Brush of Angel's Wings (40 page)

Coins dumped into the tray to the sound of the machine playing musical notes.

“Oh yeah. This is gonna be a good night.” Clint scooped the coins into a plastic cup. “We're going to have a blast.”

The unease inside Jordan grew until he felt like a fidgeting child. “Hey, Clint. I'm tired. I think I'll go enjoy taking a shower that isn't in a truck stop.”

Clint tipped back his head and laughed. “I completely understand. But you can shower later. Relax and have fun.” He glanced around the room. “Trucking would be too hard if you didn't take time to rest and enjoy yourself a little.”

“Yeah, Jordan. This is a great part of the road experience.” Tangus blew into his cupped hands. This was his turf. In this city, he had his choice of those to embody. Jordan included—if he couldn't entice him with a little coin jingle, then he'd bring out the fireworks. Like father, like son. “Drop a coin. One coin in any machine, and I'll make you rich.”

Jordan stared at the bucket of coins, the weight beyond what he would have expected.

“Two hundred bucks. That's nothing,” Tangus said, peering over Jordan's shoulder. “You wouldn't be gambling your money. Play what you won. It's free money.”

“Can I bring you anything from the bar?” The blond woman leaned close to Clint.

“Sure. I'll have another one of these.” He held up his Daniels and Coke.

“Rum or whiskey?”

“Jack Daniels, please.”

Jordan cleared his throat. “Can I get the room key?”

Clint dug in his pocket and handed Jordan the plastic key card. “Room 708.”

Jordan handed Clint the container of coins. This was certainly a side of Clint he hadn't seen while on the road. Not that he'd had much of a chance. However, now he understood Clint's lingering gaze whenever they passed a casino, usually on the outskirts of some town. He'd thought it was the curiosity of it—probably because that's how Jordan had seen them.

“Good night, son.”

“Good night.”

Jordan trekked to the bank of elevators.
“A gambler eventually sells his soul .
. .
”
His mother's words echoed as he waited for the door to open. She'd made it clear how she didn't like Jordan working for a racehorse farm.
At least the job taught your son how to harness a buggy .
. . The elevator dinged and the door slid open. Jordan entered and pressed the seventh-floor button. He looked upward but not at anything in particular. “I know how to harness an Amish buggy now too, Mom.”

Jordan exited the elevator and scanned the gold-plated numbers on the doors until he found room 708. The room was impressive compared to the dumpy motels next to the interstate they stayed in on occasion. It had a refrigerator stocked with miniature liquor bottles, and the bathroom was stocked with miniature bottles of shampoo and lotions, razors, and other things. He'd use the shampoo and razors, but he'd leave the other stuff. He wouldn't be caught dead in a shower cap or smelling like Rose Dew. He flipped back the shower curtain and turned on the faucet, eager to step into the multiple jets of hot water.

He lingered in his first truly hot shower with decent water flow in weeks. Sitting endless miles on a truck seat had stiffened his joints. The hot water drained the tension from his tight muscles as steam filled the room.

He would have stayed until the water ran out, but he figured that would either be a very long time, or he would rob another hotel guest of their enjoyment of a hot shower.

Rummaging through the duffel bag for clean clothes, he found the blue, collarless shirt. He pulled it out and admired the hand-sewn stitches. He slipped it on, fastened the eye hooks, and stretched out his arms. The right sleeve measured an inch longer than the left, but to him, the shirt was a perfect fit.

Jordan plopped on the bed, took the remote, and clicked through the TV stations. He found each channel littered with gambling advertisements. He opened the drawer of the lamp table and tossed the remote inside, his mother's warnings against gambling replaying yet again.

He rested his head against the pillow and closed his eyes, thinking his mother must have known about Clint's gambling. That's why she was so insistent on reminding him of the dangers.

“Jordan, the Father is calling,” Nathaniel whispered.

Jordan shot off the bed and looked around the room. He wasn't sure what to expect, but the room felt different.

“Search for God while He is near. Call out to Him and He will answer.”

The hairs on Jordan's arm stood on end. He looked around the room again, sure that someone had spoken. Finding the room empty didn't calm his racing heart. Perhaps the TV would mask the eeriness. Jordan opened the drawer of the lamp table; instead of getting the TV remote as he planned, his searching fingers found a Bible. He brought it out and opened it. His hands trembled as he flipped through the pages. “Where do I begin? I've rejected your love for so long . . . Why would you care about someone like me?”

“Jordan, all have sinned. Everyone falls short of the glory of God. Read the page you've stopped on,” Nathaniel encouraged.

Jordan skimmed the page.
“. . . While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us
.
”
He continued reading, but he stopped when an odd sensation warmed his core. He reread the scripture, this time aloud. “ ‘Whoever calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.'” Jordan dropped to his knees. “I'm calling on you, Lord. I want to be saved. I want you to be Lord of my life.”

Nathaniel's pearlescent wings shimmered as he stood beside his charge. “On this day, heaven rejoices. The angels sing, ‘Glory to God. Praise to God, the One who is and who is to come.' ”

Warm tears trickled down Jordan's face. He couldn't explain the overwhelming peacefulness.

“Dry your tears. Do you want people to think of you as weak?” Tangus materialized from the ceiling air vent. “Those ancient words won't offer comfort.”

“Flee!” Nathaniel's reverberating voice struck an octave that pinned Tangus against the wall.

“I don't obey your orders. You know as well as I that some seed shall be plucked before it takes root.” Tangus snarled. “I will lure him into dark places where your voice shall not prevail.” Surging with boldness, Tangus propelled himself forward. “Even those ancient words tell of some who will accept but be overtaken—devoured.”

Nathaniel reached for his baldric and removed the sword from the sheath. “I shall stand guard before Jordan.”

Tangus raucously squawked. “Free will—I know what's been written as well as you, Nathaniel. The subject must choose to follow.” He crept closer. “The power you speak of must be sought, but the mind is pliable, wicked, and can be tempted.”

Nathaniel expanded his chest. “He shall be like Paul and renew his mind daily.”

Tangus frowned. Paul's renewed mind inspired other unwavering followers of Jesus Christ. The kingdom of God advanced daily with Paul's teachings—he couldn't be stopped even when imprisoned.

“That's the power I speak of. The power God gives those who abide in Him.” Nathaniel spoke to Jordan. “You contain the power in the name of Jesus to demand the accuser to flee. You are equipped with the armor of God—speak to this stronghold and you shall be freed.”

“There are other ways to bore into his soul.” Tangus vaporized into the vent system.

The room phone rang multiple times before Jordan leaned over and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

On the other end of the line, Clint yelled over background sirens. “Get down here. I hit!”

“Hit what?” Jordan scrambled to his feet.

“Payday. Don't you hear these sirens screaming? Just get down here.”

Before Clint's words registered, the phone went dead.

Jordan left the Bible on the bed and hurried out of the room to catch the elevator. Once he entered the casino, he could hear Clint's voice shouting over the wailing siren.

Jordan eased into the gathered crowd. One casino worker disabled the siren on the slot machine while another filled out a claim sheet and handed it to Clint.

A parade of people followed Clint to the collection booth, cheering him on. Less enthused with the commotion, Jordan hung back and waited. Soon Clint emerged from the crowd and waved at Jordan.

“Twenty-five thousand,” he called out. Then he held up some tickets. “And vouchers for the buffet and show.” He moved in an unsteady gait to Jordan. “You hungry?” His breath was weighted with the smell of alcohol.

Whether or not he was hungry didn't really matter. He was more concerned that eating would help soak up some of the alcohol Clint had imbibed.

“I wish you had been here to see the lights and siren,” Clint said, his words slurred together.

“I was.” Jordan guided him away from the casino and toward the hotel lobby. “Let's find that buffet.”

“I'm not hungry. I'd rather double this money. Come on, I'll teach you how to play craps.” He elbowed Jordan hard in the ribs. “It'll make a nice down payment on a second rig. We could be hauling loads cross-country together.”

“Let's eat and talk about it later.” This fancy place wouldn't be in the business of giving out free rooms and free meal tickets if it didn't expect to win its money back plus more. He hoped Clint sobered before he lost his shirt.

Jordan followed the signs to the buffet, the scent of sautéed garlic and onions guiding him as well. His mouth watered for something besides the greasy diner food he'd eaten for over a month. He sampled a few dishes that resembled Chinese food, then stood in line at the end of the buffet where a chef carved prime rib.

With a thick slab of meat on his plate, Jordan looked around for Clint. Ten o'clock at night and the room was full. Most patrons didn't wear the same wide smile as Clint.

Jordan weaved around the tables and sat across from Clint. He said a quick prayer, then picked up his fork. “How is it?”

“Best food I've had in months,” Clint replied. “Now do you see why I drive a truck?” He cracked open the lobster tail and jabbed the meat with a tiny fork. “Wait till you see the entertainment.” He winked and butter dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.

Entertainment? Jordan had seen enough billboard advertisements of feathered showgirls; he didn't need to see them perform in front of him. He took a bite of prime rib and closed his eyes. He wanted Clint to believe he was savoring the meat's flavor when truly he lacked strength to stand on his own and was silently asking for God's help.

I need wisdom. I don't want to be persuaded by Clint. Drinking and gambling—he's not the person I hoped he was. And this isn't the life I want. Show me what to do
.

Jordan opened his eyes. He cut the meat and took another bite.

Clint squinted and his head bobbed. “Why did you change into that Amish shirt? I bought you other clothes.”

Jordan fingered the hand stitching on the sleeve. “A friend made it for me.”

Clint pointed his fork at Jordan. “The girl you keep buying postcards for?”

Jordan paused a moment before deciding to answer. “Her name's Rachel.”

Clint set the lobster pliers next to his plate and wedged his fork into the claw. “Don't make the same mistake I did.”

Jordan tossed his napkin on the table and stood, rage flowing through his veins.

Clint looked confused. “Where are you going?”

“I've waited this entire trip to have a conversation with you about my mother. But I never dreamed when we did you would call her a mistake.” He headed for the door.

“Jordan, wait,” Clint called.

Anger drove him forward.

“I loved your mother.”

Jordan stopped and pivoted to face Clint. “Why haven't you asked about her?”

Clint closed his eyes.

Jordan wasn't sure if the alcohol had caused his father to feel dizzy and close his eyes, or if he was truly searching for an explanation. “I'm going back to the room.”

“Please, wait.” Clint reached for Jordan. “I didn't think you wanted to talk about her. I was waiting for you to bring it up.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “I know Grace died and I'm sorry.”

“How did you find out?”

Clint's bloodshot eyes watered. “Usually she returned my checks with a note.” He inhaled. “She always wrote the same thing. ‘God provides our needs. Jordan and I are doing fine.'” He blinked back tears, then swept his hand through his hair. “Your landlord in Farmington Hills returned the damage deposit and said you'd moved out.”

“Why didn't you come see for yourself if we were fine? We barely had food on the table.”

“I'm not the one who returned the checks, Jordan.”

“We wanted
you
, not your money.” Jordan crossed his arms.

“While Mom was dying, everything we had of value was repossessed . . . and you didn't care.”

Clint gulped. “If I'd known—”

“You would have known if you'd come by once in a while.” Pain and fury infused Jordan's voice. “You ran an extra load for that trucker to go home to his family, but you didn't go home to yours.”

“We all live with regrets,” Clint said under his breath. “Even your mother. She regretted leaving her family, her way of life.” Clint combed his fingers through his hair. “I wanted a family. I wanted my son to know me . . . but not like this.” He waved his arm over the table laden with food and drink. “I never wanted you to see me drunk or gambling.”

Jordan's throat tightened.

“I'm sorry if I insinuated your mother or you were a mistake.” He put his head in his hands. “I regret not being the husband and father I should've been. I regret those years I missed with you.”