Angel & Hannah by Ishle Park (best romance ebooks TXT) 📕

my boys — Sitta, Googie,

Craze, Flex, Beni, alla

them got sons — only me left behind.

With this college girl and her mouth —

blah blah blah.

And her hard, little fists —

she knows I won’t smack her, so I bounce —

out to Paradise, on Wilson & Starr, where

Joey waits with a wet kiss

We split a gram,

take two long hits

till stars inside the room get

dizzy and spin

My heart’s punched out. It beats

triple-time, a black punching bag

knocked into a blur. I

drink six Coronas as she

licks my neck.

My dick is stiff as

a soldier; it tents

my Guess jeans. But my lips,

my hands, my soul — all the rest

of me is soft. Dead. Limp.

Joey & Hannah (Hannah)

No one told me — even tho’

all these bitches probably knew —

I had a feeling ~ the way

she was watching us, laughing a

little too loud as I sat on Angel’s

lap in Maria’s kitchen,

I pinched him hard on his thigh,

he pinched me back — some

private fight about nothing — but

she caught it. Her eyes on our thighs.

Later, outside, I shoved him

against a brick wall, piss-drunk, and lied —

I know, I know what happened —

he stayed shut, but it spilled

out his guilty-as-fuck eyes.

Admit it! Admit it, you

liar — I punched him

once, twice, a hundred times

on his chest, my fists numb,

then dropped to the curb

& held my chest so it wouldn’t

break, rocking, rocking,

til I was sure I was still

in one piece. That night, street-glass

glittered extra hard. I was

A dead star. Alone in the universe.

Went back to Maria’s,

called up the window —

guess who? this puta waves from the sill,

grinning! Espera, she says, runs down

the staircase. I corner her,

grill — Qué pasó, Joey?

Qué pasó con Angel? Díme. She plays dumb.

Angel, mumbling, ella sabe, ella sabe.

I stood so close I could smell her stank breath,

could smash her sweet face with my fist,

but I wanted to give her

one chance to be decent,

gimme an answer — instead,

she stutters, no sé, no sé,

then runs upstairs. I give chase,

she hides behind Maria,

lacing her Reeboks, all of a sudden

this bitch gets brave, talking bout

voy a matarte, China —

I said, vamos, let’s do this —

and only his tías keep us

apart, splitting the door frame

with their arms, saying

nah, nah, it’s late, nena ~

kids are sleeping ~ and this

worthless cabrón is standing

there, dumb-mute,

unable

to do shit about

this mess he started.

Girlfight, Postfight

Hannah twists her hair into a tight, low bun.

Flicks off her hoops. No earlobes ripped in two.

Joey stubs out her Newport against the brick

wall, crippling it in a hiss of spark and ash.

Angel’s cousins tighten round the girls like a

noose. Bella offers Hannah Vaseline and sneakers.

She refuses: what will scar will scar.

Duke coaxes, You better than her. Don’t

stoop. You got a house, you got a car.

Hannah spits — Duke, fuck a house. Fuck a

car. Last night, she stole my Heart.

Bella blinks, Angel stares.

The girls strut. Circle. Claws out. Sharp-

beaked, they clash — a whir of red, furious wings.

After the fight, Hannah rubs raw aloe

on the lightning welt down her cheek.

A smudged mirror reflects a plain, scarred

face. Like a cratered moon. Outside,

Angie and Joey gossip, two shrill canaries.

Angel’s tía yells cállate! over her telenovela’s muted

violins. Hannah rides the ridge of her scar with her finger.

These are not my people, she thinks. How his tía watched

her fight like a gamecock, bet fives, took sides.

As if she were Angel’s…thing,

a ten-karat ring slung on his neck.

Not a soul: tired, small, gleaming.

A scratched record skips in her head — these are

not…these are not…my people.

Enough (Post Girls’ Night)

While other girls slump on couches,

hair slipping across cheeks, Bella & Hannah clink

Coronas into the sink. La Bella, Tía Bella, she winks

one Cleopatra eye at Hannah, then slouches

in the kitchen chair, tipping ash. Even with her stomach pouch

and thick arms, when she blinks slow,

she’s glamorous as Vanessa del Rio. Hannah’s face is pink,

flushed as blood in water. She kneads her creased brow.

It hurts. Bella leans over to stroke her hair

like a Persian cat. You, she croaks,

you got it good, girl. Angel, he don’t stare

at other bitches all day, fuck around, or beat you. So

stick with him, mami. My nephew, she purrs. He’s a good kid.

True. Hannah sighs. But is he enough? For me? she wonders, privately.

She drops her head. Rubs her eyelids.

Dawn

The next morning, a garbage truck beeps her awake.

Bushwick: a city of hangovers, sirens,

the diesel hum of too-early eighteen-wheelers. Hannah

watches a plane buzz by the window. It takes

eight seconds to disappear behind a brownstone. She shakes

her mussed head. Sunlight warms her hair, lends

her a red-brown halo. A brown wren

flits on the sill. She leans over Angel in sleep,

his body a thin rake, mouth slightly agape, open like an innocent.

It’s this time. Before words. When the city is a blank sheet

waiting to be penciled in, when anything seems possible.

She grazes Angel’s curly fro with her hand.

Sleeping, he throws his arm around her waist and sighs.

Mirror

Hannah stares in the mirror, naked.

What is it that She has…what is it?

She touches a strand of hair. Too limp.

Oily. Her skin doesn’t sheen —

it’s a bruised peach under this light.

Her empty womb throbs.

Slumped shoulders. Sad breasts

pointed away like two dove’s

wings, her hull-shaped

tummy…maybe

Her hair curls and gleams like polished scrolls of wood.

Maybe her nut-skin glows. A tight knot in her throat.

Nothing. Nothing about her shines

except her eyes. She swallows hard.

Blinks up at the ceiling to keep

her liquid light inside.

One

At Lucky’s Tattoo Parlor, Hannah sketches the

blades of her name on tracing paper. .

One. Meaning One Life. One Love. One Girl. One.

Scribe presses wax against Angel’s jugular.

As he readies needle & snaps on gloves,

Angel finds Hannah’s hand. Squeezes.

He’s a scared boy at the dentist,

she thinks, a wince of pity as Angel’s sculpted jaw clenches.

He stretches the long apology of his neck.

Black drops, red blood. Black, then blood. Blackblood.

Scribe carves slow, steadyhanded, thick,

to Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Under the Bridge.

Pen grinds. Scribe hums. Hannah sings.

Angel closes