Angel Box Set

Snow Angel This one is for the readers. Thank you. Prologue Erection leading the way, Dean Chapman emerged from Lenny’s pub, a grin splitting his face. The door shut on the cocktail of humanity within, leaving him with the swish of passing traffic on the rain-slicked tarmac. The leftover spray came from an earlier shower as weather forecasters predicted. He adjusted his cuff, looked at his watch and—unable to resettle his c**k without calling attention—he walked off on his way to a date, leaving his favourite watering hole early. His drinking and dating life would be far from over when work commenced, but a combination of being fresh out of college and his father’s goodwill provided him with six weeks grace. Best he exploited this break between one type of slog and the next, the liberty of late nights, and morning lie-ins. Back with his parents. The road ahead made the disparity of freedom and family distinct, deflating good cheer like the air running out of a punctured tyre. In any relationship, love didn’t always suffice. He relished being young, bumped to the street, driving unsupervised. Many assumed his choice of college had stemmed as much from a wish to live away from home as his longed-for career. They also assumed and weren’t entirely wrong his sharing a house with four other blokes was his excuse to get drunk and pick up women. If his choice of further education staggered no one, his resolution to join the family business dumbfounded many, in opposition to the concept of ‘getting away’. When asked why, Dean never explained, more than content with the outcome, eager to begin. He agreed to this hiatus because his father insisted, so far loving every minute. “Have fun this summer,” George Chapman had told him. “One last respite. You’ve enjoyed them every year of your life until now. Stay a kid for a little while. Don’t worry,” his father added. “I’ll make sure you put in extra time to compensate.” The transparent threat crooked Dean’s lips, the warning one of the long hours and the effort required until he grasped the running of the business. Small penalty. His interest in mechanics developed when young—George Chapman’s efforts to direct his son’s energies elsewhere were doomed—but Dean confessed not to have taken notice of the administration side. Accepting the bad with the good might be an indication of a little maturity creeping in, though he hoped not. A few more years not acting his age wouldn’t go amiss. Still, no one would hear any arguments from him. Dean wanted the work, and his father appreciated the idea of his son taking over one day, as long as Dean was happy. No need for the older Chapman to fret over Dean’s commitment. His dislike extended only to the paperwork for which ‘necessary evil’ sprang to mind. By the time his father reached retirement, surely Dean would have the hang of the invoices and filing. Another reason for his taking control—to open the way for his father to resign when his parents’ decided the right time arrived. Foot tapping while he waited at a set of traffic lights permitted serious sentiments to creep in. His father—thirty years senior, not old but not young—already ‘made noises’ of working part-time. Dean wished his parents the best, wanted them to enjoy more hours off if not early retirement. The way his father grafted, who could blame the man for wanting to take his wife abroad for long stretches before they grew old? Timing. Their plans depended on Dean, on how well he integrated. “All on me, then,” Dean muttered, receiving a mistrustful frown from a man crossing the road at his side. Too preoccupied to care, Dean added, “I can do this,” half-amused when the stranger quickened his pace. Dean walked on, mind awhirl with forms and figures. Sure, he lacked incentive when it came to the office side, and true any boss hired the right person for each job, but no smart person relied on others. Some people didn’t rate Dean for his smarts, but he was intelligent enough to be uncomfortable with self-imposed ignorance. Some expressed surprise over his attending further education, not grasping how insulting they sounded. Stepping aside to avoid a collision with a pushchair brought him to a standstill in front of a rare thing these days known as a bookshop. The vision of novels lined up on display in the window recalled to mind another life lesson learned. People understood his studying for the requisite mechanical qualifications, but to an aware few, his appreciation of creative writing struck them as peculiar. Yes. He. Could. Read. Better than many. His love for books inspired enough comments. The notion he wrote, too, astounded people. Not that he tried to prove his ability to them and, from most, the sideline stayed secret. Dean carried on, following a familiar route while his attention wandered to a bad place. Cars were his vocation. Writing…he refused to call it a hobby. Initial attempts led to a short course, a few published works. In time, a plot nagged, from which he produced a first novel. After submitting the manuscript, things appeared promising, but his stories so far…Well, the term niche applied. Unable to show the narrative to his family or friends, his pursuit remained secondary. If he shared, people would get the wrong idea. No matter the genre, publication meant hard work. He approached the job the same way he intended to manage the garage, and there…a smile at last flourished. The cars Dean anticipated working on were nothing like the tin boxes seeking passage through the not-so-sweet clog of the high street. His father owned no ordinary repair service. The company specialised in vintage vehicles. Of the cars on the premises, George Chapman admired the Aston Martin—in all probability some penile connection to James Bond. Dean loved the Jaguar. The beautiful blue of the XK150 reflected the hue of his eyes, the deliberation of which made him all but quake. Not too pricey so he flirted with hope, but such a purchase must wait until the day he paid off a portion of another new reliability otherwise known as a mortgage. With a little help from his parents’, he would soon be searching for his own place. Other complications made his lust for the car impractical. No way would the owner sell, and Dean lived close enough to save money by walking to work. Jokes all round, all on him. Still, touching the car almost gave him as big a hard-on as his date for the evening. The relationship wasn’t serious, just good s*x. He referred to Stephanie, of course, not the car. Dean sniggered, fantasies winging, bringing the two into proximity with notions of Stephanie in the backseat of the XK150. Ride of a lifetime if he dared risk the upholstery. So taken was he with an image of Stephanie’s legs hiked over his shoulders, leather interior creaking under her and her squeaking under him, he almost missed the turn to quieter roads. Stephanie—his girlfriend, if he chose to use the word—acted what his mother classed as a little kinky. Nothing wrong with a little kink between friends as long as the ‘fun’ didn’t gouge the leather of a fine motor. Now his ruminations went to intercourse, he again sported a boner. Good thing he left the multitude behind and moved on to less-busy, tree-lined streets. A quick shift and squeeze; he, at last, made his c**k a little more comfortable. Stephanie. She was the good reason he walked out of the pub, not fifteen minutes before, with a woman’s name caressing his erection as certain as her lips so often did. Speaking of women…In the increasing gloom, as he neared the overgrown area under the railway bridge…Yes, he recognised her hair anywhere. The one thing he regretted about living away was the lack of opportunity for anything to develop between him and April Reid. Dean pursed his lips, shortened his stride. A vivid imagination created mental impressions of sinking his fingers into the long, luscious waves. Some of these daydreams produced images only the resulting visualisation of ‘castration by April’ managed to obliterate. Unlike others, Dean kept such fancies locked away, confined to his mind and surreptitious stimulation. Prior to college, even he believed them too young for any kind of relationship, and April would never have welcomed a one-night stand. She might have even deemed it weird since they had as good as grown up together. April must have been seven when her family moved into the neighbourhood, Dean merely four—a detail he recalled because of his mother’s teasing. According to her, his crush meant he followed the Reid girl panting, drooling, and maybe even peeing a little like an excited puppy. He had forgotten the analogy until now, buried his emotions, as his mother described them. He did recollect April, age twelve, growing her hair, and he, falling in love with every lengthening inch. Chestnut failed to characterise the deep shade highlighted with hints of auburn and red mahogany. The tint didn’t exist in a bottle, possessed a small right to prevail in nature. Girls grew envious, some glared. Remarks from teens were sometimes appalling, culminating in less than respectful propositions. While Dean endured the pangs of his own attraction, he never put up with insolence from outsiders. He suffered so they could, too. April became his to protect. “And didn’t she get a kick out of that.” His words fluttered away in the breeze. April needed protection from no one, but owing to his size, when Dean told others to show her respect, they listened, and he remembered the expression in her eyes when he did. God, what a fool. Even at the time, he had been astute enough to comprehend safety as a reason she allowed him to hang around. A couple of years of growth—physical, mental, emotional—provided him with insight as to what an i***t it made him. The ‘good puppy dog’ lapped up any chance to stand at her side. Time changed circumstances. They were not school kids any longer. Her relaxed step providing plenty of time to inspect her, head to toe, and back up again. Her thick, heavy hair hung straight. He dreaded the idea of her going grey or changing the colour on a whim. A shorter style than ever before, but he liked the soft drape. At the back, the cut swayed in a slight V, directing his attention to hips clad in jeans, both narrow. An all-too-recognisable craving to touch those locks crept over him, chasing the heat of desire, egged on by his natural mischievousness, all sliding into his belly. He might be lucky to cop a feel, or steal a kiss. He picked up his pace. Not wishing to terrify her—best to give her some warning, especially in such an isolated area—he cleared his throat, approached, and stretched out his right hand. The dream became reality as he combed fingers through her hair, bringing her to a halt, growling out, “Say hello to an old friend.” Dean closed his eyes, tilted her back to the music of a sharp intake of breath, and silenced any protest with his lips. What remained of any sense he ever owned demanded he not make the smooch intrusive, so, no tongue, mere pressure. Still, he took pleasure in her body against his, and the knowledge of her light, luxuriant, alluring hair. When no hands snapped up to push him away or to slap him, Dean tested his luck, risking a slide up her side, perhaps to skim the swell of her breast. The real world intruded when he encountered a hard, flat, inflexible, resistant surface under the T-shirt she wore. At last, he became aware of an aroma of apples. Dean opened his eyes, met a wide, surprised stare. A second later, he broke off, though his mouth lingered a precious breath away. Shock riveted him to the spot. The person he held swallowed. “Hello, Dean,” April’s brother, Jay, said.