Thoroughly Whipped

“Jesus Christ,” the angel said. I was shocked to find angels had English accents and also took the Lord’s name in vain.

“Viscount Sinclair will love that the celestial beings of heaven are English. Why do you have to have an English accent? Does that mean that the British have been justified in feeling superior to everyone else this entire time? We’ll never hear the end of it. I always thought an Australian accent would suit angels. G’day, Mate. You’ve only gone and fucking died. But don’t worry, there’s enough shrimp for everyone on this barbie.”

“Faith. I’m taking you to hospital. I think it’s safe to say if you’re speaking with such a terrible Australian accent, you have a concussion.”

The angel lifted me in his strong arms, and I couldn’t stop staring at his seraphic face. Wait, angels were genderless, right? No genitals. No sex.

“Do you not have a dick?” I asked the angel. His blue eyes blinked at me, yet he said nothing. It didn’t matter. “Such a perfect face.” I stroked his cheek. It was rough under my palm, but I didn’t mind. I’d always had a weird thing about liking the feel of sandpaper on my skin.

“Faith, you are speaking aloud. You are saying everything aloud.”

“Will you sing to me?” I asked. I wanted to hear the angel sing.

“Nobody should be subjected to that torture,” the angel said. I wanted to pout, but I couldn’t stop stroking his pretty face.

“I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful.” The angel placed me down on something warm. It must have been his cloud. He sat beside me, and I felt like we were floating. As we moved, I felt my eyes begin to close. “Sleep,” I said, the warmth around me cocooning me in its embrace. “I’ll just have a little nap.”

“No. Faith. Stay awake.” A sudden blast of cold attacked my face.

“No!” I moaned. “Bring back the cocoon!”

“I need you to stay awake. Can you do that for me?” I struggled to keep my eyes open, but the angel wanted me to stay awake. He was too beautiful to say no to. Then I felt his hand in mine. It was so big and strong, but it felt so right pressed against my palm.

“You’re not allowed to let go of my hand ever again, okay?” I said and held it against my face like a pillow. “You smell of mint, sandalwood, and musk.” Someone else I knew smelled that way. “Harry!” I shouted. “Harry smells like this too. But he’s not kind like you. He looks down on people. And he hates me. Like, really hates me.”

The angel didn’t say anything for a while. Then, “I’m sure that’s far from the truth.”

I cuddled into the hand again, and suddenly we stopped floating and the angel took back his hand. But then he lifted me up to his hard chest, and we flew. I heard beeping and something cold being pressed on my head. I thought I’d lost my angel and panic set in, but then I felt his hand take hold of mine again. And as I closed my eyes, I knew that I was safe.

Chapter Eleven

“Holy shit,” I groaned, feeling like I had an ill-tempered groundhog burrowing inside my head. I blinked, eyelids like ten-ton weights, and tried to open my eyes. The view of an unfamiliar white-tiled ceiling met me. “What the hell?” I said, as I tried to remember something, anything about how I got here. A hospital? I could hear the familiar beeps of machines and smell the strong scent of Lysol and pine disinfectant.

Then I felt something in my hand, something warm. Something that was gripping me tightly, keeping me centered. I rolled my head to the side, and my eyes rounded in shock at seeing Harry Sinclair sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair. His eyes were closed and his breathing was even, chest rising and falling under his white rugby jersey that had “England Rugby” on the left breast underneath a bright red rose.

I was glad I wasn’t hooked up to a life-support machine, as I was pretty sure it would have been belting out the melody of “God Save the Queen.”

Harry? What the heck was he doing here?

Then, as if a dam wall had broken, a flood of memories crashed into my already bruised brain—the rec center, the charity, Harry playing rugby with children on the new artificial field…then taking a smack to the face with that fucking ball. After that, the memories became sparse, like scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle I was desperately trying to fit back together. Something about an angel. A light? I didn’t friggin’ know.

But there was a hand. There was the tight grip of a hand that had wielded its way through all the white noise. I looked down at Harry’s hand tightly holding mine, even as he slept. And I stared. I was pretty sure I stared for too many minutes to be normal.