Heavy Love(37)

     



 

"Of course, I'd be obliged to pay that person back."



Leaving Burt to his own attitude. I remind him that this is a vacation. I  hear him scoff as I head down the private elevator with a black duffle  bag containing my sniper rifle and all the equipment needed to put the  good old Dr. Whitson to his last rest.

Once I'm in the back of the cab, I chuckle at how Burt would have felt  even sitting where so many others have. Burt had purchased a Mercedes  S550 and had it waiting at the airport when we arrived. Though not the  crème de la crème of luxury vehicles, it boasts enough accommodations to  be acceptable for the time being. But not today. I look up after  putting on sunglasses and leather gloves. We're about two feet from  Bulgari. The traffic is atrocious.

"Thanks." I pull out a Benjamin for the driver.

"Thanks pal!"

I take to the streets like a loyal businessman. The streets from Bulgari  to Gecko Technogies and blueprints have been imbedded in my mind during  the plane ride. It takes a certain level of disconnect to delight in  every aspect of murder. Though I won't allow myself to become consumed  with the kill, I want to scope out the scene and get a feel for  Whitson's schedule. I think as my father for a second. It's been a while  since I've done a cover up murder, one in which there is no denying  that the death is self-induced or because of an ailment. Maybe just  maybe, that's how I'll take Whitson out.

This musing over murder has become one of my favorite pastimes. Just  thinking about a hit, not even to the point of completing the actual  deed, that's enjoyable.

My father used to force me to go hunting when I was younger. Mother  would always turn up her nose and let him know that it wasn't becoming  of the future duke to parlay in such common activities. Father would  scoff, and remind her that he was a duke. Nothing on this green earth  was untouchable or beneath him, unless he deemed it as such. Hunting  quail had always been a pastime for royalty, but Mother knew Father was  psychotic. He only delighted in the dynamics of taking lives. Human or  animal, that was never important. How, now that was key …

His words are with me even now. "It's all about opportunity. The kill is  of no significance. Quality over quantity. Fine details all the way  down to the most minuet, now that's what is fundamental." Father's credo  had filled my brain as I took my first life. A quail. But a life  nonetheless.

Then the stakes were higher...

About 15 minutes into my journey, I approach a skyscraper with mirrored  walls that reflect the smoggy, gray skies. A swarm of beautiful,  seemingly intelligent women are walking around in tight pencil skirts.  This is hardly the day for death as one blonde in a particularly short  red dress seizes the opportunity to give me the go ahead.

"Hey, whatcha got there?" she asks, twiddling her finger through her straight, platinum blond hair.

"A really big gun," I state in a matter of fact manner, since I'm prone to telling the truth.

The blonde begins to laugh her ass off. I'm instantly turned off as she  considers my statement the funniest comment of the year. I'm always  aware of my surroundings, and notice this child... A flurry of shocking,  spiral, copper-colored hair obstructs my view of her face. But she's  holding some sort of flowers while walking across a very busy street.

A bike courier zips through traffic, moving faster than the speed of  light. My eyes roam from the child to the lean, agile rider. It takes a  nano-second for my mind to analyze the fact that the absent-minded girl  will be hit at the current rate she's walking.





Lux

I let out a piercing scream I've never been so angry in my entire life.  The black flowers go somersaulting into the air. Then petals of  beautiful, silky, ebony flowers are all around me and I look up. No, I  mean really look up at a brawny chest of this tall figure. I  automatically start pounding the bully in his chest as hard as I can.

"Hey, what's the fucking deal?" He grabs my hands as the sides of my  fists are in pain from hitting him with every bit of my might. His chest  is pure muscle.

"Little girl, wait – !"

"The hell you mean wait?" I scream at the top of my lungs. "You can't just go pushing me around."

"Are you daft?" he replies. "And cussing like a grown – "

"Are YOU daaa – ?" I mimic, shoving my hair back and looking into deep  blue eyes, the shade of summer's richest day. I yearn to dive in and  float away in a sea of perfect blue... My air escapes me, along with all  rationality. Is he telling me or asking me if I'm a woman? I wonder  while looking at his moving lips. The type of lips that take my breath  away, even at the notion of being kissed.         

     



 

I am utterly speechless. This man, he must be one of those runway  models. His facial features are so angular that God must've spent the  day creating him.

Strong jaw, brow line, pleasing lips … ummmm.

Super tan skin, almost as dark as mine, shoulders that seem to stretch on and on in his expensive looking button up.

Finally, I reclaim some of the Bronx chick that comes second nature,  "Little girl? Did you call me a little girl! Stupid, I am 22, I am not a  little girl."

His voice commands my attention as he replies, "Little you are, but my  apologies." He pauses and finally notices me for the first time. His  blue eyes skim over my body as if I'm some type of object. I can almost  feel them touching my curly, unruly hair as I quickly shove it from my  face once again. Then his ocean blue gaze lands on my face, and it seems  he's counting all these hideous little freckles of mine. Next I can  feel his gaze damn near kissing my heart-shaped lips. And I'm grateful  because I consider it to be my best asset. He even travels to my size C  breasts. My nipples begin to harden and it's not due to the weather.  This GQ model continues down my maxi dress to my hips and shapely  thighs. For a second I'm filled with self-doubt. I worry that I don't  meet his standards by far.

Then a gust of wind brings the silk black rose pedals flying around us  again. And I'm back in Manhattan, with a throng of patrons walking past  us as if we don't exist.

Yeah, that's how I feel as my conscious gets the better of me, while  this Adonis Greek God takes me in. I feel unworthy, like I shouldn't  exist. But he stands there as a towering force.

I grew up in the Bronx before we stepped up to Harlem. Now I know my  people, and my culture to the fullest. I can tell you which man on the  corner is a street pharmacist, also known as the local drug lord. But  I've never seen a white man like this take my breath away. And I don't  want him to entice me this way. I allow forced anger to outweigh all,  and say, "I do not appreciate you pushing me in the street!"

"Miss, you are mistaken," he says in this calculating tone. "I saved you from being run over by a bike at top speed."

I black out. "That very courier comes by at 12:12 every time I walk  past. I walk past once every third Monday and the courier has never hit  me. His name is Billy by the way. Usually, I say a quick hello as he  whizzes by. Thank you very much."

The man's head is slightly shifting left and right and I stop speaking. "What, are you mocking me?"

He responds with a tummy-fluttering chuckle. Instead of addressing him  any further, I start to pick up a few of the roses that haven't been  trampled by the crowd.

"Psychotic asshole," I say under my breath.

"Exactly," he replies, starting to help me pick up the roses that were  saved. I quickly grab a rose that he was aiming for, and again, there's  that annoying – sexy – chuckle.

"Again, I apologize, Miss … " The gorgeously tanned guy tries for my name,  as I start to arrange the pathetic bunch of four. "Look," he begins to  take out a thick money clip, pulling off a few hundred-dollar bills.  "Let's just go get you a fresh bouquet of roses, I saw a florist a block  away. This is for your troubles."

I snap, rolling my eyes at the crisp hundred dollar bills. "I don't want  any flowers. I'm a florist. If I want flowers, I can go and pick them  out myself. Every third Monday, I give my dad flowers at 12:15 sharp."

"Your dad, hmmm."

"What do you mean, hmmm? You are very condescending. Not a sugar daddy.  My mom used to … " I begin as my eyes sting with tears. After that snarky  tone and his insinuating something on the lines of ‘sugar daddy,' this  guy finally appears genuinely sorry.

We grow silent over the next few seconds. I don't know what to say of  do. I feel as if I am staring at a mind reader, so my eyes cast  downwards, but the tears begin to overtake me. How come it feels like  this stranger knows my every emotion? Then, I find myself hugging this  man that I don't even know. "My mom used to give my dad flowers every  Monday at lunch break, she would always bring him flowers religiously.  And then …  and then … "