An Angel Wears Hightops [A Sequel to The Devil Wears Girl Jeans]

An Angel Wears Hightops (Chapter 4)

Two hours and five stitches later, I pulled into the parking lot of their apartment complex, sighing. It was nearly five in the morning, and I could see the sun poking up over the mountains in the distance, bathing everything in warm shades of orange and red.

Mickey threw his door open before I'd even finished parking, and I let out a curse as I struggled to shut off the ignition and catch up to him. He got to the apartment before me, moving to shut the door just as I reached the hallway, and I broke out into a sprint, barely managing to jam my foot in the door before he could lock me out.

“Mickey,” I panted, throwing my weight against the door, causing him to take a startled step back. I forced the door open just enough to slip through, and he let out a frustrated groan as I turned to face him.

“What the hell was all of that?” I asked him, my voice wavering slightly. He ran his hands through his hair angrily, before collapsing on to the couch, motioning for me to sit down beside him. I did, and he stared at me for a long time, not saying anything, just studying me.

I held his gaze the entire time, concentrating on the flecks of gold in his eyes, and the cut that now snaked its way through his eyebrow, trying my hardest not to reach out and strangle him out of impatience.

“If you could tell me before my hair starts going grey, that would be excellent,” I muttered, and he sighed, dropping his gaze from mine, and turning to look out the window instead.

“You're going to think I'm completely crazy.” he told me sadly, dropping his face in to his trembling hands. I put my hand on his back to comfort him, but immediately dropped it when his shoulders went rigid.

“C'mon Dallas, you know you can tell me anything,” I said quietly, and it wasn't until Mickey whipped his head around to stare at me that I realized my mistake.

“I am so, so sorry. I meant to say Mickey.”

“Oh, really? Because I have the strangest feeling that you only hang around here to be close to him. But newsflash, babe, I'm. Not. Dallas.”

“Mickey, cut it out. It was a mistake, and you know it.” I snapped, and he blinked, as if startled that I'd even consider raising my voice at him.

“Right, I'm sorry. I haven't been feeling like myself lately.”

“Yeah, I figured that one out,” I muttered, before realizing what he was trying to do. I nudged his shoulder lightly, and scowled. “Stop trying to change the subject, you dingus.”

“I don't even know how to start,” he groaned, and then paused, staring intently at a spot in the corner. He muttered something under his breath, and then swivelled his head so that he was looking at me. He held my gaze for less than 10 seconds, before he sighed, dropping his gaze to the floor, and said, “I see dead people.”

I tried to stop myself. I swear I did, but I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing, and it took me a few moments to calm down, but eventually I did. To say that Mickey looked pissed, would be a total understatement.

“I'm not crazy, Hartley. I can prove it.”

“Go for it, I'm listening.”

Mickey took a deep breath, and then closed his eyes in concentration. The room immediately dropped in temperature, and I shivered, pulling the throw blanket over my shoulders. Mickey said nothing for nearly 10 minutes, just sat there with that stupid constipated expression on his face. Finally, he cleared his throat, and said, “Sammy. I'm ready.”

Ice water filled my veins, and I stood up, staggering away from the couch.

“Mickey, that isn't funny. Why would you eve-”