Chapter Text
I brought this punishment on myself. I probably shouldn't even be at church functions until I'm better. But I promised to help serve food, so that's what I'm doing when Jamee’s sneaker slides against my ankle. That slight pressure prevents my leg from moving forward with the rest of my body. My arms fly into the air to help me balance, but I probably look like a flailing idiot.
Fitting.
My fingers spread to stop my face from slamming into the linoleum. That reflex would be perfect if I weren’t carrying a cafeteria tray with four plates of pasta.
Time clicks back into natural motion once I’m on my hands and knees in a warm, slippery sea of spaghetti and red sauce. And now I'm center stage. Pastor Tim and all the guys from the band are gawking. Marcy is covering her mouth with both hands. Helpful. Thank you.
Jamee Smith narrows his snake-green eyes like a serpent. If I break the sixth commandment, it'll be his fault.
***
I hate bullies. Probably because of my dad.
This kid is pitiful - sprawled in the spill with everybody staring at him. It turns my stomach. So, I leave my drink on the punch table and help the little guy right himself.
"You all right, buddy?"
***
"I'm fine." Tomato sauce-covered clothes isn’t fatal.
Humiliation might be.
The fall is over. Everyone is still staring, though, because this massive guy with neck tattoos is way too close to me.
Dale would call him a natural-born linebacker. Half a foot taller than me and twice as broad. Cueball bald head, noon-blue eyes. Strong hands - which I wouldn’t have noticed if they hadn’t been on my ribs.
One of the guest musicians. The drummer, I think.
There’s a tentacle sneaking past the collar of his blue turtleneck and wrapping around his ear. A tattoo. Not a real tentacle, but still. He has that avoid-me-in-dark-alleys look and another Winchester-plaid shirt over that turtleneck. And fingerless gloves. His outfit looks cool, but it's not exactly summer attire.
Why is he wearing all these clothes in June? The A/C is on, but he must boil alive outside.
Maybe he has some rare condition that makes him freeze all the time.
Doesn’t look sick, though. Looks like he could trounce everyone in here while playing a drumroll.
Also, he's fully gorgeous. His face is more like a movie star than a rocker.
The last thing I need is somebody to see me staring at this guy in some weird way.
Since weird is what I do, I study my shoes. Like the rest of me, they're drenched in marinara.
***
This kid is crazy cute. Pretty hazel eyes. Heart-shaped face under thick, dark waves. Not even cute. Fully beautiful. One of the old ladies brings a mop and bucket from the kitchen and starts scolding the kid who fell. “Why are you so clumsy, Elio?”
I pluck a stray noodle from his shirt and drop it into the mess on the floor. Elio tries to back away, slips and thuds on his ass in the mess again. Am I that scary?
The little shit who tripped him snorts. Under different circumstance, I’d drag that punk out back and flatten his nose.
Did no one else see what happened?
***
Gravity likes me. I should stay down.
The behemoth tugs me to my feet again. Then, he hovers like he wants to kick my ass or hug me.
Neither, please.
"I'm okay, man. Thanks,” I say.
What I mean is: fucking go away.
***
He's so pitiful. The least I can do is peel off my flannel and hand it to the kid. It won't fix his pants, but it should help. Elio is still staring at the shirt when I reach the table where the guys are sitting.
Grinning, Chuck elbows me, “The Samaritan strikes again.”
***
The huge guy gives his bandmate the middle finger and eyes really pop.
Not like we don’t all cuss, but doesn't he know we’re in church? Some people have no shame.
At least they're all staring at him now.