Chapter Six

"He had a word, too. Love, he called it."
— William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying

It was a darkish and less-than-stormy night.

Actually, I was sleeping at the time, so I couldn't really be sure. But let's just say that the night was dark, but not so much. Darkish, maybe, the way some people at the beach are darkish.

Tanned. Yeah, that's the word I'm looking for. The night was… uh, tanned. Right. Moving on.

The city was asleep.

Well, not literally the city, of course. Cities can't sleep; don't be silly. I was just trying to be dramatic, okay? God, you are so nitpicky.

All right, fine. So the city, in and of itself, wasn't asleep. But the people were asleep. The animals were asleep. All the living things that could possibly sleep were asleep. There, happy? Sheesh.

Moving on. Again.

I, being a living thing that could sleep, was also asleep. But you already know that. I mean, I've already mentioned it right in the second paragraph and everything. But other than that, I was also dreaming.

I was dreaming of a giant ice cream cone asking me to marry him.

I… yes. I just made you plough through a convoluted string of words like that. But shut up, it was a good dream. Sweetness cranked way up to eleven, let me tell you.

Generally, people hate it when you tell them about your dreams, so… yeah, I'll tell you about mine.

So there was this giant ice cream cone, and he could walk and talk. Pistachio, I think. Could've been mint, I don't know—it's not like I licked him or anything, you dirty-minded pony. Anyway, dapper fellow. Dressed in a crisp tuxedo and all that. (Don't ask.) He had a fabulous twirly mustache (Please don't ask.) and his hair (Do. Not. Ask.) was parted neatly on one side.

He also had eagle wings, and for the love of all that is holy please do not ask.

Anyway. I ignored all that, because in his golden waffle fingers sparkled a huge diamond ring.

Well, the ring was huge. The diamond, not so much.

A collective gasp of admiration rose from the surrounding crowd of desserts and pastries. One particular cannoli fainted with envy. The misplaced grilled cheese sandwich beside her started tearing up, blubbering "Oh my god, he's gonna do it."

And just as he went down on one knee—

There was ringing.

I bolted upright in the darkness of my room. Dazed, disoriented, and craving pistachio ice cream, I looked around for the source of the infernal noise.

It wasn't difficult to find.

Right there, innocently lying on my bedside table, my battered veteran phone was ringing.

I stared at it for a while, uncomprehending, because a.) someone was actually calling me, and b.) someone was actually calling me at four in the morning.

Four. In the morning.

I'm pretty sure that's actually illegal in some countries.

Anyway, I grabbed the poor thing and almost dropped it twice before I managed to bring it to my ear.

"Hello?" I positively slurred, falling back down on my pillow.

No answer.

"Hello?" The silence woke me up a little. I mean, a 4 AM call with no one on the other side? That's beyond creepy, dude. "Anyone there?"

Still nothing. Just… static.

I pulled the phone away to check the caller ID. And of course it's an unknown number.

Of course.

This just went even beyond beyond-creepy and plopped right in the middle of nightmare valley. All it needed was a little heavy breathing and some cryptic message like You're next or I'm under your bed or The toilet's clogged again or something like that, and we have a horror movie.

A B-class horror movie, granted, but a horror movie nonetheless.

"Who is this?" I tried, because I'm not a very smart person. I probably should've hanged up, went back to sleep, and married the dessert of my dreams like how all fairy tales should end. But, like I said, I'm not a very smart person.

But wouldn't you know.

"Angela," said the voice on the other side. Male, definitely. Pinched, hesitant, somewhat sheepish. Little scratchy, textured like stubble. It seemed so familiar—too familiar, even—but I just couldn't place it.

"Yeah—" I stifled a yawn, because four in the morning, "—it's me. Who are you and why shouldn't I gut you for interrupting my sleep?"

A pause. And then:

"It's Gill."

Holy.

Crap.

I nearly choked on my tongue. Gill.

Gill, as in Gill Can't-Change-A-Lightbulb Hamilton. As in Gill Comes-And-Goes-As-He-Pleases Hamilton. As in Gill Oh-Crap-I-Just-Threatened-To-Gut-The-Mayor's-Son Hamilton.

And I'm pretty sure it's the Hamilton™ one, because aside from him, I don't think I'm acquainted with any other Gill. And if this was a case of someone dialling the wrong number, well, here's to crossing fingers.

"Gill Hamilton," clarified the voice that apparently belongs to Gill Calls-You-At-Four-AM Hamilton. You know, just in case I got the wrong idea.

Obviously.

"Right." There were a hundred questions I wanted to ask. Like how he got my number, for instance. And whether he'd be kind enough not to mention my threat to his father. Or anyone, for that matter. Anyway. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Yes. Sorry." Something that sounded like an exhale, and some shuffling. And then: "Were you asleep?"

I rolled my eyes so hard I probably looked like Storm rolling her eyes hard. "I was. Not anymore, evidently." I switched the phone to my other hand. "Any reason you're calling?"

If he was calling because of his stupid hooker tie, I swear I'm gonna lose it. My temper, not the tie.

There was a stretch of silence.

A minute passed. I checked the screen to see if he had hanged up, but no; the call was still ongoing, the seconds ticking away the precious time I could've been spending with my dairy fiancé.

Five, ten, fifteen seconds of silence.

I thought he just needed time to mull over his answer, but when another minute passed without a reply, I started getting nervous. Not for myself, mind you, but for Gill. This whole exchange reminded me of that time at the bridge, when I first found him: limp, tired, defeated, sort of like an infomercial salesperson.

Maybe it was in the somber way he spoke, audible even through white noise, with a hint of, I don't know, listlessness? Vaguely apologetic, like he was genuinely sorry to be bothering me so early in the morning. Not sure at all, but something was definitely off.

"Gill?"

Nothing. Damn it.

Wait. What if—what if this call was some sort of a final goodbye or something?

He—he couldn't have done anything, could he? It sounded as if he was alone. No one was with him; he was unsupervised; he could hurt himself and no one would be there to stop him; crap crap crapcrapcrap.

"Gill." This time even I heard the panic in my voice. "Gill, please, say something." I swallowed, hard. "Please."

"I'm outside," he said.

Relief flooded me. Okay, he was alive. Still alive. Damn, the bastard gave me a serious scare, and we weren't even friends. Yet. I can't believe—wait, what?

"Wait," I said, "what?"

"I'm in my car," he said. "Across the street from your building."

"What?" I struggled to my feet, my phone wedged between my ear and the ball of my shoulder. Across the street, he said. I swept the curtains aside, and sure enough, a swanky-looking car was parked right there.

This guy was creepy.

Now I'm not going to say that my heart lurched sideways, or that my stomach twisted itself into knots, because hello, Anatomy 101, and also because none of that happened. What happened was that my hands began shaking so much, my phone actually did slip through my fingers and clattered onto the floor.

"Dang it!"

Hurriedly, I bent down and fumbled with the phone for a good bit, then brought it to my ear.

"—for this," Gill was saying. "I'm—I just need—"

"Gill." He stopped talking. "If I let you in, will you explain what's going on?"

A brief pause, and I swear I could just hear his pretty nose scrunching.

"All right."

The knock on my front door came about two minutes later.

I stood ready in front of it, my phone clutched in one hand, the call already terminated. Behind that door was Gill Hamilton, whom only a week ago I had body-slammed flat on my floor. And right here, on the other side, was me.

To say that I was nervous would be a complete understatement.

How do I say this? He'd been here before, sure. Gill pretty much barged in here whenever he pleased without prior notice. But this… this was different. (Aside from the glaring fact that it was an unusual time for a friendly visit, even for him.) Obviously he needed someone. Right now, he was not Gill Hamilton the Mayor's Son, he was just Gill. The same one I'd met that fateful day: the empty-eyed, lost kid willing to sleep in a stranger's house because he couldn't stomach going back home.

We had our unspoken agreement: He'd come here if he wanted to escape his life for a while. He liked slumming, and I was his slum-buddy. That's it. He never called first, never apologized for coming, never even knocked. If I opened that door, something in our established dynamic—I'm not sure what or why—might change.

Call it instinct. Or paranoia, if you're just that mean.

My legs were trembling, my throat felt dry, and oh my goodness why is it so hard to breathe in here?

"Angela…?" God. I already knew he was out there, but hearing him call out… I couldn't go on pretending he wasn't. He sounded so lost. Like a kitten left in the rain. Hah. I just compared Gill to a kitten and I almost find that amusing.

I am not apologizing for my sense of humor.

"Angela. Are you in there?"

I should open the door, I knew. I mean, I'd told him I'd let him in. Or I could at least speak out and dignify him with some sort of a response.

But gods above, I could not.

"Angela," he said, his voice muffled by the inch-thick slab of chipped wood between us. "If you've changed your mind…" A pause—I stared at the door's peeling paint with bated breath. "…it's all right. I… I'm sorry."

Gah. Of all the times he could've chosen to be so vulnerable, it just had to be now.

I took a step forward, the rusty wheels in my head turning. Somewhere at the back of my mind, a little voice was telling me I was doing the right thing. But why me? Why, of all people, had he chosen to come to me? What on earth could I possibly offer this sad, lonely man who just needed to get away from his life every now and then?

Heart in mouth, I grasped the doorknob and—

He was texting on his phone when I opened the door.

I honestly don't know what I expected. Ugh, rich kids.

"What is this?"

Gill looked up from the spot on the carpet he'd been staring at for ten minutes. And—almighty waffles save me, he had the gall to look confused. "What's what?"

"This. You're stalling." I gave him my most intimidating glare and sat on the chair opposite him. I even tented my fingers like that Godfather guy does in The Godfather. "You said you'd explain everything if I let you in. I held up my end of the bargain, you hold up yours."

He wasn't intimidated in the least.

Probably because of my pajamas.

He heaved a sigh, shook his head, ran his fingers through his hair. Bounced his leg, scratched a corner of his mouth. Probably counted to twenty in his mind. He performed a bunch of other things except one: he didn't explain everything.

"You didn't answer the question," I reminded him.

"What question?"

Ugh. The sly bastard.

"Okay." I glanced at the clock: 4:27 AM. Cripes. "Please tell me why you're here." When he looked away, I added: "I said please."

"They know about you."

Riiight. If that's not an ominous sentence, I don't know what is.

Before anything else, I'd like to point out that there were three things that bothered me. One, who in the world they were. Two, that they apparently knew about me. And three, if that fact was so important that Gill had to come here at four in the goddamned morning, I was probably in trouble.

I knew I shouldn't have jaywalked that time. And all those other times. And I probably shouldn't have stolen a candy from that baby. And I shouldn't have rung Mr. Anderson's doorbell and ran away. And—

Okay, you get it. I'm possibly a criminal.

"If you could, you know, elaborate, that would be fantastic."

"My father," he said, frowning. "Him and his agents. They know about you."

Well, that cleared everything up the way fog clears mirrors. His father? Like, the mayor? The mayor mayor? If this was a continuation of that blasted ice cream fiancé dream, then by all things sweet and tasty I was so ready to wake up.

"He's had people follow me around," Gill explained, as if I would understand. "Undercover, of course. Make sure I wouldn't try anything funny. Didn't even realize it until recently." He scoffed. "Apparently I led them here. Now he suspects you."

"Of what?" Oh gods above this is not how I wanted to get the mayor's attention.

Gill shrugged. I so did not need this. Not this early in the morning. Not ever. He noticed my expression (flabbergasted? Dumbfounded? Totally ready to get up and run like hell?) and sighed.

He stood up and stared at me with something that resembled resolve. "Come with me."

1. I, uh… This is awkward. Look, a walking ice cream cone! (With eagle wings.)

2. All right, I'm sorry. Tbh this fic isn't a priority in my life right now. I mean, its folder name in my computer is "Something something." And the individual chapters themselves are named "New Microsoft Word Document," for Pete's sake, so you can really see how much thought and effort I put in this thing.

3. Um, please don't expect regular updates or anything. I, uh… Look, an eagle-man! *Throws plot-related stuff at you*

4. *Runs like hell*