Chapter Text
She ran into Bryon a few days ago. It must’ve been more than three years since she saw him last. He was pretty shocked.
She’s just standing there on the boardwalk when he comes up to her, staring wide-eyed, and says “Angel Shepard? That you?”
Angela blinks. “Yeah?” she says without thinking. And then she looks a second time, and really sees him. “Oh…yeah,” she says slow. (Not stammering- even now she don’t stammer hardly ever- but slow is close as she gets to it.)
“Real funny seein’ ya so far from Tulsa, Angel- what’re ya doin’ here?” Bryon says, looking at her like she’s a cartoon that took a wrong turn into the real world.
“I live here, what’re you doin’ here?” she says back without any heat.
“Been goin’ to school, few towns north. Boy, ain’t it funny we both wound up here?” he says, a glimmer of humor in his big brown eyes. (Like a Saint Bernard puppy-dog was how Mark had described them.)
Not really, Angela wants to say. It’s not so funny at all. Seems to her everyone ends up in California. The edge of the land, the cliff where the vast expanse of America drops off into the sea, the dead end you find yourself in when there’s nowhere left.
A land of opportunity for the smart boys like Bryon and movie stars down south, and the end of the road for folks like her.
“Suppose it is,” Angela says, exhaling and watching smoke curl out over the sand.
“You look nice. You ain’t aged a day since I saw ya last,” he smiles.
“Well, my hair’s grown,” she says dryly, and his smile drops a fraction. She almost feels a bit bad for that. “What’re ya goin’ to school for?”
He takes the olive branch. “Journalism. Writing.”
That checks out. For a hood, Bryon Douglas always loved reading. It was part of what Angela liked about him back before everything that went down- he was more sensitive than other guys in their neighborhood. Well, not more sensitive. More observant, maybe.
“You gonna be like Curtis?” Angela says, referring to a kid from the East Side who wrote a book about some gang violence from when they were kids.
“Nah. I ain’t no novelist.” Bryon shifts his weight. “You read his book?”
“Nah,” Angela shakes her head. “I hate Curtis,” she says, which isn’t exactly true.
“You oughta read it. He’s real smart, that kid,” Bryon sighs, tilting his head up. “But I’m just goin’ for newspapers. It’s easy. Pays decent. That sort of deal.”
“Ah,” she says.
He must be waiting for her to say more, because after a few seconds, he says “You?”
“Hm?”
“What’re you doin’ here?”
Angela snuffs out her cigarette on the rail of the boardwalk. “Hangin’ round,” she shrugs. There’s a lotta good places for all sorts of hangin’ round here. Enough to keep her from getting bored. It’s why they’ve stayed for so long.
“But like…for work?”
“I dance,” Angela says flatly.
“Dance?” Bryon repeats, laughing. “Didn’t take ya for that type. What, ballet?”
“Not like that,” Angela says, and she can see the moment Bryon gets what she’s saying, because his face drops.
“Oh…”
She chuckles. “It’s not so bad. I get real good tips. If I wanted, I could buy me a Stingray.”
“Do ya wanna?”
“Nah.” She’s got more important things to spend her well earned money on. “Ain’t my only work, neither- I got a gig at a diner off Main Street. And y’know- the husband’s got an okay income too.”
“Husband- oh gee, Angel, how’s that goin’?” Bryon says, eyes soft. He’s still cute, she notices. Taller than her boy by nearly a foot. Darker. Less pretty, more handsome.
“Alright,” she says tightly.
“I’m…I’m real sorry you had to marry that guy.”
Angela starts. Oh. Right. He thinks she means that guy Tim made her marry all those years ago.
“Oh, he ain’t that one. I left that one a long long time ago,” she says airily.
-
Angela re-met Mark Jennings on a burning hot summer day. She was stepping out of a drugstore in Bixby, when she saw a flash of blonde in her car’s front seat.
Someone was trying to hotwire it!
She wanted to scream- not with fear, but frustration- she didn’t have time for this! She bit her tongue and snatched her brother’s switch outta her pocket, flicking it open, and held it just outta sight of the thief.
“Get outta the car,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
The blond sat up, back still to her, and raised his hands up. “Sorry,” he said, although he didn’t sound it. His voice was familiar.
“Turn around,” Angela commanded.
He did, and Angela’s heart sank into her boots.
“Oh…hey hey, Angel,” he said, face cracking into a smirk. “Fancy meetin’ you here.”
How the hell was he here?! Last she heard of Mark Jennings, he was locked in the Tulsa “Criminal Justice Center”- got caught with drugs or something. That was fine by her. Last she’d seen of Mark Jennings, he’d cut all her hair off and left her drunk in a yard. She’d been real pleased when Curly told her he was locked up.
“Get outta the car, Jennings,” she spat.
“Cool it, baby,” he grinned. “What’re you doin’ ‘round these parts? Your baby daddy don’t miss ya?” he said, doing a scratchy high-pitched voice and batting his eyelashes.
Angela’s stomach twisted, feeling her own heart race in her chest. (Was Ricky back from work yet? No, no, he couldn’t be- but what if he was- No, no, no. He- he had to be at work still. He had to be. He wouldn’t find out till late, and by then Angela would be long gone…)
“He ain’t. I wasn’t pregnant, Mark,” she growled, focusing on that instead.
“Oh? And the shotgun weddin’ was just for fun, then?” Mark said, eyes wide with mock curiosity.
Angela shifted, clenching the switch tighter beneath the window. “You ain’t far off,” she said, forcing her voice gentler. “Besides, this way I ended up gettin’ a free Chevy outta the deal, see?” she said, smiling the way she smiles when she’s trying to get a guy to pay for her drinks. Go away go away go away.
“Ah, that’s how ya got yer mits on this completely cherry car! I was wonderin’,” Mark said, beaming with sharp teeth.
And I’d like you to get your mits off of it! Angela thought. She swallowed back her irritation and tried her damndest to stay sweet sounding. “Oh, yeah, it’s fantastic, really boss.”
It was a nice car. Off-white and spacious- a Chevy Nomad or something, although she didn’t remember the year. Ricky’s other car was nicer, though- bright red and sporty-looking, and she really really liked it…but the Chevy blended in more. So it was the Chevy she stole. “Speakin’ of which! I’m runnin’ late, gotta go…bring Ricky his…lunch. So again, I gotta ask ya to get outta the car.”
“Oh man, little Angie Shepard’s gone domestic! That’ll be the day,” Mark hooted.
“Not that domestic,” Angela said, touching his shoulder. He stiffened. “You know, I always thought you were Bryon’s cutest friend, Mark,” she said, laying it on thick. “If ya get outta here, I think I’d just have to keep in touch…”
Mark stared at her blankly. “Are you…” he laughed. “Are you tryin’ to flirt?” Angela tore her hand away, face hot with embarrassment. “Boy, you must think I’m really stupid,” he drawled.
He said a few other things too, about Curtis or something, but Angela was distracted- a bright red car zoomed by in the corner of her peripherals. She watched it, heart pounding, till it vanished into the horizon.
She exhaled, hands trembling. Not Ricky.
“Just get out of the car, Mark Jennings!” Angela snapped, nervous, ashamed, and losing her patience. “I’m runnin’ late!”
“Fine, I’ll wire some other piece of junk,” Mark shrugged. “And you’d best not call the pigs, Angel,” he added, lowering his voice. “I do still know where ya live,” he said with his unsettling little smile.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she sneered. And because she couldn’t tell him his threat was pointless, to get the last word in, she said “Bryon’ll do it for me.”
But she regretted the words soon as they were out, not wanting to drag this out any longer. The sun was lowering on the skyline. She needed to get the hell out of Bixby if she was gonna cross the stateline by nightfall, and provoking Mark Jennings was a surefire way to slow things down.
But Mark didn’t flinch, didn’t drop his easy, pleasant voice. “Bryon’ll do it for both of us. Ain’t like he treated you any better.”
Angela’s stomach twisted at that, taking her by surprise. Detachedly, she noted that it still hurt, thinking about Bryon. She knew she was still mad at him, but she thought it had stopped hurting. And yet there was a dull discomfort in the back of her mind.
She played it cool. “I’m late. I ain’t got time for this.”
“Right, right. Gotta feed the husband,” Mark said mockingly. He swung the car door open, looking her up and down, and she tried not to fidget under his strange gold stare. “Jesus, Angel, I never did take you for the type…” He raised an eyebrow, and looked back into the wagon of the car, and then back at her again. He stood up, eyes narrowing. “You…hey…what sorta domestic grocery run needs a whole luggage along?”
“That’s not a luggage. That’s my father-in-law’s,” Angela said fast.
Mark scanned the car again, and then stared at the single grocery bag in Angela’s hand and the switch in her other.
“What kinda construction worker eats first aid kits and…rope?” he continued, tilting his head curiously.
“This ain’t-”
“...You’re kinda far from Tulsa for a grocery run…” Mark said slowly. “Oh Angel!” he laughed, high and mean. “You’re runnin’ away! Oh boy, you’re- Ha!”
“I’m not!”
“Then why didn’t ya call for a store clerk when ya saw some dude in yer car? It makes perfect sense, I get it, I get it, you’re tryin’ to cover yer tracks!” Mark giggled. “Oh glory, that’s- that’s funny!”
“What’s so funny about it?!” Angela snapped.
“C’mon, Angie, you’re bright- what the hell d’ya think I’m doin’ out here?” he said, leaning towards her. “Ya think I got out of the cooler on good behavior? Hell no!”
“You broke out,” Angela said.
“Pshhyeah I did,” he scoffed, grinning. He grabbed her shoulders. “An’ you can be my ride to the state line!”
“No,” Angela murmured, feeling sick.
She was no stranger to jailbreaks and convicts- they came with the neighborhood she grew up in- but driving Mark to the state line? While she was already in enough trouble as it was?
“What?” Mark said, voice and face still breezy, but his grip on her shoulders tightened.
Angela shoved him off, knocking the bag into his stomach, before tossing it into the backseat.
“You heard me. No. I ain’t gonna be your ride. I ain’t puttin’ my neck on the line for you, kid.”
“Angela, please,” he said, glancing desperately back at the convenience store.
“Just wire another car, that’s what you were gonna do, wasn’t it?” she sighed, folding the switch and jamming it back into her pocket. “Don’t see why I gotta be dragged into it.”
“Well- I- I don’t want to wire a car, not so soon after breakin’ out- they’ll be on the lookout for me!”
“What, can’t get away with everythin’ no more?” Angela snipped. “Anyhow, they’ll be on the lookout for me, too,” she muttered.
“Yeah, but not for twenty four hours at least. You’re gonna be a missin’ person. I’m,” he said, pausing, “an outlaw.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Clint Eastwood, you’re nothin’ but a scummy dealer,” Angela scoffed.
“Well you need me for when those twenty four hours are up,” Mark pointed out, regaining his self assuredness.
“Why the hell would I need you?”
“You’re gonna want someone to wire you a new car. In twenty four hours, this here Nomad’s goin’ straight into the system, and they’ll be on the lookout for ya from here clear to California.”
That was true. Tim never bothered teaching her to wire. And until now, she never thought she’d need to. Still, she held steady, glaring at Mark.
“C’mon, Angel,” he said, leaning close. In the bright sunlight, his gold-brown eyes look yellow, like a jungle cat’s. Like a sweet-talking tiger, luring her in like prey. “That’s not all you need me for. Think about it. Bryon’s ex-girlfriend and his ex-brother- runnin’ off without him…God, can you imagine? We could send him a postcard…can you picture the look on his face?” Mark grinned. Angela wondered faintly if his eyeteeth had always been so pointed.
Mark was a dangerous person to get involved with. Angela knew that. Of course she did. He was bright and fast, golden and near-untouchable. He’d laugh his head off on a highway to hell, chewing people up and spittin’ ‘em out. He was exactly the sort of louse she wanted to leave behind in Tulsa, a dot in her rearview mirror that would disappear with the rest of ‘em.
But she pictured Bryon, Bryon who held her, who kissed her, who loved her better than any guy she’d seen before. Bryon who read books, who could be softer than the others, sweeter than the hoods she knew. Who promised her once that he’d get her outta that town someday…
She ran a hand through her hair. It was longer now, barely brushing her shoulders, but still too light. Too vulnerable. She remembered waking up in that yard, hungover and head pounding, and seeing her long locks in the mud, and feeling absolutely gutted.
At least with Mark she knew she was making a deal with the Devil. At least Mark wasn’t trying to hide.
And anyway, Angela was just as bad as he was, wasn’t she? She was going to hell in a handbasket side by side with him regardless.
She told herself then at the time that it was to get back at Bryon, to get back at Tim, to get back at Tulsa and everyone in it.
But looking back, she suspects that maybe a part of her, just a small, little voice inside of her, didn’t wanna go it alone.
“Let’s send him a photo reel,” Angela said, finally looking at Mark. “He’ll be horrified.”
And with a sinister grin, Mark Jennings climbed back into the car. “Boy, you’re cold.” He leaned back. “I dig it.”
“Jennings?”
“Hm?”
Angela jammed the sharp end of her car key into his bare shoulder, and he jolted out of the seat, eyes wide with shock.
“What the hell?!” he spat.
Angela smiled, feeling just a little better about everything. “I’m drivin’.”
-
They reached Texas by nightfall.
“Park there,” Mark muttered, rubbing his eyes.
“Hm?”
“The uh…the grocery store lot. Get a chance to uh,” he yawned, “sleep…”
The grocery store lot was across the road, sort of smallish and mostly empty. Angela wrinkled her nose. Past it there was a neon sign, shaped like a cowboy hat, shining gold and red over the asphalt and houses. Angela squinted- Vacancy.
“There’s a motel just a few lots down,” Angela argued.
“Hm. No…motels…getcha caught,” he grunted. “ID’s ’n all.”
“Well when the pigs come knockin’ at this here door, yer gonna be caught all the same, Billy the Kid,” Angela said, and Mark must’ve been real tired, because he didn’t argue. “C’mon, you got a fake ID anyhow, don’tcha?” she said.
“Not in this jacket, babe,” he scoffed, folding his arms around his middle.
“How’d ya get that back, anyway?” Angela said, frowning. He was in the old letterman jacket he used to wear- Dark blue and gold, with the sleeves cut off. He used to say he’d stolen it offa some Soc, but blue and gold were not the colors of any school anywhere near Tulsa. So she’d always been pretty sure he’d just happened upon it at a charity shop.
“Broke into Bryon’s,” Mark mumbled, eyelids drifting shut.
“You what?” Angela said, pulling into the motel lot. But Mark was either too sleepy to register it or pretending to be.
Whatever. She had a fake ID along with her.
“C’mon,” she hissed once she parked, poking Mark’s shoulder with her keys.
He blinked an eye open, and gave a small sort of sigh, but let her haul him to his feet.
“Get my bag,” she ordered.
“Get it yourself, princess,” Mark scoffed. Angela sighed- oh well, it was worth a try. She grabbed her own bag and locked the car.
Inside, the clerk looked them over.
“A room, please,” Angela barked.
“How old are you, m’am?” the clerk frowned.
“Twenty two,” Angela lied, sliding her fake ID across the counter. The clerk looked past her at Mark skeptically.
“How old is he?”
“Forty-six,” Mark said, grinning.
“Pardon- what?” The clerk said, eyes narrowing.
“The secret’s to stay outta the sun and drink only rabbit blood,” Mark winked.
“Excuse me?” said the clerk.
“He’s twenty,” Angela said, elbowing him. “Sorry. He thinks he’s funny.”
“I am,” Mark smirked. Angela elbowed him harder. Mark caught her elbow and linked arms with her, smiling innocently. “Sorry, she’s in a lousy mood- did ya wake up on the wrong side of the bed, babe?” he said, voice dripping sickly-sweet.
“Uh…Okay,” the clerk said, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll just uh…one room then. One bed?”
Mark’s grin dropped just a fraction, but through gritted teeth, he said “Oh…yeah. That’ll be just fine.”
Ugh. Great. Now she had to share a bed with Mark Jennings. As if her night couldn’t get any worse.
“Yes, that’ll be lovely, hon,” she said, wrapping her arm around his waist, relishing in how he flinched just a bit. She fished out Ricky’s card- she figured she could use it for just a little longer before it was deactivated.
The clerk scanned it, wrote something down, and gave Mark the room key, giving him another weird look.
“Thanks,” Mark said as they stepped outside, with a final nod at the clerk.
Outside, Mark quickly detangled himself from her, and walked a few paces ahead. Good.
“Hey hey, I get the bed!” Mark called over his shoulder.
“You ass!” Angela snapped, racing after him. “Get back here, you little bastard-” But she was wearing heels and carrying her trunk, and he was in his old tennis shoes and empty handed, so there was no contest, and he practically flew up the stairs while she hobbled.
“Aw- c’mon, hurry up,” he said, darting back down the stairs to grab her trunk.
“Thanks,” she said- but then he slid the trunk down the walkway till it hit the far end, and let himself into the room, smirking like a cat.
Angela cursed under her breath and stormed off after her luggage. By the time she made it into the room, Mark was sitting cross-legged on the bed, smiling that awful sharp-toothed grin.
“Don’t worry darlin’,” he drawled, “the couch is real comfy.”
Angela flipped him off. “I drove, I get the bed.”
“Ah, but see, Angel, one of us is on the bed, and one of us isn’t…seems to me that person’s you,” Mark said, shrugging.
“Mark Jennings, I don’t have to take you with me- I can still call the fuzz, you know, and they’ll be really thrilled to have you-”
“But you won’t,” Mark said, smugly. “I know you won’t.”
Angela seethed. “Why shouldn’t I?!”
“You won’t,” Mark hummed, stretching out on the bed. “G’night, Angel.”
“You- ugh!” Angela shrieked. She kicked the bed as hard as she could, and went into the bathroom with her bag, slamming the door.
“Okay, go pout, princess,” Mark said, muffled by the door.
Angela scowled. “I ain’t! I’m changing, you dick!”
“Su-ure,” he said, laying the sarcasm on thick. Angela bit her tongue to keep from screaming.
She took a deep breath. It was gonna be okay. She just had to travel with him till they stole a new car, and then it’d be good riddance, and she’d never have to see him again.
She set her bag down on the faux-marble counter, and pulled off her shirt and skirt. She dug out an old silky slip dress instead, and tugged it on over her bra- she wasn’t gonna be braless around Mark Jennings.
The slip was longer than it was meant to be, as it was a hand-me-down from her friend, tall ol’ Evie Peterson. Back before Evie went to college, she’d let Angela raid her closet.
Angela smiled at the thought, smoothing the slip over herself. She missed Evie…Evie and her stupid happy endings. Evie got out of Tulsa a year ago, with a partial scholarship to ASU and a pretty boyfriend to boot. (Back in the day, Sylvia and Angela ragged on him nonstop, because he was shorter than Evie, dumb as rocks, and had crooked teeth. Well, next to Mark Jennings, Bryon Douglas, Ricky Corrigan, and all the other awful boys Angela had been around since, Steve Randle was starting to look like a real prince charming.)
She sighed, brushed her teeth, and closed her bag. She didn’t bother washing off her smudgey faded makeup. She didn’t particularly care to impress Mark, and more importantly, she just didn’t have it in her to. She fluffed her hair a bit, still sad about it, although it did look good.
Angela emerged from the bathroom and set the trunk down, curling up on the couch. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t that good either. She could feel a spring sticking into her back.
“G’night,” Mark hummed, buried under the quilt, still in his jeans and cut-sleeves sweatshirt. He didn't bother brushing his teeth. Idiot.
He was a little guy- taller than her, sure, but everyone was- and on the big king-sized bed he looked tiny. Resentfully, Angela thought, we could have both fit on that damn bed and there’d still be a yard between us. She rolled her eyes. That was fine. She didn’t want to share a bed with Mark.
“Give me a blanket,” Angela said flatly. Mark tossed her a fuzzy throw blanket. It didn’t quite reach her feet. She would have argued more, but tonight, she was tired, so she just quietly wrapped it around herself and tried to fall asleep.