April 1982 – Panama City, Panama
Angela looked up at Tucker, panicking. "I'll be right back." Hurrying back to the roof as fast as the crowd would let her, Angela ordered another kamikaze and downed it before rushing back downstairs. I'm doing this.
She gave Tucker a nervous little laugh, and said, "Sorry!" before wrapping her hands behind his neck. It was easier this time, and the buzz in her head started to make its way through her body. The beat allowed her to sway her hips in a figure eight, pushing toward him as she went.
Tucker seemed pleasantly surprised by the obvious shift in her comfort level and moved with her. In accordance with a slide of a trombone, he turned them, and Angela got a full-on view of Michael with a dark-haired beauty.
A long, French braid fell through the open back of the woman's ballet shirt. Her high-waisted, skintight pants showed off the impressive difference between her hips and tiny waist. Angela glared at the unassuming woman like Medusa.
Spinning her attention back to Tucker, Angela stepped closer, pushing her hips up against his. He smiled widely and dug the curves of their dance deep. They pushed back and forth, side to side. He spun her and brought her back.
Angela glanced over at Michael. He, too, spun his partner right up against his chest, and held her with his hand on her bare back.
Angela remembered just a couple weeks ago, when Michael had held her the same way while she was crying. Angela wanted to cry again but refused to back out now. It didn't matter whose fault this was anymore. If it was hers, she didn't care. Her heart was quick-cooling volcanic rock.
Angela moved faster, pushed harder, sweat falling down her chest as Tucker held her close. She realized the secret to making this work was to focus on his body. And with Michael feeling free to gawk at all his partner's scoop-necked shirt couldn't hold, Angela's previous trepidation all but vanished. She called up every diminishing remark Michael had made, every irrational tantrum, to ride her like she was a fire-breathing dragon. Whenever she felt like she might lose another tear, she looked for Michael's hands, and the remedy did not disappoint.
The piano, shakers, drums, and trumpets infused her. Angela dropped and came with a powerful forward sway up Tucker's lap. She hung off his neck, twisting obliquely up to the side. Her movements always to the thunderous beat and the victorious melody, she held Tucker's shoulders and threw her head back, and showing off her elegant jawline. Different speeds at different times, her fluid, but purposeful contortions drew Tucker's hands all over her. She slid her own hands up his arms and down his torso, greedily scanning every muscle.
Her mind got so foggy, there seemed to be an actual haze to the room. Maybe there was. The fans tried their best to circulate the sweat-sloshed air of the tropical oven, all the while the dancers stoked the fire consuming them all.
Everyone was dripping sweat. Angela caught Michael's eye as she turned around to back up against Tucker. Michael was raking his fingers back through his damp hair, and Angela saw Michael's partner open his shirt a few buttons. Grinning - whether more at her or the woman, Angela couldn't tell, Michael ran his hands down the sides of the woman's hourglass frame. On his way back up, his hands curved around the backs of her legs, up to the insides of her thighs, before pulling out back around her hips. A tear did fall this time, but each eye only got one before Angela dropped again to slide backward up Tucker's legs.
She pressed her butt into him as deeply as she could, and they swayed back and forth. She grinded opposite him, and felt his powerful muscles cross under her butt. Tucker's hands came to rest at the top of her thighs, and he pressed the base of his palms into her pantyline. Angela gasped and arched her back, tossing her long ponytail back over his shoulder.
She opened her eyes to see Michael sliding his hand under one side of the woman's butt as he pulled her knee up to his waist. His other hand secured her arched back to him, and he leaned forward to suck sensuously down her neck.
Like a cassette player right about to lose its battery, Angela's dancing stumbled to a stop. She vividly remembered what that felt like - it had only been a few hours.
Michael slid the woman's leg back down against the side of his own and pressed their chests together. His leg was still between hers when he started pulse sliding up and down, all to the music.
Angela's stomachache returned full force, and all of sudden, she didn't want to do this anymore. She wanted to throw up. She stepped forward, spacing herself from Tucker, and turned around slowly to look up at this probably-really-nice guy. Even though he looked only slightly curious, but otherwise still delighted, the fog in her head was no match for the guilt. She faltered forward. Passing Michael, she didn't make eye contact as she said, "You win."
Tucker followed her to the wall with worried eyes. Putting one hand on her shoulder and the other on her hip, he bent down next to her ear, "Y'alright there, darlin'?" She turned away, and out of her peripheral vision Angela saw something streak past her head. She whipped around to see Tucker spin and stumble down to his hands and knees, Michael standing over him, chest heaving. Shocked, Angela stood there with her mouth open.
But Tucker's head flashed up, and even with the little room available, he plowed into Michael like a lineman. Angela caught a wisp of clarity in time to yell, "No! Tucker! Stop!" But the music, which was just as loud as it had been the minute before, was coupled with the grunts and strains of Michael and Tucker trying to throw and pound each other.
She kept yelling, clapping, and stomping, trying to get their attention, but two other men with crew cuts immediately joined the fight. Oh, my God! Everything had compounded out of nowhere.
Angela pulled furiously at the backs of their shirts, and screamed, "I said stop! Tucker! Stop!" If the airmen noticed, they completely ignored her. It actually wasn't more than a couple of seconds before the three of them overpowered Michael's furious efforts, punching his face, chest, and ribs from on top. Angela flung her head back and forth, rabidly yanking on the men. "Get! Off!"
Four very large Hispanic men rushed up the stairs, and Angela got shoved to the side a bit as they pulled everybody apart.
"Michael!" Angela dropped to the floor and put her hand under his head.
Tucker looked at her, aghast; his arms being held behind his back, as the much larger man started to shuffle him out. "You know him?"
She looked up at Tucker in exceptional guilt and sadness, "He's my husband."
"You're married?!" Tucker screeched. He spit blood out of his mouth. "We did all that with him right there?!" The large man yanked Tucker down the stairs. "You sick fucks!"
The other men pulled Tucker's buddies down after him, while the fourth bouncer stood behind Michael. He put his wrists under Michael's armpits and pulled him to standing. Michael yelled out in pain. "Vámanos," the man barked, but steadied him as Michael tried to hold himself up. He finally made it to the front door, and the man lowered Michael so he could sit on the sidewalk.
"Llama a un taxi!" he ordered Angela, throwing his head back toward the club. The only thing she got was "taxi", but she understood, and was honestly grateful for permission to go back inside. Angela ran up to the bar and asked for a payphone. She sped to where the bartender said they were and called a cab. Fortunately, they had a phonebook.
Angela rushed back outside, where Michael sat alone on the curb, leaning against the pole of a stop sign. She paused for a second, breathing heavily, before walking up to him slowly. What have I done?
Angela sat down next to him, the pole between them. She wanted to say something, but everything seemed wrong. So, she sat tight, until the cab drove up.
Angela stood behind Michael, attempting to help him stand like the bouncer did. He didn't say anything, but grunted as he stood up, trying to pull on the sign pole in vain. She felt so happy when she felt some of his weight on her arms, like she was helping, somehow.
Angela opened the door and tried to gingerly help Michael tuck himself into the backseat. Angela kept biting down hard on her back molars, trying to steady her insides. She rushed around to the other side of the cab, and got in.
"The hospital, please!" Angela yelled to the driver.
"No!" Michael yelled. "No, por favor." He gasped, and exhaled, "Llédanos al Gran Océano."
The cabbie nodded and drove them to their hotel.
Angela closed her eyes as the car jostled them the short drive through the narrow streets. Michael held his side, and turned toward the window, cringing. Angela felt completely stripped of any right to say anything. She'd given him back his ring. She'd grinded all over a perfect stranger in front of him. All she could offer Michael now was her assistance.
When they pulled up the drive, Angela got out, paid the driver a $20 bill so she wouldn't have to do anything but run, and scurried around to open Michael's door. She was breathing fast and hard, but again called on her training, and tried to hold it in. Dipping down, she got under his shoulder.
Michael winced all the way up to their room. It took them forever, but Angela finally got to the door and nearly lost her composure, ferociously fiddling with key in the lock. She held the door open with her foot as she helped him in. They made their way to the bed, and Angela slowly lowered him down so he could sit on the side.
Ever so carefully, she leaned back with him so he could use her structure instead of his. She put a pillow under his neck and shoulders as best as she could and used it as a stretcher to slide him parallel to the wall. Angela kneeled down to take off his shoes, and then lifted his feet to the mattress.
Snatching the ice bucket from the table, Angela scrambled down the hall to the ice machine. She ran back with an overflowing bucket of ice and used the 2 provided bucket liners to make ice packs.
Taking a shaky breath, Angela tried not to jolt the mattress as she sat on the edge of the bed. She leaned forward to turn on the bedside lamp, and when she looked down at Michael, she started to cry.
His left eye was already swollen shut. His nose and lips were warped and bleeding, and much of the rest of his dirty, sweat smeared face was either red or purple. She placed one bag of ice so that it covered as much of his eye area and nose as possible.
She looked down at the discoloration near the top of his open shirt and remembered the woman unbuttoning it. She squeezed her eyes shut, and gently propped the other bag by Michael's side, trying to remember where he had held it in the cab. Turning away from him, she slid down the side of the bed to the floor and let the tears come as fast as they wanted.
"Just have Josh accept the award; he's the Assistant Producer. It's fine."
Michael was lying on the bed, talking on the phone. I can't believe he's going to miss this because of me! Angela felt a ton of pressure behind her forehead, and her stomach was still upset from last night.
She'd slept on the carpet by the bed until ten that morning, when she heard Michael groaning, trying to get up. Besides helping him to the bathroom and back to bed, and phoning the number he'd requested, they hadn't said anything to each other. She'd called room service for brunch, ibuprofen on the side, but otherwise, she just existed in the room with him.
It had finally dawned on her that he needed to get his wounds cleaned up. I can't ask to touch him! But when he finished his phone call, she looked over at him. Deciding his physical health was more important than possible rejection, she steeled herself.
Walking over to hang up the phone, she asked quietly, "Michael, do you want help cleaning up, or getting bandages on, or something? I can find what we need."
He looked up at her for a couple seconds. Then he made a slight nod, clearly preferring the pain of motion to that of conversation.
Angela hustled down to the concierge desk for a first-aid kit. She grabbed it gratefully and ran back upstairs.
Michael watched her, expressionless, as she got wet, soapy washcloths and fresh towels from the bathroom.
Angela came over to the edge of the bed, and very carefully patted the warm washcloth in slightly circular motions onto the damage. She started with the cut on his eyebrow and got the dirt off his cheekbones. The blood and dirt had crusted everywhere and made it exceptionally difficult to not drag his skin. She kept switching out washcloths for warm, clean ones, and made her way down his face. He cringed as she touched on the highly sensitive swelling under his eye.
Angela lightly rubbed the cream on his open wounds. Digging in her purse, she found a chapstick, and used it to gently sketch vertical lines through the cuts on his lips.
When she finished with his face, she glanced down nervously to take a raggedy breath. "Do you want me to get your chest?" She felt no right to touch him in any intimate way. Grief smothered her. Everything was destroyed.
A little smile came with this nod, and she blinked back her relief. Angela took another breath, and slowly unbuttoned the rest of his shirt. So Michael wouldn't have to bend more than necessary, she tried to slide the shirt behind him, and over the back of his shoulders like a cape. She pulled it down past his wrists, and threaded it out the side, under his back. Still, everything she did looked like it hurt him.
Refreshing her washcloths, Angela started at his collar bone. His torso didn't have as many cuts as his face, but there were bumps and contusions everywhere. A thick, fuzzy, strip of a bruise ran across his left side, thankfully, pretty close to where she'd laid the ice last night.
Angela helped Michael into a sitting position. He had to hold himself upright when she moved his ankles to the floor, and she winced right along with him.
Briefly glancing into his eyes first, she put her arms around his middle to wrap his ribs with the gauze. She had to lean in close to grasp the roll on the other side, and tears fell onto his chest. She just wanted to kiss his bruises and tell him she was sorry. SO sorry...I know we're a shitshow, but this is inarguably worse. She turned her face against her shoulder and used her sleeve to soak up her wishes. She finished wrapping him tightly in silence.
Angela helped Michael lie back down and stood above him, feeling conspicuous now that she didn't have something productive to do. She turned and walked for a second.
"Do you want anything? Some iced tea? Aspirin?"
"Angela," he zeroed in.
She stopped moving where she was and looked down. "…I know." She dreaded dealing with this. How is that even possible?
A few seconds went by in silence. He exhaled and cringed. "Look, there's an assignment coming up next month on this other guy's crew. His wife's having a baby, and he wants to switch with me. I think it would be a good idea…give us some space."
Angela turned her body a little to the side. She closed her eyes, and tears fell down her cheeks. Oh! This hurts! She felt them ripping apart like flesh. Maybe we don't have to jar ourselves anymore for now. Maybe we can just get a break. God knows we need it. She nodded and whispered, "Yeah."
Michael nodded slowly in agreement.
A few seconds went by, and he looked up at her and said a little more clearly, "Thank you for taking care of me... It was probably stupid to rush a soldier."
Angela twisted her torso to look at him. For all his insanity, and hers, she loved this man. He's such an asshole. She had no idea how she could feel so at risk and so protected at the same time.
She braved the slightest playful smirk. Still not able to defeat her flashbacks, she spoke in a tiny voice.
"Yeah, I thought you were smart."
Even through his swollen features, she could tell he was giving her a look, but a small smile tipped the corner of his mouth.
"I hate you."
She smiled a little back. "I know."
Angela waited a moment, then squinted her eyes at him, "Why did you do that, anyway?"
Michael held up his end of the stare. After a couple seconds he spoke seriously.
"You said the game was over."
A/N: This was a rough one, guys. I had a vision and altered it after reading everybody's comments. This is what emerged.
I've been operating under the assumption that Angela is the good guy. Yeah, they both add to their problems, but when the smoke clears, it was mostly Michael's fault. That's a huge and unreasonable burden to put on her. I'm going to try to let her just be human. That'll give Michael more of a fair shake, too.
Anyway, I believe it's a deeper story this way, despite the ruckus. I hope you guys continue to hang in there with me - this is me getting Season 1 in my sights. No, this is not the end. I just needed to bank this plane toward the runway.
And while I do not claim they endorse or approve of the direction I took this - because I've imagined this clusterfuck, and I have no idea how plausible they all think this is - I do want to thank some people for helping me better understand the situation.
Thank you, bostonbarmaid! I think your suggestion about Michael's possible projection is on point. I believe that's a part of his narcissism, regardless of how it's manifested thus far, and it needed to be confronted.
That leads me to the "unbalanced" nature of their relationship which stayathomemum pulled out for me. For their own dishonest reasons, Angela obsesses over her own possible guilt, and Michael skims over his responsibility. It's an important point for how I structure their behavior. Thank you!
Goldengirlsherry, your continued engagement and encouragement through each chapter is a life source.
Markaleen, I totally agree with you: the dude is a serious game player (and dang it! I still like him! xD), and I appreciate the verbiage. It came in handy at the end.
And I want to thank steppinout87 for calling Angela's character on the carpet for her martyrdom. That changed the level of honesty I put in the piece, and therefore, the kind of cray cray that ensued. Angela shucks the responsibility to take care of herself a LOT. Though, I don't see that getting better for a very long time, I need that truth to better align the trajectory of this story. I believe Angela swaps out one lie for another on the regular, and will continue to do so until she's ready to care about herself. Thank you for your thoughts on this! I was coddling the validity of her self-pity, and that's bull.
And thank you, SO much, everybody who is still reading and reviewing this story! You spur me on!
