Chapter 5 - Angel in Leather

When I arrived home much later than usual no one was there to notice, much less care what had taken me so long. Not that it surprised me. My mom was simply too busy to keep track of my comings and goings. Like me, she had to wake up during the week at the butt-crack of dawn. But while I slaved away all day at school, she ran the family business from home.

Killbourne's Farm Market was a combination apple orchard, cider mill, pumpkin patch, bakery, and garden and gift center. Every fall we offered lots of good, old-fashioned family fun like wagon and hay rides, child friendly corn mazes, zip cord rides, and the opportunity to pick your own fresh apples and pumpkins. Every weekend people came from miles around to spend the day down on the farm.

Translation: the townies brought the kiddies to play farmies for the day.

Autumn was our busiest time of year so right now mom was either out back in the new barn making her award winning apple cider, in the bakery making fresh donuts and pies, or doing something else fallish like carving pumpkins. She's so pre-festive, she already hung the Halloween decorations weeks ago.

I dropped my book and gym bag at the front door and, for a split second, considered boarding up all the windows and booby trapping the entire house in case Beastie felt like making another unwanted appearance. But then I remembered that Thomas had said he'd taken care of him – whatever that meant – and decided to go into the kitchen to make my favorite sandwich instead. Peanut butter and jelly...the perfect pair. They go together like jeans and a T-shirt...but taste better.

Grabbing a pop from the fridge, I took my sammie and a half eaten bag of Doritos up to my room to reflect on the days festivities. Or as my mom liked to call the daily maneuver; I went to my hole to sulk.

If I didn't want answers out of Thomas so bad, I would've just vegged out in front of my TV and fallen asleep as usual. Scarfing everything down faster than normal, I glanced at my cell and decided to change. Since I could never find clothes if they're put away, I rummaged through various piles on my floor and scored a pair of light gray sweats and a black and gray flannel, which I pulled down over my black T-shirt. Layers worked best in cold weather. Especially when I never bothered to wear a coat.

From a wad of tangled shoes in the very back of my closet, I dug out an old pair of faded black Converse sneakers and slipped them on. At least they were dry.

Once dressed I checked my appearance in the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door, and frowned. Every inch of clothing on my body was either wrinkled, or permanently stained from my inability to eat without wearing my food. Mom would never allow me to be seen in public dressed like this. But I thought my outfit looked perfect.

Perfectly horrible, that is.

As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, I took a deep breath and tried to relax. It was no use. My nerves were wound as tight as my bowstring. During times of extreme stress I always found comfort in playing my violin. Anxiously pacing back and forth, I stopped to check my cell again. If only I could get in some practice before Thomas showed up.

Before leaving for the barn I decided to pull my hair up into a high pony-tail, securing it tightly with a black scrunchie. The only time I ever exposed my face so much was when I played music. Otherwise my waist length tresses hindered my concentration.

Not to mention the fact that my thick hair got tangled in my bow.

Heading downstairs, I grabbed another pop from the fridge and ducked outside – careful to avoid detection. My mom would expect me to be working on my homework, not playing my violin in the barn. But that's where it sounded the best. Great acoustics.

Built over 100 years ago the red, rustic, prairie style building rose magnificently above the country landscape, punctuating the sky with its soaring roof and proud silo. No longer used to store grain, it now served as my private musical retreat. As well as the place I went to detox from emotional overload.

I squeezed in between the double hung doors and couldn't help noticing that all of the oil lanterns were already lit. Shadows cast from the flickering light danced in a silent frenzy around the barn to welcome me.

"You're late," Thomas called from somewhere up in the loft.

"You never specified a time," I responded, already annoyed that he'd beat me, "so I wouldn't push it if I were you."

Moving stealthily across the dirt floor strewn with hay, it was almost as if Thomas materialized right out of thin air because, suddenly, he stood right behind me.

"What's the matter?" he teased in my ear, scaring the bejeebers out of me. "Somebody skip their happy-juice?"

I jumped, spilling my pop and spun around glaring daggers at him. Great, now my fingers were going to be all sticky. Shaking the excess liquid off my hands, I groaned, "What are you, in grade school or something?"

He glanced down at my hands first, then met my eyes – smirking with delight. "Good. Maybe now you won't drop your bow."

How in the crap did he know I had a bad habit of dropping my bow?

Fun time was over. "Did you come here just to annoy me? Because you're doing a bang-up job."

If possible, his smile widened. "Play something for me."

My eyes went huge. "Excuse me?"

I couldn't tear my gaze away, mouth fell open as I watched Thomas casually stroll over to an antique piece of farm equipment claimed long ago by rust, and climb up on top as if he owned the thing. Lounging with a piece of straw dangling lazily out of one corner of his mouth, he reclined in the seat of the old John Deere tractor, propping up both feet on the iron steering wheel; hands clasped behind his head. He looked resplendent with his lean body all stretched out like a giant cat wanting its belly rubbed, as a beam of dying sunlight shown on him through the cob webbed window like a spotlight.

"I prefer anything by Bach," he murmured, voice husky.

I snapped my mouth shut, shuddering against my will. I was completely and utterly mesmerized by him. I didn't like it, not one single bit.

Okay, maybe I liked it. But just a little.

And, yes. I desperately wanted to play my violin. But not because he wanted me to.

Sensing my stubbornness, Thomas folded large muscular arms over his ample chest making the tight leather sleeves of his form fitting jacket moan with resistance.

"Well?" he urged.

I eyeballed him suspiciously.  "First, tell me why you're really here?"

"I'm here to train you," he admitted.

"Train me?" I scoffed at the idea. "For what, exactly? I'm already housebroken."

Shaking his head, he tossed me a frown that rivaled my own. "No more questions. Play a song for me."

I narrowed my eyes. Oh, he was going to hear a song alright. But it was most definitely not going to be anything by the renowned composer Bach.

Removing my violin and bow from the battered hard plastic black case, I begrudgingly walked to the center of the barn, fingers tracing the letters of my name scratched long ago into the neck of my beloved instrument – a much regretted act of childish rebellion.

Filled with a rush of longing to escape my daily torment, an immediate sense of calm washed over me as I raised my violin to my shoulder; neck pressing against the well worn rest. With my right arm raised, I drew the bow across the strings teasingly and glanced up just in time to see a pleased expression flicker over Thomas' ridiculously handsome face.

Although I didn't usually listen to country music, lately, my new favorite song to play was The Devil Goes Down to Georgia. I took another deep breath and launched into sawing my favorite rock rendition. If possible, my lightening fast metal re-mix was even scrappier than the original. When finished, I beamed proudly. This time I didn't even drop my bow.

It was Thomas' turn to stare, smile now gone as if it had been wiped away.

"What?" I said, feigning innocence under the intensity of his piercing hazel eyes. "I was just tryin' to keep things festive."

He gave me a long, hard look before hopping down from the tractor. Landing with a creaky thud that shook the wooden planks under my feet, a billowy cloud of dust rose to hide his legs like a smoke machine. With deliberate slowness he reached up and pulled the wet tipped piece of straw from between pursed lips, flicking it to the ground with a flourish.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out low and forceful. "The Devil..." he spat, as if the mere sound of the word forming on his lips made him want to gargle, "is sharpening his tail while he waits for you. And I can promise you this, Chaos, he is nothing to joke about."

"I didn't mean..." I began, stumbling over my words. "Uh, I mean...I wasn't trying to be funny."

I probably would've sounded way more convincing if my voice hadn't started to tremble.

Who did this guy think he was? Supposedly he'd come here to give me answers. But all he was doing was giving me grief. And it was seriously starting to piss me off.

Recovering quickly, I glared back. "What are you, the angel patrol?"

At first, Thomas seemed shocked. Then taking a step forward, he considered me more closely. "You are very perceptive, my dear." Just like that, his smile returned. "How did you know?"

I lifted both brows. "Know what? That you're a bowl full of crazy?"

He shook his head. "No. That I'm an angel."