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Once their song’s finished—their whole set, as it quickly turned into—Angel’s freezing. The high of the music kept her warm, Omar’s hand finding hers mid-chorus and that heating her whole body, but then it’s all over and the buzzing thrum of the exhilaration’s gone, and she’s just a normal woman again, clothed only in torn white rags that barely cover her slender body. She wraps her arms around herself as they sneak out the back way, sticking to the shadows of the twisting backstage corridors. The hall is huge, and fans have swarmed it—more fans than they could ever have dreamed of. A part of her wants to stay and sign autographs: just bask in that glory she always wanted. But she’s exhausted and cold and her head’s spinning, so Angel follows the boys right into the dingy alley behind the massive building.
“You okay, Angel?” Stretch asks, the first to notice her shaking. She shrugs her shoulders to indicate she’ll manage, but when she opens her mouth, her teeth start chattering. In the corner of her eye, she sees Omar snatching at his shoulder, as though ready to peel off the jacket he normally wears. But his clothes are just as barren and wrecked as hers. He’s burned in too many places.
Dizzy passes her the bomber jacket he’s always got. It leaves him less protected, but she takes it anyway and tells him, “Thanks.” It helps a little, though her legs are still too exposed—the makeshift dress is cut all the way up the sides, right to her hipbones. Her thighs won’t stop trembling. But maybe that’s all nerves. It’s hard to believe they’re all still alive.
It’s hard to believe they’re together. And they’re all—relatively speaking—okay. Omar gestures them into a car, sliding behind the wheel himself, and it’s only after the other two have climbed in the back that she realizes—“Wait, is this a patrol car?” Last time she checked, Omar was the exact opposite of a police officer.
“Just get in,” Omar sighs. It’s surprisingly barb-free; clearly, he’s as tired as she is.
She still hesitates, until Stretch explains, “Sorry, we had to steal it.”
Omar immediately hisses before she can scold any of them, “We had to save you.”
“Omar thought you’d run away with Mok and wanted an explanation—”
“Shut up, Stretch, I was tryina save her!”
Dizzy shouts over them, “He’s coming!”
Angel’s gaze jerks in the direction of a screaming man racing around the corner, running at full speed, fully decked out in an officer’s uniform. She barely has time to process before Omar’s reaching over to grab her hand and tug her inside the car. She hits the passenger seat with a small ‘oomph,’ someone slams the door shut, and then they’re racing off fast enough to give her whiplash, leaving the cop in their dust.
As she struggles to sit up against the roaring wind and sweep the gold hair off her face, she shoots Omar a glare. He gives her a cute sidelong grin and tells her, “It’s good to have you back.”