[ RAFAEL SILVA, CIS MAN, HE/HIM ] — look who it is! if you take a look at our database, you’ll find that ANGEL OLIVIERA is a TWENTY-EIGHT year old SUGAR BABY that’s been in chicago for ELEVEN YEARS. according to the file, they’re a mutant on LEVEL 3 with the power of TELEPATHY. that must be why they’re CHARMING and HEDONISTIC. if you ask me, they remind me of the last puffs of perfume in your bed, too-red lips after a passionate kiss and the lingering thought of isolation late at night. They are affiliated with NO ONE.
❝ there isn’t anything for me that i haven’t gotten—that swaying hips and batted eyelashes haven’t dangled from the heartstrings of men. i take and i take and i take what is owed; and in the end they would thank me for the pleasure of what i have. of what i am. i have seen the world wanting me, and who am i to deny myself to them? ❞
A SUMMARY OF EVENTS.
cw: homophobia.
there’s always something about being born a wish. and while angel was a wish upon himself, it was hardly his own. his family always wanted the best—in a middle-class household, everything always seemed unreachable, all except when he was born. a child of new possibility.
the only child his parents had, he was doted upon and told good deeds and morals and to never step out of the perfectly constructed plan that they had given him. the son of a political man and his pta-perfect wife, they’d constructed a narrative that was as picturesque as the wish that they dreamed upon.
angel struggled, and his parents helped. but he was never smart enough, not until he managed to put in some effort. and they instead changed tracks to put him in his local football team, which he shone.
he went to church, sang in mass, talked with confidence in his speech, about how he had helped himself become the best man he can be with his father. but all of it, in the end would prove harder to bear, the picture-perfect politician’s son still being picture-perfect and pristine.
in the back of his mind, he always knew what to say, since he had an intuitive sense of people. a whisper in his mind. all until he started learning how to focus that whisper, turning it into a mind’s eye that he can use. always knowing what to say, what to do.
he still remembers hearing his best friend, boyfriend to the head cheerleader, that he thought angel’s ass looked nice.
in for a penny, and in for a pound; he’d started a torrid affair with him, coming to realize that he wasn’t as picture perfect as he’d thought. a mutant. gay. in a place where everyone knew everyone, that was almost a recipe for disaster. but he was careful, he was smart. he had everything under his crown.
that is, until he got sloppy.
it was one thing that led to another, and he could catch the thoughts growing louder and louder—a scandal, the game, heartbreak. they pressed against his psyche hard enough that a wave of psionic force shot out from him, and made one thing clear: that he was a mutant. they had seen what he was, and while the firewalls were up, they weren’t strong enough to stop broadcasting that he was a shameful little thing.
of course, he had drunk the night before. he was on top of the world. angel had thought that telepathy wouldn’t play well with his migraine; it was just bad how wrong he was.
he didn’t walk graduation, just took his diploma and left with lingering whispers. he had talked to his parents, his eyes looking into their soul as they talked in their heads but not their mouths. a freak. a homosexual. a scandal. he pried deep and he saw shame, a deep shame after all the work that he had done for them.
so he left. packed up his bags, went to college and tried to make it on his own. the dark stain won’t follow him there, and what could he do but use his gifts to his advantage? no more payments. no more fuss. but graduating as a business analyst wasn’t his dream—and with none of his own, he was left astray as he drifted into the next years of his life.
he met a man in a bar, as he did consistently when he felt like shit during his senior year, and charmed him well enough.
then they met again. and again. and again. enough times that he knew to tell him that he was a mutant. he didn’t care—hell, he even gave him money. anything he wanted. corvettes and clothes and costumes for when he came over. a sweet little penthouse all for him. for them. it was there, he learned about his life. the pressures of office. of the upper house.
so he waits on him, and has him when he wants. but he knows something about picture-perfect lives, and now, he squirrels away cash for days on end, just in case everything falls apart. angel is happy—happier than he’s ever been. and happy with the thought that if his parents saw him now? they’d collapse on the spot.
TLDR: politician’s son and former star quarterback in a small town has a great life, until he’s outed as both a mutant and gay. traveling out to college, he uses his telepathy to make them pay for his tuition and whatever he wanted. during his senior year, he meets his married, anti-mutant senator slash sugar daddy and after college, he whisks him off to be his dirty little secret in chicago. you love to see it!
RANDOM.
has expensive taste and almost constantly burns a hole through the side account that his sugar daddy certainly has set aside for him. angel likes expensive things. sue him!
learned how to use his telepathy a lot. most famously uses it when he and his sugar daddy boink. ask about the nut button.
drives a convertible that’s definitely his baby. tuned up to hell and back!
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Mutant to mutant, he says, and Kinevart suppresses a smile. “Who says that was part of my mutation? Perhaps I am just an uncommonly good masseuse.” But of course they both know it’s not true. With a final pass over Angel’s muscles, she concludes that she has helped him as much as she can, and collects the crystals that lie, now warm, on his flesh. Healing isn’t quite as satisfying to Kinevart with clients like this, who are not in any sort of pain, but it pays the bills, anyway, and while she doesn’t have a particularly mercenary attitude, money is unfortunately a necessity in this world.
“I think that is all. You are in very good health, you know.” she says, still in her low, gentle voice. “I will leave you to get dressed; take as much time as you need, and I will meet you back in the shop.” Though, as she departs, she suspects he won’t need much time; sometimes people are deeply exhausted by the release of a massage, but Angel is probably invigorated more than anything. It is nice, she thinks, to have such an easy customer: happy to chat, pleased with the service, a fellow mutant, and even offers to tip – which is not something Kinevart ever expects or anticipates, but it is always deeply appreciated.
You are in very good health, you know. Angel laughs, rolling his shoulders back as he dresses himself slow—loving a good show, from him or for him, is one of his less egregiously horrible traits. Always for an audience. Taught by his parents, exacerbated by circumstance, Angel puts on a good show. Clothes on, whatever slips of fabric he has on to accentuate everything goes onto him. If Kinevart looks, he doesn’t mind—most of the motions are for him. Half a payment for reinvigoration, and the other half from a very important senator.
( Walking out, he grabs his wallet and tosses her a couple hundred (a marvel, really, that he pulls them out like nothing) and grins. “The woo-woo I can do without, but the massage I’ll be coming back for—I have a couple of friends that might love this shit.” An angelic grin with an underlying current of mischief. All him, all the time. “Mutant or human, you got a preference, oh lady of the magic hands? I can even throw in eye candy! All for a good first time!”
The wetness on his fingers is certainly something else, moving slower—feeling as if Danny wouldn’t care for anything rougher, he takes his time with him, keeping the rhythm as his hand rubs the cockhead more and more. The man squirms, and Angel can feel some sort of triumph crawling up his chest as he looks at Danny, a little more debauched than usual with his hands and his mind. Angel’s hand moves from groping to making Danny look at him, the power coming off his mind and poised directly at the pleasure center in his brain—his number one move. In one stroke (or a couple, at least,) he makes everything feel more sensitive. Not all at once, but simply like slipping into a warm bath, one where he has free reign of.
“Feel that, baby? That’s all me. Little mutant trick I picked up—all for you,” he says, the free hand moving from his jaw and trailing downward, parting his thighs even more and rubbing them as he fucks him with his fingers. He doesn’t stop, digging the heel of his hand onto the sensitive cock, the wetness on his fingers egging him on. “I’ll give you a little beginner’s session now, and maybe when we work up to it?” Angel grinds his crotch against his leg to prove a point, hard and ready—though he does want to keep it slow now. Fingering on the couch is one thing, having someone inside him? Well, he doesn’t want to frighten the man. “You gotta be a repeat customer, though. Plenty of sessions.”
“Oh, no,” Kinevart exhales a soft laugh. “I am not really a relationship sort of person. I can’t get too excited about cheating. I was just curious. The motivations of humans rarely make sense to me, but I like to learn.” She doesn’t have much – any – experience with relationships so couldn’t really say what her preferences are, but monogamy does strike her as rather stifling.
Working now with her healing abilities as well as her hands, Kinevart reaches for that thread of tiredness in Angel and gently eases it away. It’s hardly a necessary act of healing, but Kinevart doesn’t mind. She likes sharing her gift; and, pragmatically, she has bills to pay. If she can help this man feel more energised, then as far as she is concerned, that’s only a good thing. “How is this feeling?“ she asks, still working her fingers into his muscles. Not everyone notices when she heals them; many put it up to the restorative powers of a massage. But mutants are often a little more perceptive about these things, and if Angel is still hovering around the peripherals of her mind he might pick up on it that way.
Humans don’t make sense. Well, Angel is less than human at some times and more besides, but he can see her point; relationships are odd and confusing. It’s why he doesn’t like to have any. Talking to people on the surface level, letting them know who he was as a front was leagues better than talking to them about... things less trivial. Humanity was idiotic and insane, and mutants were just caught in the web of their lives, the tangle of their choices.
The cool tiredness in his shoulders, in his chest, releases like a tint of dye into water, dissipating into whatever space the woo-woo masseuse chose. No wonder she made a profit. He could do orgasms, she could do everything else—a treat like no other. “Better, doll.” His voice is a low purr, a cat reaching for the sun as he lounges on the table. “Magic hands and mutations do fuckin’ wonders. Mutant to mutant? Remind me to give you a tip.”
Please. God, men begging really was one of the finer points in life—and while Angel wanted to drag this out longer for himself, the focus here was Danny. So he moved, slipping three fingers inside and rubbing at his cock with the heel on his hand while the other wandered to the hem of his sweats, slowly pulling them down as he did. He wanted him to make noise, enough to haunt him in his dreams, enough to pull him out of the tinges of self-loathing that he felt on his consciousness every time they’d met. A half-measure, he thinks, would be fun. His hand is slick, and he brings the pants down enough to have Danny’s front out; a look at the things he had to offer now.
Exposed for the world, and for him—though the two were one and the same to Angel, his lips leave Danny’s chest a constellation of bruises, as his hand rubs him off, making him look. “Dirty thoughts are so fun, Danny. I can hear everything right now, you know.” His free hand gropes at Danny’s chest as he continues, humming to himself in satisfaction. “You don’t have to say anything, you know. I’ll know. I’m going to finger you until you cum as hard as you want on this couch. Then. I’ll do it again, and again, and again. That sound good?”
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Because I can. It is a childish answer; mean but not necessarily outright cruel. Not that that’s a bad thing, as far as Kinevart is concerned; she’s always supportive of people engaging with their inner children, and making cheaters piss their pants is… not totally unwarranted.
“Ah, you only use your powers on those who deserve it, then,” she says, quietly amused and still massaging which I type just in case I forget the setting, and you’d think I could slip it into the narrative seamlessly but brain says no. Anyway, back to the narrative: Angel is here for a healing massage, not advice, so even if Kinevart did hold judgements she wouldn’t share them. “Do cheaters feel guilty?” she asks instead, since he seems quite open to talking about it, and she really is curious. Monogamy never made much sense to Kinevart so the entire notion of cheating is a bit lost on her, but she understands it is quite a big deal among most humans from the romantic comedies she and Lucine watch together sometimes.
“That’s one way of looking at it, I think.” On those who deserve it. Personally, he took what he needed from high-end retailers and people who pissed him off—Angel thinks that they deserve it, at any rate. Racking up a tab that only God can judge, and even then Angel thinks that the bastard owes him a couple of licks as well. Those who deserve it. He doesn’t give himself the luxury of thinking about who “deserves it” at this point. He’ll go to hell in a fast car and keep it hot.
At the question, Angel gives it a moment before replying, trying to feel the massage rather than deal with the conversation. “They do, but they do it again, which makes them feel guilty and then they go back to fuck the other person and the cycle repeats itself.” Granted, he’s a sugar baby to some dickhead politician cheating on his wife, but he didn’t necessarily care about the optics of hypocrisy at all. It benefits him, and it’s better than robbing people or a 9-to-5. “Cheaters are morons. Why? You want me to snoop around some brains or something?”
He continues, fingers working his cock, pulling up and down as he nips at his neck, at his ear, as he shushes him a little. Danny always gave him the impression of an easily spooked horse, and while he lets him run free, he needs him reined in a little. Or perhaps less—though that would be an interesting experiment. But now, he focuses on the man before him, slipping in one finger—two as his thumb starts stroking him off, a slow sensation building up to something, one that perhaps, he might even enjoy. His mouth is busy wth Danny’s chest, sucking bruises onto skin, while his other hand fondles and touches and lets him make any noise that he wants.
“You feel real wet, baby.” His mind searches for his pleasure centers, bringing it to a focus and enhancing it, just for Danny’s pleasure. Angel is such a giver. It’s one of his only good redeeming qualities, he thinks, but he won’t give voice to that poisonous thought. “You wanna cum in your pants, or should I take these off for you?” Pulling away, he grins, hand moving faster and faster. “Come on, use your words.”
"Alright, Danny. Alright.” The nerves start, and it was tentative, but the scans are all want and desire, so he doesn’t need the secondhand confirmation—though it would have been nice for him to vocalize it. Though want is something Danny has a hard time talking about. Angel could always just recognize that. Two of his fingers find his cock and he gently starts to stroke up and down while a sneaky third teases at his front, almost entering—almost. His mind starts to amp up the pleasure, though from what he can hear from Danny’s voice? He doesn’t need all that much.
His teeth nip at Danny’s ear, and he smirks into his neck. Carpal tunnel’s a bitch, but Angel can’t exactly deny the results in front of him. Especially not when he’s hard against the guy’s thigh. “You like it, Danny?” He lets it build, lets it plateau off this, moving faster with every hitch of a breath that he finds. “Better tell me before I let you soak through your sweats, huh? You like me taking care of you?”
“Why do you look, then? If it can be so terrible?” Kinevart asks, focusing more on the massage than the conversation. She can still feel him on the edges of her thoughts, and she does not want her deeper, darker thoughts rising to the surface. He assures her he has seen worse; and if that is true then Kinevart is sorry for him. But true or not, the years of pain and suffering would not be conducive to a restorative massage for this man.
“Because I can. And because it’s fun.” It is—seeing wayward thoughts and especially turning them into clay in his hands is a rush that he never thought he’d get. Like a dangerous game of hide and seek that he would never tire of. Angel laughs, just a little, not sadistically, but simply remembering the joys of his mutation, after it had been a mark on him for long. “Walking down the business district and listening to people who cheat and making them piss their pants in a meeting? Classic,” he says, “That, and giving them low self-esteem.”
“Oh– hi!” Tiff smiles, small but genuine. They get kind of nervous meeting Hale’s friends; but they’re feeling a lot more relaxed after their vacation together, at least. It does kind of feel like Angel is perhaps laying it on a bit thick? But they’ll admit they’re kind of paranoid and tend to assume people will dislike them; Tiff’s willing to admit it’s a them problem, not an Angel problem. “It’s really nice to meet you. Angel is such a neat name; like Angel Clare in Tess of the D’Urbervilles. I’ve been… kind of reclusive these last few months but I really want to start meeting more of Hale’s friends! She always has such nice things to say.”
Laying it on thick? Oh, he didn’t like that—the insinuation nor the fact that his personality is now just a lot. The nerves, like a rabbit jumping away from the hunter is endearing at least, and any and all thoughts are going to be fun to digest. It’s half a mark against her, but he’s vain; there isn’t much she could have said that wouldn’t have put him on the back foot. “I’ve never watched it, doll.” His words come easy, like soft satin, eyes looking at her from head to toe, quick little assessments that he likes to make. Pretty. Mousy. Happy. Posture that just screams apologetic.
“Hale really is just sweet; it’s one of her cardinal virtues. Odd coming from a demon lady, but life is full of irony,” he says, laughing a little. “Where you headed to, and do you mind me coming with?”
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Hale is a bit worried about Angel going into Tiff’s mind — not because she thinks he’ll see something bad, but because it’s an invasion of her partner’s privacy. She knows he’s being a good friend and trying to protect her, but she hopes she’ll be able to convince him to just trust her word before he meets Tiff. “You’ll like Tiff, I’m sure of it. They haven’t really met any of my friends, besides Sam and Fins. To be honest, them and you are the only real friends I have, though.”
Hale is happy to keep her circle small. It’d be foolish to trust too many people. “You’re right about that! There is no better company than us, and he knows it. I think he’s having a little trouble readjusting to being free, but he’ll get there.” Socialising must be hard for someone who spent years locked up, away from the people they love and need. He’ll never have to go through that again, though.
"Ain’t easy to be pretty, Hale, sometimes you just gotta roll with it.” Visible mutants like her got the short end of the stick, and while he was pretty human as they come, it all but assured him that he could at least protect his friends. Some slicing of memories here, some compulsions there—he did so enjoy the way that people were putty under his hands, in more ways than one. Angel wonders if she needs more security before he remembers that she can literally rip people apart. She’ll be fine.
“But your girlfriend?” Angel grins, a cat that caught the canary. “Tell me about her. What is she like with you? And well, I’d ask but I know a lady never tells—so I’m just going to wonder how she’d fare with the amount of mutants at our beck and call?”
She can feel a prickling at her consciousness; her guard was down because she had not realised this one was a mutant. It is not something Kinevart has experienced before, and her hands falter for a moment. She knows she can push him out with her indomitable will, but there’s no malice in the investigation, she thinks. Only curiosity.
“All my clients are special,” she reassures him, with a wry sense that she knows she’s feeding him a Customer Service Line(™). “Most prefer quiet; some fall asleep. But some do like to talk, and I am happy to do whatever makes the client more comfortable. I would suggest you not look too deeply into my mind, on that note. There are not always nice things in there.” As she speaks, she continues to work away at his muscles, fingers searching out any knots of tension and dispatching them with ease.
"Sounds like my old job.” Hooking in seedy bars and trying different men and sometimes even robbing them, just a little. Just to see if he could. Sometimes they were silent, or nervous, or even eager, but Angel always gave them the best time—now when Kinevart picked up on it was another thing.
So she was a mutant, and she thinks she can push him out. A telepath? Something more? Angel’s interest was piqued, and while he hadn’t exactly thought of what to do next, wading in somebody’s brain was always a good way to spend the day. He recedes, enough to let her privacy but not so much that he can’t hear her thoughts. “And don’t worry, I zapped someone’s brain once, and I’m not really eager to do that again,” he says blithely, “Take it from me, I’ve seen worse things in people’s brains. They’re absolute horror shows sometimes.”
a small part of him—cruel and hateful toward himself—almost expects angel to laugh in his face. insist that, despite everything, he’s got higher standards than the creature sitting beside him. it’s something he shoves aside before it can make him upset—not because he believes that it could be true, but because after all of this time, he still feels more like an escaped animal than a human being. regardless of his own momentary internal struggle, angel doesn’t laugh. doesn’t clap him on the shoulder and tell him, even kindly, that someone else might be better for this. for him. the hand he so coveted returns to brush against his waist, slowly ( painfully so, almost ) tracing up along his stomach. he’s never been touched like this before. he doesn’t want it to stop.
a breath—half a laugh, half a reaction to the lips against his jawline—escapes him in a whoosh. “i wouldn’t—” he knows it’s a joke. he knows that. but his head is full of haze and lights and feelings he doesn’t know how to explain. “i wouldn’t know where to start. i’ve never seduced anyone.” the thought has never even occurred to him, and why would it? even in a different life, more proud of himself, danny had never thought of himself as desirable. despite all that, he certainly feels desirable, now… as angel’s lips press against his own, as his hand begins to circle lower, that feeling only grows. it’s heat in his stomach, between his legs. god, what has he gotten himself into? how can he keep it this way?
ask nicer. danny flushes a deeper shade of red. please and thank you are certainly within his vernacular… but specifics? he’s never so much as held anyone’s hand, let alone… thought about his own desires. there’s always a first time for everything, isn’t there? sucking in a gulp of air, he steels himself to try his best. and probably make a fool of himself in the process. “please, angel,” he starts, tongue darting out to swipe along his lower lip. “please, would you kiss me again? harder, this time? and—” staring up at him like this, danny can almost forget everything else, himself included. “and would you touch me again? on my chest? or—anywhere?”
Please. Angel loathes the word, but it sounds so sweet when Danny says it that he thinks that it must suit him to be like this. He smirks at him, all cocky sureness and itching muscles, as if he was a racehorse suited to run wild—which he was, but it wasn’t too often that he was someone’s first anything. The nerves and the mouth told him all that he needed to know, and while he usually wanted to ease their emotions with his mind, he thinks that Danny of all people at least deserves a cleaner version of this—one without the mutant qualuudes.
Tucking the hem of his shirt into his collar, he marvels at the chest, at the body that he’d been hiding under baggy clothes and a meekness to rival monks. “Danny. Baby—you were hiding out on me.” He straddles a leg, facing him, making sure to part Danny’s, and starts kissing him hard, lips crushing his own, snout to nose as he feels the temperature warm. Greedily, his hand gropes his chest, thumb brushing over a nipple as he starts. “Your chest,” Angel says, the soft caress of telepathy heightening every sensation. “And when you mean everywhere...”
His hand, with a mind of its own, slowly starts to trail down, along smooth muscle to where the waistband goes. Fingers begin to drift down as he starts to reach for his cock, and Angel pulls off his face. “Last chance. You can always say no to me, Danny.”
"Funny meeting you here, Tiffany!” His mouth curls into a grin, mostly kind, a veneer hiding the shark that wants to pounce—he had been meaning to get back to Hale about all of the whole dating thing, but life and his job seemed to consipire against them. “I’m Angel. Hale’s friend—great to finally meet you.”
a noise of protest unsticks itself from the back of his throat and crashes past his lips before he can reel himself in to stop it—all from the few seconds that angel’s hand had came and went from his thigh. mother of god he is hopeless. completely, totally, pathetically hopeless. there’s no saving him from this, now… even if he wanted that. he doesn’t. the smart thing to do would be to back off before things get too heated, give himself a chance to explain that things are—that he is—a little more complicated. and yet…
danny’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth, weighted down against his teeth. he can feel his heart hammering in his chest even before angel opens his mouth again, doubt beginning to encroach past the haze of desire. if he doesn’t say something now, he never will. swallowing thickly to free up his tongue, he does manage to speak. “would you… show me?”
It’s a surprise, one that his Angel hard enough that he raises an eyebrow. But not enough for him to back off. Instead, his hand returns and holds his waist, hand touching skin, moving over to his stomach slowly. Bit by grueling bit. Inch by inch. He presses his body against Danny’s, feeling hair and heat and breath as his hand explores skin. His mind looks at Danny’s and the nervous anticipation that he feels makes him grin as he feels his breath hitch, these feelings coming to the fore of what he assumes is a lot of desire.
“So this was your plan, huh? Get me on the couch. Turn on Netflix and—what? Seduce me?” Angel grins, body pressing up against Danny’s, lips tracing across the man’s jaw. “I usually like seducing men like you, but really—a guy’s gotta have some hobbies, right?” He kisses him, slowly, hand still tracing dangerously close to what he thinks Danny wants. If he backs off, well, he can try to minimize the damage. Probably. “You gotta ask nicely though. Ask nicer. With a please and a thank you and specifics. I’m very big on the last one.”
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“Maybe,” Kinevart agrees with a gentle smile. “Or maybe you’ll simply feel more relaxed and that’s all.” Cynicism won’t stop her abilities from working, but if there’s nothing to heal, there’s nothing to be done. She takes her time anyway, as she always does. She is sure she can rejuvenate his energy levels a little, though she rarely has clients in such good shape. It’s hard to say if it will feel hugely different for him, or if he’ll just be able to chalk it up to the invigorating effects of massage, and either way she doesn’t try to heal anything just yet.
Gently, firmly working at Angel’s muscles, she pushes the rose quartz into the musculature before leaving it there to rise and fall with his breaths, before she reaches for another gem. “This is a bloodstone, known for its invigorating effects,” she explains, still in her low voice, and she warms it between her palms for a moment before dragging it down the oiled flesh of Angel’s neck, from behind his ears to shoulder and sternum in long, slow sweeps.
There’s a temptation that walks into his mind as easy as an earworm, as he skims the surface thoughts of his masseuse—the ambient thought really adds to the whole experience of the massage, if he does say so himself. The woo-woo mysticism helps, almost as well as the compliments on his body. He’d offer, but really, he doesn’t have to do it—and he really doesn’t swing her way. “I swear, I’m fun. But you do have magic hands, let me tell you that.”
Her hands press the stone into his body and it’s bloodstone this time. A sea of dark green, algae at the bottom of the ocean and Angel just doesn’t have anything to say to it—it’s a beautiful rock. And to him, it’s all that is. But the lady seems to like it, and at least half-believes what it can do. So in the meantime, to make this more bearable for him and a little easier for her—or a hell of a lot harder, he talks. It’s all he’s learned to be good at, anyway. “Are all your clients as chatty as me, or am I special?“
A nice closet case that’ll pay you for a secret. Samson’s gaze turns to his class, finger dragging around the rim, easier to focus on rather than looking at Angel. Sam’s a slave to his own arbitrary rules, beliefs molded by a lifetime poorly spent. As though it’s fine for Angel to basically be on call for some rich prick, but it’s cheating, it’s the easy option for Samson. As though he’s not allowed to pick easy.
What’s the difference, really, to what he’s doing now? It’d be better paid, less work. Only one guy he has to please.
“You really think you could find me someone?” Sam looks up from his drink. He’s not so blasé, he’s never been blasé a day in his goddamn life. “Be a helluva lot easier than what I’m doing now.”
Angel laughs a little louder than he means to—Samson is a fucking catch and it’s all but a shame that he considers himself to be something less than that. Hell, he’s sure that he’d tried to make a few passes his way back when he was starting out, but that ship has sailed. Probably. Angel doesn’t leave it anything to a certainty. If he can’t get Samson anyone, Angel is going to eat his fucking ten thousand dollar boot.
“Baby, I’ll give you ten someones with a bank account that could feed a small country. You have my word.” It’s all blase assurances, but he really does know ten people that could be interested. “I can do a full background check, and nothing funny that you don’t like.”
Leaning in, he grins. “Call it a thank you for having my back outta college.” His eyes flit over his form, though he can all but listen to the minds of those around them. “What do you say, Sammy?”
