wasn’t hard to foresee a life where they’d have a house like one of these ones; Angel could work in Chicago, he’d be all over the south, supervising crews for Gus, and one day, very soon, Angel would get pregnant, and then they could—

The truck’s back end wandered to the right, and he turned the steering wheel to the left. The back end didn’t stop sweeping, and frosty panic shivered up his back, picturing losing control of his boss’s truck and destroying it in a ditch. The truck slid sideways on the slick road, shuddering and shaking as the wheels crossed patches of ice and then patches of dry asphalt, then the back end suddenly swung the other way, like a pendulum, only this time when he yanked the steering wheel to correct it, the whole truck spun around, the snowy farm landscape blurring in a white and black smudge, his heart hammering in his chest, Anthrax booming in the chaos. He screamed and reefed the wheel the opposite way, praying—fucking praying—he wouldn’t put a mark on Gus’s new pickup. The wheels screeched, the truck hopped and bounced but stayed level. He jammed his foot on the brake as hard as he could and now rubber howled. The truck spun one more time, then shot powerless in reverse, sliding on ice before coming to a stop.

He opened his eyes. The truck was dead. All the warning lights lit up the dashboard. Anthrax’s drums still stuttered like a deafening machine gun. He stabbed the mute button. A steady and frantic ding-ding-ding played out now in his ears. The truck faced the way he’d come from. The road was painted with erratic tire marks showing how crazy close he’d come to spiraling into the ditch in a hundred-thousand dollar pickup truck he didn’t own. He panted in frightened chuffs, heart galloping a thousand miles an hour still.

“Please, please,” he whispered as he turned the key in the ignition and shut the truck off. The dash went dead. “Don’t do this to me.”

He turned the key again and the truck’s dash came to life. No warning lights. He turned it further and the six-point-eight rumbled to life. The relief didn’t bring joy, only a sudden swelling of tears. He wiped his eyes and sniffled, shook his head, and strangled the steering wheel. By the time he pulled Gus’s truck onto the shoulder, he was sobbing long, dry sounds he fucking hated. He threw the truck in park as an eighteen wheeler rocketed by and the truck shook in its wake. Fucking thirty seconds off and he would have exploded on that truck’s grill.

The fucking tears wouldn’t stop and he growled and shouted, grabbed the steering wheel and shook it as hard as he could, shook it like he wanted to rip it off. Then he punched it. It hurt his hand, so he swatted it over and over until he thought he’d broken his finger. Then he gripped that finger and sat sullen, waiting for the rage and the crying to stop. His vision warbled with tears, but eventually his breathing calmed and the sobbing ended. He snatched up his phone from the cupholder and opened it. He swiped open the Find My Phone and waited. There was only one contact who shared location, and he waited and waited for a signal to appear. Used to share location. His jaw muscles flexed as he stared at the screen showing only his location, Angel’s ID listed on the bottom, no beacon showing where she was right now. He touched her name, and the app asked him if he’d like to request the share with this other user. User.

He raised his arm like he would throw his phone against the passenger-side floor and destroy it, but then let his hand fall to his lap. He shook his head in deep hurt and lamentation, cursing through gritted teeth. “Fucking bitch. Fucking, fucking bitch.”

***

An hour later and Grace’s cruelty had settled on her shoulders. The way Grace had tricked her, manipulated her, and all for the purpose of control. And her response? She’d snuggled up against Grace and let the woman play between her thighs.

How had it come to this?

Since last night’s walk, and its frightening discovery, she’d sworn the decision was made in her own mind to set things straight. And yet, all she’d accomplished today was getting herself more stuck in what could be a nefarious trap. She chewed her cheek, sitting alone on the edge of the narrow bed in the massage room at the spa. Skyler and some other security guy drove Grace and Angel in the Rolls Royce to the other end of Newport, from the inlet coast to the ocean coast, to a huge Gilded Age mansion not unlike Baron and Grace’s mansion, though this one about a third of the size. This mansion was a five-star hotel and had its own separate spa.

She parted the front of her robe and examined the Philippine woman’s handiwork. All her pubic hair had been removed with sticky wax. Her powdered mound was smooth and hairless. The procedure was oddly clinical, and it surprised her Grace hadn’t arranged for the even to be more humiliating. Perhaps Diego could have been in the room as a witness. She should be thankful that—

The room door opened and Grace came in, wearing a matching robe. Their eyes met. Grace cocked her head.

The room was small and square, brightly colored in turquoise, white, and orange, the wooden furniture in blond maple. A fire crackled in the mouth of a white mantelpiece.

Grace crossed the room then, somehow making a fluffy white robe and padded white slippers look like the height of elegance. She stood before Angel, studying her. Behind Angel, beyond the room’s single large window, the mottled gray sky bloomed above the turbulent ocean, rough in shades of charcoal and blue steel. The flat light fell on Grace’s flawless face and her dark, stony eyes. Those plump lips of hers, dry and brown without lipstick, still showed feminine perfection with their curl and angular Cupid’s Bow.

She ran her long fingernails through the hair at Angel’s temple and Angel’s head sagged away. Grace smiled. “You’re mad at me.”

Angel said, “No, I’m not,” but couldn’t look her in the eye.

Grace chuckled and didn’t relent, still stroking her fingers through Angel’s hair. Angel didn’t move further away and let Grace play.

“You’re mad because of Diego.”

Angel shook her head no, looking down at the plush turquoise-and-white rug.

“You weren’t mad when we watched him fuck Sarah’s girl. What’s changed?”

Grace’s use of foul language surprised her. She said, “Nothing’s changed. I’m not mad.”

Grace sighed, not with anger, but with a sound of patience. “You’re young. You have the way you see the world. I welcome you to it. Have you read Nietzsche?”

“No.”

“There’s so much for you to learn, my Angel.” Now Grace’s hand fell to Angel’s shoulder and Angel finally looked up to meet her gaze.

“You’re saying I’m a child.”

Grace’s good humor faltered. “If I thought you were a child, would you be here? Would you be in my company?”

“Why did you make Skyler shave me? Why would you want to test me?”

“Why would you let me finger you when you were mad at me?—because it felt good.”

“You mean you made Skyler shave me because it makes you feel good?”

Now Grace was the one to shake her head no. Her hand cupped the back of Angel’s head and she moved closer, pushing against Angel’s knees to gain passage. Angel let her legs widen and Grace stood between them. She lowered her mouth to Angel’s and Angel kissed her without hesitation. Grace had the most amazing lips. They felt incredible. Soft, yet firm; yielding at times and at other times strong and demanding. She moaned.

While they kissed, Grace pulled the belt of Angel’s robe and it sagged open. She touched between Angel’s thighs with the back of her hand, her delicate knuckles rolling against her labia, exploring.

Grace broke the kiss. “She did a wonderful job.”

Angel didn’t answer, sucking on her own lips and admiring Grace’s exquisite beauty. She rested her weight on her hands, spread out behind her, letting Grace see what an amazing job the woman who’d waxed her had done.

Grace’s hand drifted away, and she stood tall before Angel’s open thighs, chuckling again. She undid her own robe’s belt and let it fall open. Grace’s pubic thatch remained untouched, still a well-groomed patch of black hair protecting her sensitive part. Grace eased one shoulder out of the lapel of the robe, and it began to slide down her body. The sound it made against her skin drove Angel wild. Grace was a sculpture. It fell to the floor and Grace stepped back, fully naked, toward the massage table lined next to the one Angel sat on.

She turned then, her long, glossy black hair swaying, and faced her own table. The flat ocean-side light fell on the raised scars lacing her Mistress’s back. Grace spied Angel over her shoulder, letting Angel look at the marks.

“You were outside my window last night,” Grace said.