Ashes
> > The hopeful memory tortured her.
If only she could go back to that moment and do everything after that over again.
Things would be okay with Ricky now, if only I hadn't-
No. *That* is a memory you can't go back to.
She didn't need to dwell on it to know that she and Ricky would never be the same.
And yet she woke up to find him standing next to her. Waiting for her.
It must be Tuesday. Now that Noel was out of town and Ricky was staying with the Robinsons, he could probably sneak out of the house whenever he wanted. (Though now that Becky had her claws into him -- almost literally, Angela remembered, when she'd stopped at the Aquinos to pay them back -- Angela was surprised Ricky got out of the house at all, especially to see her.) But Tuesday was habit. Seeing him now was an echo of broken love.
Why did he do this? Why did he make himself available, and yet unavailable? Why did he torture her with his concern? Every time she'd finally let him go, he came back -- only to remind her how far apart they were.
She became immediately depressed at the thought of another episode of strained small talk.
But something was different this time. She could tell the moment he looked at her. Ricky wasn't... well, he wasn't Ricky. He was too happy to see her. Too... *pleased*.
"I was just about to wake you up."
"What... what are you doing here?"
"I needed to get out of the house. I think Becky's mad at me."
"You had a fight?"
Ricky's brow furrowed. "No, not a fight." As if he and Becky couldn't have a fight, because that would mean they were together. A small sliver of relief found Angela. "She's just... I don't know, moody lately. So I had to get out of the house."
Angela felt a vibe in Ricky -- Becky wasn't the only person who was moody. Though Ricky's mood was anything but cross. It was a little too sunny, especially for him. "So you came... here," she led.
She was laying on her bed, and he was sitting next to her. Kind of leaning over her. He kept looking at her, and not just her eyes -- his gaze wandered over her face, her hair, her body... like he'd forgotten what she'd looked like and was trying to do a better job of memorizing her.
"Well, yeah. I wanted to see what you were up to." He leaned a little closer...
Angela felt suddenly hot -- and felt an overwhelming need to get out of bed. She rolled to the far side, away from Ricky.
"I'm thirsty," she covered, "want something to drink?"
She needed more than a drink. She was feeling all creepy-crawly and raw and hollow, her movements a little uncoordinated. Her heart made big slow hawumping beats in her chest. Halfway to the kitchen she began to feel dizzy; a hand on the wall steadied her enough to stumble up against the counter.
There, her bottle of Perfectua. Actually, a travel-size aspirin bottle. One of the girls at work -- at the place she *used* to work -- had told her not to keep her pills in an unmarked bottle because it looked suspicious. With Ricky here in her house unannounced she was glad she'd done it -- even though she only had one or two pills left.
Which was it? One, or two? When was the last time she'd taken one? She'd *almost* had one this morning. Or was it yesterday morning? She'd been sleeping so much, as much to escape depression as to stave off withdrawal. Withdrawal -- it wasn't a dirty word, it happened with legitimate drugs too. It didn't mean she was an addict. In fact, she was going to quit.
She snapped open the bottle cap. Its rattle went silent, and she had just one pill in her hand. Okay, I guess I did take one in the morning. I'll definitely have to get more tomorrow.
Hands on her shoulders startled her. "Headache?" Ricky asked cheerfully, his hands starting a vigorous massage.
Angela broke away, turning so he couldn't see the pill, popping it in her mouth. Her throat was too dry to swallow; she balanced the tab on her tongue as she quickly filled a used waterglass and then emptied it in one long gulping pull.
"Yeah, headache," Angela breathed.
"Well, why don't we sit on the couch."
"Okay," she replied, looking at Ricky strangely. He was pretending like nothing had ever happened between them. Was this his way of reconciling? After everything? No. Something was wrong.
"So why is Becky mad at you?" Angela didn't want to talk about Becky, but she really didn't want to talk about herself.
"I don't know. Girls her age just get like that sometimes."
Her age. As if it was different from his age. Did that mean he didn't see Becky as his intellectual or emotional equal? "Maybe it's just that time of the month," Angela offered.
"Yeah, maybe. But I don't want to talk about her anyway."
Angela practically jumped into the next subject, before Ricky could say anything more. "So how's your dad?" Angela didn't want to talk about Noel Aquino either, but it beat the alternative.
"He's fine, I guess. He doesn't tell me much about his work. I haven't heard from him since you came over to the house."
To pay Noel back. Angela remembered the way Ricky had looked at her then. She remembered the way she'd been dressed. Like a stripper. "By the way, Ricky, you know I don't dress like that all the time."
"Like what? I thought you looked great." Great? What was Ricky up to? He reminded her more of her old horndog ex Josh than he did of himself.
What did Becky do to you, Ricky? Why are you acting this way? Is this some kind of act to make me feel better about everything? Or do you really think this kind of sleazy booty call is going to work?
"So, I guess you've been busy," Ricky said.
"Huh? Oh, yeah. Sorry about the mess..."
"Have you been, um, you know..." He meant Sapphire.
"Not much, not really. Just this one thing, and it's just surveillance, nothing dangerous." His hand on her shoulder was feeling really good. Angela didn't realize how twisted and stiff she'd gotten until he started working the kinks out.
"That's good. I worry about you."
"You don't have to. -Hey, could you do that on the other shoulder?"
"Sure. Sit sideways."
She sat sideways on the couch with her back to him. Immediately her massage came in stereo.
"Ohhh, yeah!" she moaned.
Ricky took her enthusiasm as a license to expand the scope to a full backrub. Angela was glad she was wearing a loose-fitting half-top so he could work without asking her to take it off -- that would be a little awkward. But only a little. Somewhere in the back of Angela's mind a very harsh but very small voice reminded her that she'd promised herself she wouldn't just fall into bed with Ricky again. The voice was going on and on about him not respecting her, or about sex being a distraction from working out their problems... she wasn't really paying attention.
Meanwhile, Ricky's hands had found their way up underneath her loose top and were rubbing out the kinks *much* more effectively. His artist's hands roamed freely over her bare back. Actually, they were stroking and caressing lightly as much as massaging firmly -- the back-and-forth contrast was invigorating.
When did Ricky get so good at this?
Angela was having a hard time staying upright -- her upper body rocked back and forth as Ricky would change up his technique. He would get to thumbing deep into weary muscles, pushing so hard she had to push back as hard as she could to keep from flopping forward onto the couch; then she'd almost slam back into him as he'd quickly relax and go with feather-light touches. It got to the point where it was a game between them, and Angela was leaning way forward or way back on her own.
And then without warning, when Angela leaned particularly far back, Ricky slid to one side, cradling her in one arm to keep her from going flat on her back. Off-balance and helpless in his arms, when he bent down and kissed her, she couldn't defend herself. Not that she wanted to.
Mmmm. A massage was nice, but kissing was nicer.
Why hadn't they necked like this before?
Perhaps because extraordinary circumstances had cheated them of a proper courtship -- flash-forging a bond of deep attachment and permitting an exploration of their feelings for one another without any pretense of reputation or propriety. Love had shed itself of hesitation. When bigger issues of recovery from profound trauma and struggling with the burden of one's gift loomed, the game of getting on base and advancing toward home plate one hard-earned hit at a time seemed petty and childish.
But in foregoing any sense of the forbidden, there'd been neither sacrifice nor accomplishment, neither hesitation nor thrill. Sex had from the start been thrust into a profound and serious light, losing some of its fearful wonder.
There'd been no innocence lost.
So in a way they were just making up for a missed opportunity.
Shut up, brain, can't I just enjoy this?
Mmmm... kissing *and* touching.
Angela had to suppress a giggle; Ricky was trying to unbutton her top without her noticing. She made a game of "discovering" his awkward three-fingered button-squirming and pushing his hand away with playful "Ricky!"s and "don't!"s and "stop it!"s. But after several attempts, she let him have one, then gasped and pushed him away when she "found" that she'd been made to expose a bit more cleavage.
"Ricky, what are you doing?"
"What?" he said with a shit-eating grin.
"Are you trying to get into my panties?"
"Why, is there something in your panties I should be interested in?"
She put her hand on his tented pants. "I think somebody's already interested."
Flirting was fun, but she was horny, and after getting dumped by Dino, she had to admit she was a little frustrated. As for Ricky, even if he wasn't hard as a rock (and oh boy *was* he!), when had a guy ever turned down a chance to go the distance?
So she knew they were going to have sex again. But that was okay.
Ricky was being a little forward -- for Ricky, anyway. No, he'd been forward before; his behavior tonight was downright brazen. But after all that had happened between them she welcomed the change. Maybe he'd gotten over *it*. It was almost like they'd gone back to the way things were before, only without all of her hang-ups.
Maybe now, finally, they could get over their problems.
Or maybe it was just sex. So what? Even that was better than shivering alone in the darkness. She was tired of searching for meaning, tired of trying to figure out what men were thinking, tired of trying to make relationships work, and tired of tying sex to love.
She still loved Ricky, but if he didn't want them to share their lives, there was still something they could share for now.
Angela was sitting between Ricky's legs now, leaning back against him, feeling all the delicate wet nibbles on her ears and neck and shoulders. He'd managed to completely unbutton her top, the two halves forming a loose curtain he played with as his hands worked around and on her breasts. She "punished" him whenever he did something particularly pleasurable by twitching her hips, shifting her backside against his engorged prick, which made him jump. This would make her giggle, and he'd silence her by stepping up his oral and manual manipulations.
When it became clear that he was making a run over the shoulders and heading for the mountains, Angela wiggled away. Standing up just long enough to shuck her tight terry-cloth shorts, leaving her in just her unbuttoned little top and cute little pink panties, she made a show of licking her lips as she sat back down on the other side of the couch, facing him, her bare feet in his lap, pretending to rub each other but really just rubbing his dick.
Ricky tossed her legs aside with a faux-serious "you asked for it" look on his face that he struggled to hold as he too stood and dropped trou. Angela noted with surprise that he sported sexy bikini underwear, almost comically distorted by his erection. Sure enough, once legs freed themselves of pants and he stood up straight, so did his cock -- breaking loose above the waistband with a funny snap-slap.
Angela expected him to just jump her bones right there, but he didn't. Instead he kneeled next to the couch and took her foot in his hands, bringing it to his lips...
Well, this is really the royal treatment! I just hope he doesn't draw it out *too* long...
Ricky kissed her toes. Lips and fingers worked slowly up her leg, pausing to tickle the back of her knee before resuming their delicious march toward her hip, with nothing more than a teasing pass at the inner thigh. He quickly repeated the trip up her other leg.
Instead of making a boyish run at an erogenous zone, Ricky continued to woo her -- as if she needed any wooing at this point! -- by taking her soft hand in his. Soft kisses around each knuckle were contrast to the firm grip of his calloused artist's fingers. He lingered before nudging and nibbling his way up her arm to her shoulder, but she could tell from the evenness of his pace that this was entirely for her benefit. By the time he'd mirrored the treatment on her other hand and arm nearly move for move, she sensed a buzzing urgency in him.
But this too was just cover. When after locking lips he began to run his hands through her hair, fingertips pressing hard, the true motivation for his meticulous tactile seduction became obvious.
He was searching her, to make sure she wasn't wearing any of her sapphires.
It was an act of caution, or mistrust.
Not that she could blame him.
It was almost laughable -- there was no way she could have concealed wearing the giant gemstones and glittery tiara, any more than she could have slipped them on without him noticing as their petting became heated -- but it spoke to the depths of his fear. As much as him going at it with her on the couch spoke to his arousal.
She broke off frantic face-sucking long enough to breathe, "it's okay; it's just me, baby."
There was a brief pause, as Ricky realized that he was both busted and cleared, and then lust really took over.
He practically dove at her, his dick somehow fully freeing itself from the confines of his cute little man-panties -- manties? -- before nestling itself between her thighs, pressing insistently up against her soaked crotch. She started to hook her thumbs in the waistband of her panties when she felt him lift off her for a moment, but was surprised to feel his hand grab hold of the gusset and give a tug.
"Ricky, that's not gonna-" she started, but his fingers had found a small hole and were spreading it wider. Rrripp! Rriipp! Then his hand shifted and gave a quick yank, the seam gave way, and she was exposed.
Shoot, and I liked that pair...
But a second later all thought left her as his sword ran into her so deeply it seemed to tickle the back of her neck.
One hard thrust wasn't really Ricky's style, but Angela was beyond complaining as her nervous system lit up like paparazzi at an open limo door.
Ricky was an animal, slamming away as if the future of the species depended on it. Angela gave as good as she got, grabbing her knees and spreading wide and bucking up at him
Ricky's face was locked in concentration, a sexual athelete so lost in his performance any sense of self was obliterated. For a moment Angela worried -- she'd seen that frozen expression before -- but then his hips locked and he began driving at her with his whole body, literally lifting her pelvis up off the couch cushion, shoving her further up and over the couch arm with each penetrating thrust.
And when she saw the lock melt and his face light up with a possessive, triumphant sneer, Angela ceased being Angela and became a vessel of the force of Creation itself.
As quickly as he came, Ricky pulled out and peeled off, leaning back and collapsing on the far half of the couch. Angela gradually came down herself, sliding off the couch's arm and back into its sweaty cushioned embrace.
She'd never experienced anything like that. It had started off so playful, a lighter mood than she and Ricky had ever had between them before -- at least when they'd been trying to be intimate. And it had ended up so... Raw. Ferocious. Selfish.
She thought sex with Dino had been intense -- and it was, but in a very different way, like partners in a team sport. What she'd just experienced with Ricky was sexual combat.
Angela took advantage of the post-climax silence to button her top, a pointless move except that it gave her at least a small sense of intent and control in the shadow of a meeting that had been lacking in either virtue. She looked at Ricky, still breathless and making no attempt to compose himself, she thought with some satisfaction that she'd gotten the better in the exchange.
Ruined underwear slid down legs and flung toward the bedroom. Angela spotted the laundry basket next to the couch and quickly fished out a clean pair and a wraparound skirt. She thought about just redressing on the spot, but decided to at least wipe up first -- she was a lot squishier than usual.
Angela rushed through a quick douse-and-dab, walking briskly back out to the living room before she'd gotten her skirt entirely fastened. She hadn't wanted Ricky to think she was embarassed by what they'd done, but when she returned she found him still sprawled out on the couch, and his pants still wadded up on the floor.
When Ricky spoke, his words were clipped.
"Something's wrong."
He was still hard.
And he was still breathing in huge chest-filling gasps.
Angela felt a chill, but she forced herself to sound unpanicked. "What is it?"
"I can't calm down," he said, Ricky said between breaths. He blinked his eyes frantically. "And something's wrong with my eyes. What's happening to me?" He suddenly looked around on the bed, the way someone would look after hearing a rattlesnake. "Where are the sapphires?"
They were... where were they? She got up off the bed, eyes just starting to dart around the room before she remembered that for once she'd put them away in her oversize purse in the closet. "They're put away." Oh God, could they be having some kind of delayed reaction? Was Ricky somehow poisoned by the sapphires? No, it had been several times... a long time since... unless it was her, but still, that didn't make any sense...
She put her hand on his chest; he spasmed in fear of her touch, but seemed more afraid to move. His heart was hammering so fast, at first she thought it was him trembling. She didn't want to say anything about it because it would only make him more scared, though he probably felt it anyway.
"I'll call an ambulance," she said.
She ran in the other room. Where'd the phone go? There.
9-1-1.
Nothing.
Click.
No dialtone.
Dammit!
Click click click.
Still no dialtone.
Not now!
Angela looked around, as if somehow another phone might appear.
Think. Think. A neighbor? Which one? Downstairs? Still vacant. Number 590 -- the older lady.
"The phone's dead!" She rushed back into the bedroom. "I'll be right back. Try to stay calm," she said, knowing how essential and impossible that would be.
"No, wait! Angela!" Ricky's voice bungeed her back into the room. "I... I think it's passing."
"We shouldn't take any chances."
"Please! Don't leave. I'll be okay. Just... just don't... just stay with me."
His hand was hot in hers. She expected it to be trembling for some reason, but it was solid and still. She put her other hand on his chest; he didn't recoil this time. His heart was still pumping awfully fast, but not like before. His chest still heaved with huge breaths, but he seemed to be slowing them down. He started to get up; she gently urged him not to move, leaning over him instead.
Saucer-sized eyes quickly shrank when she looked into them. He was still obviously afraid, but no longer terrified. She gently brushed the hair out of his face; he almost smiled.
"I think I'm gonna be okay," he said, his typical analytical tone mostly overcoming the tremor in his voice.
She felt him squeeze her hand.
"What happened, Ricky?"
His breathing was almost normal now. He looked off into the distance for a moment, as if trying to collect a useful description.
"Well, I, um, finished, you know, only it was like my body couldn't shut off. It just kept going, faster and faster."
Angela put her hand on his chest. "Your heart's still beating really fast." He felt it too. "I think we should take you to the emergency room, just in case it comes back or something. Maybe they can tell you what it is."
"Okay." Ricky put his feet on the floor slowly, as if testing their ability to function. He still seemed pretty freaked out. "My dad's gonna be really mad, though."
"Better safe than sorry."
"When he finds out I was with you, I'll be safe *and* sorry."
Well, if his wit was still intact, it couldn't be *that* bad. But... "You don't have to tell him you were with me."
"I can't lie that big. Anyway, it's not like we're *seeing* each other."
Angela had to look away for a moment. He hadn't meant anything by it, and yet it made their situation very clear. And it made what they'd just done seem all the more selfish and superficial and sad. Why did she keep letting this happen? Why couldn't she say no? Why couldn't he?
Stop that. Ricky needs you.
"Was it just your breathing, or did you feel anything else?"
"Well, I felt kinda dizzy, and then..." he blinked. "Actually, things still look a little off."
"What do you mean?"
"Like, too bright. But not like too much light, more like you used crayons instead of colored pencils."
Angela knew that sensation. She'd seen it enough that she'd learned to ignore it -- though his description made her realize it was happening to her right now.
Oh my God, Ricky took my Perfectua.
"Maybe it was something I ate," Ricky offered. "Or maybe I had a reaction to your aspirin. Was it generic or something?"
"It wasn't aspirin," Angela said, even more afraid to look at him.
"I didn't know Xanax could do that. I never read about any side effects like that."
Ricky knew about Xanax side effects? Of course... he'd researched it because she'd been taking it. Because he cared about her.
"Did you feel anything like that? Maybe it was a bad batch. You have to watch out for those off-brands. What's the little 'P' stand for? It's not Pfizer..."
Shame held Angela's voice to a whisper. "It wasn't Xanax, either."
There was an awkward moment of silence, then, with bated breath: "What was it?"
"It's called Perfectua," Angela said, only upon saying it out loud remembering that it was basically a prescription drug -- still, she hadn't been prescribed it. "It's a muscle... thing. They use it in Europe to speed up physical therapy."
"It's steroids?" A twinge of panic in his voice.
"No, nothing like that." She didn't actually know, but she thought if they were steroids that Dino or Zora would have mentioned it.
"Did it ever affect you like this?"
"No. I mean, I guess maybe it pumps me up a little, but it never got out of control or anything. And most of the time I don't notice the colors."
Angela wasn't sure she was comfortable talking about her meds -- she couldn't help but feel defensive, and didn't want to get into how they affected her as Sapphire -- but Ricky was the kind of person who dealt with a scary situation by trying to understand it, and she didn't want to spook him by withdrawing.
And Ricky's interest in her was like a little ray of hope.
"So why do you take it?" he asked.
"The Xanax was making things worse. Perfectua makes things better. When I take it, everything gets *clear*. I know what I need to do, and I'm not afraid to do it."
"So Dr. Ward prescribed it?"
"I haven't seen her since... in a while."
Ricky's face suddenly went taut, and he froze stiff. After a heart-stopping moment, he seemed to relax just a little bit. "It's starting to come back again," he said with a little tremble. "I think we better go."
Angela grabbed her big purse from the closet and her keys from the top of the dresser before slinging her shoulder under Ricky's arm and helping him toward the front door. "I can walk," he protested, but she wasn't hearing it. They paused in the living room just long enough for her to get her feet into a pair of thongs before she wrestled him out the door.
"Hi," the triage nurse said, "my name is Pam. What's your name?"
"Ricky. Rick Aquino."
"And, miss?"
Ricky spoke before Angela could. "Angela. She was with me when it happened."
"And what happened?"
"I... I was at a party and... I started to have trouble breathing, and my heart started beating really fast. And I couldn't calm down."
"Did you take anything?"
"You mean, like drugs?"
"Yes," the nurse said without a hint of judgement.
Ricky didn't seem to know how to answer. This surprised Angela. He didn't have anything to be embarassed about -- after all, it wasn't like he'd taken it on purpose.
Angela piped up. "This girl gave him a drink. When Ricky started having a reaction she fessed up and said she put, um, Perfectua in it."
The nurse didn't raise an eyebrow. "Do you know how much?"
"She said one pill."
"What did it look like?" the nurse asked. When Angela hesitated, the nurse prompted her: "Did the girl show it to you?"
"It was kind of purple, about this big" Angela held up thumb and forefinger "and had a 'P' on it."
"Were you sure it was just one?"
"That's what she said," Ricky answered, sounding just a little defensive.
"Okay, just checking. Let's take you around here -- go right through that door there, and I'll meet you on the other side -- and we'll take your blood pressure and check a couple of things."
After poking and prodding Ricky for a few moments, taking his blood pressure, and asking a few more questions, the nurse opened the door back to the waiting room.
"Okay," she said, "your blood pressure and heart rate are a little elevated, but not too bad. Why don't you go back out to the waiting room and have a seat. Perfectua is a new drug, but we've seen a few cases like yours in here before. The worst of it is probably over, but when we get through some of the more urgent cases we'll bring you on back and have a closer look just in case, all right? In the mean time if you start to feel light-headed or anxious again, come back up here and we'll get you taken care of, okay?"
"Okay."
The waiting room was populated with severe-looking plastic chairs that couldn't have been comfortable but somehow were.
Not long after they sat down, a tall college-frat-boy type popped out of the triage area and took up a seat next to them.
He looked like an extra in a disaster movie. His Whatsamatta U sweatshirt was road-rashed and covered in blood. Mostly-dried blood ran from his nostrils down through his goatee, but the bulk of the damage had poured from the three-inch gash across a large lump in his forehead. One sleeve was run with dried blood; it looked like he'd been wiping his head with his forearm. His other arm rested lame in his lap.
Aside from the injuries, Angela thought he looked familiar, in the sense that since she'd started dancing every male from 21 to 40 seemed anonimized by the same look -- the one that said "I'd rather be fucking you."
"Motorcycle accident?" Ricky guessed.
"Nah. Party got a little out of hand. I grabbed the wrong girl."
"So she sent you to the hospital?" Ricky asked in amazement.
"No, I have my girlfriend to thank for that."
Neither Ricky nor Angela knew how to respond.
"So what are you in for?" the guy asked.
Ricky repeated the lie they'd given the nurse. "We were at a party too. This girl put drugs in my drink."
The guy smiled. "So you don't know each other."
Ricky caught on more quickly than Angela. "Oh, no! Not her," he said, indicating Angela with a nod of the head. "Some *other* girl. She just brought me here."
"Well, you seem fine to me. What'd she slip you?"
"Perfectua," Angela answered.
The guy's forehead wrinkled for a moment -- like he didn't recognize the name -- but then the translation clicked. "Oh, you mean Glitter!"
Angela didn't like to call it that, but it was understandable why someone else might -- Perfectua was a mouthful.
The guy gave Ricky a nudge with his good arm. "I guess she liked you."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, Glitter is a social lubricant." When he got blank looks, he explained. "It lowers inhibitions and makes you feel good."
"You mean an aphrodesiac?" Ricky asked.
"There's no such thing. Believe me, I've done the research."
You've never felt the end of a Sapphire rush, Angela thought.
The guy continued. "But most people wanna have sex, they're just afraid to admit it. A little relaxation, a little improved circulation, a little euphoria, and if you thought she was cute and thought you wouldn't get caught," here he glanced at Angela and gave his eyebrows a little knowing shrug, "this girl who likes you could make a move and you'd likely reciprocate."
"I see," Ricky said, giving Angela a regretful glance.
The guy's eyes narrowed; he gave Angela a long hard look, like he was trying to see her clearly through a fog.
"You look familiar."
The comment made Angela give the guy a second look. And then she recognized him.
Angela's heart skipped a beat. "I get that a lot," she lied.
"So," Ricky said, trying to regain the guy's attention, "what *is* Glitter? Where does it come from? How's it work?"
"Shit, dude, I'm no dealer, and I'm no chemist. But all my buds have it or at least know where to get it, so it can't be hard to come by."
"How's it work?" Ricky repeated.
"Dude, I said I'm no chemist."
"Well, what's the point?"
The guy suddenly got a very reflective look. "Ain't *that* the question," he answered, stroking his chin.
They both looked at him as if his head wound was more than superficial.
Ricky brought the philosopher/jealousy-victim back down to reality. "No, I mean why do you take it? What's it do to you- um, for you?"
The guy took no offense at Ricky's slip. "It's like super-caffeine, only without the shakes. It boosts your energy, makes you feel like you can fly -- not literally," he qualified when he saw Ricky's eyes go wide, "I just mean you feel really positive and good about stuff and what you're gonna do and you know everything's gonna turn out all right. And it helps you concentrate, like totally focus on one thing, but not stupid shit like staring at a lava lamp, I mean, like what you need to focus on -- a test, or what your girlfriend is saying, or how to talk her into doing that thing she won't do..." he gave Ricky a conspirational nudge. "Though for that it's just easier to give *her* some."
"What about... how you see?"
"Depends. Most people just see colors better, but sometimes it's really intense like everything around you is lit up with neon and shit, and you see sparks comin' off reflections. It could freak you out if you're not expecting it, but once you know how you react it's no big deal. Some people take it just for that, like Acid-Light, but I think they're missing the point."
"Does it have any side effects?"
"That's why you're here, isn't it? Every once in a while, especially first-timers, but it's just like it's a little too intense and they can't relax and enjoy it. There's always stories about some guy's buddy's cousin doin' a line and fallin' over dead, or jumpin' off a building or some shit, but every drug has the same stupid stories -- some Nancy Reagan wannabe makin' shit up to scare the middle class."
Angela wanted to ask, "who's Nancy Reagan?" but let it go.
"So, how much did this girl slip you?"
Angela looked at him like it was a stupid question, but she supposed some people might take more than one...
"Just one pill."
"That's it? Damn, boy, I guess it's not for you. Too bad. Maybe half a pill would be all right though. Though for most people, taking the pill is just a waste of money."
"What do you mean?"
"Shit, nobody swallows it anymore. Takes too long, and sometimes it's so subtle you forget you're on it. The way to take Glitter is to sniff it."
"How do you sniff a pill?"
"Used to be capsules, just crack it open. The hard pills, just grind 'em up real good, the longer the better."
"Is that how you take it?"
"Hell yeah. Comes on fast and strong, makes you feel like Superman."
Ricky shot Angela a dirty look.
As if she needed some drug to make her feel that way. He'd never understand. Not that it mattered anymore.
The guy was staring at her again. "You look *really* familiar."
"Maybe it's your head wound," Ricky half-joked.
"Shit, I know! 'Hot For Teacher!'"
"Excuse me?" Angela tried to look confused.
"You're that girl everybody went to go see at that club."
Ricky raised an eyebrow. "You went to a club to see a waitress?" But the guy didn't really hear him; he was busy trying to remember...
"Heaven! Yeah, I almost didn't recognize you with the hair."
Angela didn't know what to say. This guy wouldn't let her deny it, but if she admitted it...
The guy started to gush. "Fuck me, you were *so* hot. When you slipped your top off I almost came. I woulda gone back to see you again, but that night kinda busted the ol' party fund if you know what I mean." And yet he was sitting here, fresh from a party and probably drunk, with a head wound and a goofy grin on his face.
"Thanks," Angela managed.
It was then that the guy noticed the strained look on Ricky's face, and became sheepish. "Oh, shit, I'm sorry. I let the cat outta the bag, huh?" He gave Ricky a manly clap on the shoulder. "Dude, don't be mad at her. It's a good gig." Not that Angela had it anymore...
Ricky just closed his eyes and sighed.
Mercifully, someone in scrubs appeared at the inner door and waved the guy inside.
"Well, that's my cue. Nice talkin' to ya."
Ricky sighed a weary "yeah" without moving.
Angela just held her breath and waited. She didn't have to wait long.
"So, being a stripper and a drug addict, that's how you're fighting crime these days?"
Ricky had cut right to the heart of the matter. The details of what she was doing -- Dino, Miguel, the stolen cars -- none of it could refute his point. Not that she wanted to. He was right. And now he was going to read her the riot act. And Angela knew she deserved it.
But he didn't.
He looked at her, his expression so calm it took her a moment to catch the sadness in his eyes.
"I hope it's worth it."
That was it. No anger. No disappointment. No questions. No judgement.
He didn't yell at her, or lecture her, or try to talk her out of it.
Or offer to help.
She knew he still cared, but... it was like he'd given up on her.
No -- he'd let go.
Ricky stood up. "I should get home. I feel okay now. That guy told me more than the doctors will."
"Are you sure?"
"By the time they get around to seeing me, there won't be anything to see. And I don't need the grief with my dad right now. Anyway, you're fine, and you've taken more of it than I have."
The simple statement of fact hit Angela harder than any diatribe could have.
Ricky was already heading for the exit.
"Ricky, wait." Her heels clicked loudly on the hard glossy floor as she hustled to catch up to him. The air just outside the door whirled around her. "Here." She handed him her keys. "Leave the keys in the flowerpot on the porch."
"Where are you going?"
She was already kicking off her shoes and digging her sapphire heels out of her purse.
"Making sure it's worth it."