Angel and the Assassin 3: Sins of the Father

cubicle door
    and shoved him inside, locking the door behind him. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to
    lead you on. I really just want to go home. I’m actually in a relationship.”
    “With your little friend at the bar?” The man was unfastening his fly as he spoke.
    Jack! Where was Jack? How could he let the guy drag him off like this knowing he
    was out of his mind drunk? And what the hell was that pill he had taken? He must have
    been nuts swallowing an unknown substance. Daddy would be so mad with him. The
    man had his pants down around his hips and was unfastening Angel’s fly. Angel had
    worn the jeans with the buttons at the fly, and they were stiff. The dude was having
    trouble getting them open, especially with Angel shoving his hands away.
    “Jack! Where the fuck are you?”
    “Shut your mouth and don’t shout. You wanted this, you little tart.”
    “I don’t. Please!” A flash of Dudek making Angel suck his cock in his car in Paris
    last year flashed into his head. He wanted to throw up. “Get your fucking hands off
    me!”
    Fyn Alexander | Sins of the Father
    77

    The hand came out of nowhere, striking him a head-rattling blow across the ear.
    Angel’s head shot back, slamming into the metal partition. It was like in a cartoon when
    someone gets smacked and sees stars. Everything whirled around him. He could taste
    blood in his mouth. “Let me go, please.” The last thing Angel expected was to start
    crying.
    With his jeans finally unbuttoned, the man turned him round to face the metal
    partition. Angel didn’t even try to fight him anymore. His head hurt like hell, his lip
    was bleeding where he’d bitten it, and there was so much beer in his stomach he
    wanted to vomit. Snot ran down his face. Mucus filled his throat. He thought he was
    going to choke, but he couldn’t stop sobbing.
    The man laughed suddenly. “You’ve got slave printed on your arse. Right now
    you can be my slave.”
    Someone tried the latch and, when the door did not open, began to kick it.
    “What are you fucking doing?” the stranger said. “Fuck off. I’m busy.”
    A shadow fell over them as someone climbed with scary agility over the partition
    and dropped down into the tight space. Angel looked around and saw Daddy throw his
    fist into the man’s face. A second later, they were outside the cubicle. Daddy landed his
    fist several more times in the man’s stomach, only stopping when the man crumpled to
    the floor. Then he kicked him a couple of times.
    Outside the washroom, Jack waited, looking terrified. “Hang on, Mr. Saunders.
    Let me pull his jeans up.”
    With a strong arm around Angel’s waist, Daddy half walked, half carried him
    outside with Jack following. In the cold evening air, Angel bent at the waist and
    vomited profusely on the sidewalk. “Jack, the car’s across the street. Get the door
    open,” Daddy said. Vaguely Angel heard a beep when Daddy pressed the remote door
    opener. Jack legged it across the street while Daddy hauled Angel to his feet by the
    arms. “As for you, if you throw up in my car, you won’t sit down for a week.”
    Fyn Alexander | Sins of the Father
    78

    Angel must have passed out, because when he opened his eyes again, they were
    dropping Jack off at his house and he heard Daddy say, “Thank you, Jack. You did a
    very smart thing by phoning me. Good lad.”
    “No problem, sir. He’s my best mate.”
    The next time Angel came to consciousness, he was leaning over a garbage can in
    the underground parking lot of their building. He’d never felt so ill in his life. He
    couldn’t support his weight sufficiently to stand up, and after bringing up again, he slid
    to the ground and lay on his back looking up at Daddy. Anger was etched into every
    feature of Daddy’s face. His mouth was hard, his eyes narrowed. Leaning down, he
    lifted Angel off the ground, none too gently, and carried him across his arms. It must
    have been the drugs because the picture that filled his head was of the Pietà in St. Peter’s
    Basilica. When they had gone to Rome, Daddy had stood for a long time looking at it.
    Angel saw himself as Jesus and Daddy as Mother Mary. He remembered thinking the
    proportions were wrong and that Mary must have been huge to hold Jesus like that.
    “It is the emotion, the serenity induced by ascension that matters. We can all achieve that
    in different ways,” Daddy had said.
    Now as he floated along in Daddy’s arms, he felt like Jesus