Scratch
Saturday night was DVD night. Despite the tension in the house, Noel was looking forward to unwinding with a little Hollywood fantasy material. Maybe two hours with someone else's problems would take some of the strain out of the dynamic in the Aquino household.
Noel had forgotten to pick something up earlier in the week -- it hadn't exactly been a normal week -- so he'd sent Ricky and Angela off to the rental place to see what they could dig up. Meanwhile, Noel busied himself with making popcorn and shifting the furniture into Movie Mode. Noel would have left it that way all the time but for a lingering respect for something Margaret had often harped about -- "We don't live our lives around what's on the boob tube."
Sudden noise at the front door marked the teens' return.
"We're back!"
"What'd you get?" Noel called out from the kitchen.
"A thriller." Ricky's head poked around the corner. "*Abandon*."
Noel cradled the giant popcorn bowl on his arms, interlocking his fingers around three glasses of soda before carefully following Ricky to the living room.
"*Abandon*, huh? I don't know that one. Is it old? Who's in it?"
Angela checked the back of the box for the synopsis. "Katie Holmes and Benjamin Bratt. From a couple years ago."
The tone in the room was civil, comfortable. It seemed no one was in the mood to acknowledge what a weird week it had been. Noel would have been tempted to forestall the movie for a few minutes just to hold on to the friendly mood, if he didn't suspect it would crack at any moment.
"Well, drop it in and let's roll it."
Noel was more than a little uncomfortable with where the movie seemed to be heading. Fresh-faced college senior Katie, looking both younger and older than her years, was convinced her long-disappeared ex-boyfriend was back and stalking her; she seemed drawn to Wade, a detective struggling to get his career back on track -- and struggling with his attraction to Katie.
Who picked this movie?
Angela, of course.
Had she known?
Was she sending a message?
What message?
She said she hadn't seen it before. "I just liked the picture on the box."
Noel looked at Angela, sitting sideways with her feet up on the couch.
Apparently he looked too long, because eventually she turned to look back at him.
Noel smiled, nervous. She smiled back, oblivious. They both returned to the film.
Why did she have to be so cute? So innocent? So sweet?
So beautiful? So attractive? So *sexy*?
So much like Margaret?
Noel scolded himself. This wasn't about Margaret anymore. He wouldn't defile her memory by placing the blame there. That was just an excuse.
This was nothing more than a man who needed to control his base urges.
The urge to possess. To ravish. To hold.
To caress. To comfort. To protect. To nurture.
To love.
No!
The sexual tension grew onscreen, just as Noel had been feeling it grow in his own life over the last two weeks . . .
And then... IT happened.
He noticed it gradually. Subconscious recognition of warmth. And then pressure. He was about to shift in his chair when his mind traced the warmth up from between his legs to his thigh... He looked down...
Angela's hand was in his lap.
If Noel was ever going to have a heart attack, now would be the time. He would have gasped, had not every muscle in his chest tightened like a vice, freezing him in place. Except his heart, which hammered at him -- pop! pop! pop! pop! pop! -- desperate to escape.
When did that get there?
His eyes turned slowly sideways and down. Angela was sprawled sideways on the couch, her feet in Ricky's lap, the boy's hand gently, absentmindedly stroking her, from the soft swell of her calf, fingers slipping along smooth buttery skin that glowed in the flickering light of the screen, down her shin, past her ankle, thumb just grazing her achilles tendon, fingers relaxing to cradle the top of her small foot, lingering just a moment before sliding slowly back the way they came.
Noel's eyes ran ahead of Ricky's fingers, tracing back up the reclining gamine form, up long coltish legs made alabaster in the light of a bright scene onscreen, to soft flaring hips hugged by expertly frayed cutoffs, up a tiny torso made bare by a ragged-hemmed baby tee, across long black hair spread like a glamour shot over her shoulders, chest, and back, her head laid sideways across the armrest, one arm tucked underneath, hand resting on the other shoulder... and the other arm dangling off the end of the couch, across the armrest of Noel's chair, her small hand and delicate fingers resting right on his thigh. Very high up his thigh. And very far inward, her index finger nestled in the folds of his trousers.
So subtle... how could the kind of touch that he hadn't felt in some fifteen years sneak in under the radar like that? Either Angela was the most innocent young woman in the world, or the most experienced.
Somehow, she seemed to be both.
And then he felt it.
A twitch.
Her?
His eyes strained downward, almost leaning out of his sockets for a better view.
Again: twitch.
Not her. Him.
Oh. Lord. Please. No.
Eyes strained sideways. Angela's attention was riveted to the screen. If she noticed, she wasn't letting on.
How could she not notice? Her hand was... Right... There...
Think about Baseball. (...Bat and balls.)
Bowling. (...Balls. Fingers in the holes. Nice pins.)
Football. (...Tight end.)
It had been so long since Noel had had to defuse himself, he couldn't seem to remember how.
He recalled grisly murders he'd been assigned.
Crimes of passion.
He thought of the Bible.
Thou Shalt Not Become Aroused.
And God Said...
"Oh, God! Noel, that was incredible!"
Oh, God, Forgive me, it's growing...
Noel's face screwed up, his head tilting ever so slightly away from Angela, desperately willing It to shift the other way.
But It knew what It wanted.
Noel looked down in abject horror to see Angela's pinkie finger lifted slightly by what grew beneath it...
He had to get up. Fast. All in one quick movement. Throw the interloping hand clear before Angela realized where it had been. If she wasn't doing this on purpose in the first place.
Her ring finger straightened.
On screen, young Katie gave older detective Wade a look that was innocence and trepidation and desire all at once.
Angela sighed softly.
Noel shifted his shoulders ever so slightly. His arm nearest Angela was up on the back of the couch. (Opening position for a movie makeout move, Noel thought darkly.) If he could just get his arm under hers, he could lift her hand with one quick motion.
Like lifting the needle off a record without scratching it.
As his arm retreated slowly, his mental gears ground furiously, searching for some excuse for the move. Preferably one that wouldn't call any attention to where her hand had been. Er, was now.
He sneezed.
In his head, he heard a needle drag across a record.
Angela suddenly sat upright. Her hands shot to her lap. Even in the darkness, Noel thought he could see her cheeks burning bright red. He also saw Ricky looking not at the screen, but at her. At him. The younger Aquino's eyebrow raised, like he didn't know what he was looking at, but he knew he was seeing *something*.
Noel glued his eyes to the screen. He dared not look away, lest Ricky's suspicions grow.
Angela, for her part, sat utterly upright, and utterly still. What was going through her mind? Shock? Horror? Regret? Guilt?
Disappointment?
Anticipation?
Who was the hunted, and who was the hunter?
The movie was approaching its climax. Onscreen, Noel was following Angela through the basement of an abandoned building.
No, Wade was following Katie. Noel couldn't focus on the screen, only dimly aware of what was happening.
And when the final shot faded, Noel bolted. Practically running for the safest place he could think of. The bathroom. Only after he'd locked the door did he realize it was a valid destination and suggested a good reason for his behavior.
Well, the running out of the room part of it, anyway.
Noel's fear had solved his... *problem*. He quickly established his cover story by taking a demonstrative leak. He had to remind himself not to overdo it when he washed his hands -- in his profession, Noel knew that overemphasized normal actions were a sure sign of guilt. Of course, when you were guilty of something, you couldn't just relax and let your subconscious go about being normal -- everything was hyperanalyzed to the point of obliterating any sense of normal.
Noel hoped that the pair of teens in the other room hadn't developed the sixth sense for guilt. --What was he thinking? Teenagers were experts on the subject, dealing with it from the perspective of the guilty party all too often. Even good kids like Ricky slipped occasionally and were tempted to cover it up.
Well, I can't stay locked up in here all night. And I can't leave them alone in there, or they might get to talking...
Noel put on his best saunter and returned to the living room. Ricky was still there on the couch, stretching, his expression that of a young man trying to think of a good reason to stay up, and finding nothing other than "only little kids go to bed this early." Beneath it there was a shade of skeptical curiosity, as if he thought he'd missed something.
Angela was gone.
Noel wasn't going to ask. He busied himself gathering up the popcorn and soda glasses. Ricky grabbed the remote and, after a moment's hesitation, switched the TV off. Being grounded meant no TV, and despite the silent exception made for DVD night, Noel wasn't going to extend clemency any further. He was thankful that Ricky wasn't going to challenge it now. In the past, even the suggestion of defiance was unthinkable, but lately Noel had no idea how Ricky would react to anything.
Like his girlfriend's hand in his dad's lap.
The tension in the house was back. And it was thicker than ever.
The Aquino residence was a powderkeg.
And Angela Barrett had just lit the fuse.
"Oh, God! Harder, Noel, harder! Yes! Yes!"
Noel bolted upright in his bed. His heart was pounding, he breathed in gasps. The sheets were soaked with sweat.
This can't be happening. I have to get myself under control.
I have to get her under control.
His throat was parched. He needed a glass of water.
Something took him not to the bathroom but down the hall, ostensibly toward the kitchen.
He heard breathing and paused at the guest bedroom door.
Rapid breathing.
As if on its own accord, Noel's hand pressed against the door, swinging it half open.
Angela lay in bed, tossing to and fro, caught in the throes of a nightmare.
"Mmmmm."
"Nnnngh."
"Ohh..."
Not a nightmare.
Suddenly she gasped. And fell both still and silent.
Noel stood there with bated breath. Listening. Watching.
Wondering if she'd been dreaming, or awake.
Wondering if she'd... finished.
Wondering if she'd imagined herself with him.
She was breathing again. Slow, soft, deep, calming breaths.
And through the darkness, Noel saw the object of his obsession staring back at him.