"She died," he replies rubbing my back.
"Yeah," I breathe in the most intoxicating cologne, but then realize that a nameless man is holding me. I start to walk off and feel as if I'm being watched. It's him still.
"Wait," he says. "Is your father nearby? Allow me to explain the situation to him."
"Why?" I shrug, late as ever with a pitiful bunch of roses that are barely hanging onto their pedals. I sniffle through my tears.
He shrugs, looking unsure as if for the first time in his life. "Well, I've never seen a woman cry before. At least not for this sort of reason."
I cock my head to the side.
"Ma'am, where I'm from, crying occurs for one of two reasons. A defense mechanism or a device to obtain what one wants. Quite frankly, I'm used to the latter."
"Sorry that you surround yourself with such awful women." I look toward the Greco building. "It's not necessary, but thank you for the offer."
"I insist."
I start to walk a little faster. It's useless. My legs are probably less than half the length of his. I'm conflicted. Before I can consider getting away from this creeper, I wonder if I've met the noblest man on this green earth. However, the model still makes me nervous. I take a deep breath as we walk towards the building. But it's like we exist separate to the others. People are socializing, eating organic salads, gourmet wraps or sandwiches for lunch. They're gathered around a nearby fountain and an odd-shaped logo.
Then my eyes brighten as I see my father walking out of the building. He's dressed in one of his favorite awful, orange and gray-checkered shirts, with pens and other things sticking from the breast pocket. Mind you, the buttons of his shirt is done all wrong, so the left side is lopsided and stuffed into brown colored corduroys from the 1970s. His unstylish attire is complete with worn-out penny loafers. I rush into his arms, saying, "Daddy … "
Words stream from my mouth to apologize. I tell him exactly what happened.
"Lux, Luxury, I'm happy to see you either way, honey," he tries to calm me as I tell on the big, beefy white guy.
"No Dad," I need to vent further, but realize that I hurt my hands when I tried to hit him. But I also hugged him and talked about my mom with this nameless stranger.
"Dr. Whitson," the demi god gives Dad's hand a hearty shake. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance. It's not every day that one meets a three-time winner of the American Heart Association's Research Grant. I'm Dr. Victor Finch, by the way."
"You know of me?" Dad is a mixture of awe, appreciation, and admiration. In only an alternate universe would I be introducing my father to a man that knows of him? I don't even know of all my father's doodles. I've sworn off brainiac men since Arnold.
"Yes, sir. Your invention of the pacer..." Victor says something intellectual about that heart thingamajig Dad invented.
" … Between me and you," Dad gets excited. "I'm working on something new … "
I tune out my Dad as he cheerfully chats about Greco's newest ventures. Again my eyes go straight to Victor's. He is giving my father his undivided attention. Heck, what did I expect? Two people of like minds chatting about a topic of interest. For a moment, I am happy. If it weren't for his occasional curriculum and classes, there would be nobody for Dad to talk to. Mom had really taken an interest in his work, and what she didn't understand. In this sort of situation, she would have just stood beside my father with a bouquet of beautiful flowers or fresh baked cookies.
Victor
Three days after I had agreed to assassinate Doctor Whitson, Burt had this pale raisin of a facial expression when I request clearance to Greco Technologies, under the name of Dr. Victor Finch. He's become restless and anxious. Even though Burt has remained silent about things, I know there's a royal event that I must attend.
I stand in fighter stance, while dressed-down in sweats and an A-Shirt. I pummel a punching bag in at Bulgari and listen as Burt runs off my entire weekly schedule. He stops when I don't reply. "Okay, I'll get the clearance to Greco."
Though his final agreement is a set up, I thank him, and then proceed to give the bag a roundhouse kick that sends the ceiling chain clanking.
"However, you aren't allowing a level of disconnect." Burt finishes.
I wipe the sweat from my face and continue, even though that statement upsets me. Burt hates my father. But to use that concept of disconnection while hunting, that was one of my father's morsels of wisdom with regard to a kill.
My strict upbringing dictates that Arlington, England must be my next step. As a royal duke that overseer's an area almost as large as Queen's, I know that getting back to Arlington is of the utmost importance. Mother almost had a heart attack when I forwent The Queen's birthday. Come to think of it, I had missed more than my fair share of Garden parties at Buckingham Palace. However a prestigious education and the standard of royal ties will never compare to the thrill of the kill. At this moment, the kill might be delayed. For the first time ever, something else has piqued my interest. A petite female.
"May I ask a question?" Burt asks, knowing that I'm unyielding to his previous requests.
"Shoot," I answer, continuing to jab, jab, uppercut, straight right.
"If I'm to provide you with said alias, then I'm to assume your enjoyment of murder at a distance will not do in this situation." Burt pauses. He takes a deep breath, and then asks, "I won't remind you of your pending and very important engagement in Arlington, but I do think that I deserve to continue … "
I provide the bag with a hard left hook. It shakes profusely. Like always I will disregard how Burt tries to bring in my business dealings in England into the fold of our conversations. I square my shoulders, and take to jabbing the bag even harder. My adrenaline is surging, blood is pumping and I become drenched in sweat. I always stay on point, mentally and physically, but that doesn't stop Burt from his constant prodding.
"Why is Whitson still breathing, pray tell? And does it involve a young lady?" He taps his fingers on the buttons of the uniform he's worn every day. "Oh, I'm sure you would want to know – since yesterday you began to make such preposterous questions, regarding an imaginary Dr. Finch. And by the way, someone looked you up, Dr. Finch."
I smile on key. The beautiful Luxury has checked into my name. Lux Whitson is interested in me. "Yes Burt, I'm sure it was the most beautiful girl in the world."
He grumbles as usual. And then with more poise and the understanding that he works for loyalty, Burt the Butler says, "What happened to Middle Eastern women being the most beautiful, exotic women in the world? I distinctively recall you saying that not two weeks ago."
I take the thick Ralph Lauren towel from him, wipe my forehead and shrug. "When in India, yes. When in France, nothing can compare to a gorgeous Parisian telling me exactly what she would like to do to me. Now that I'm in America, the current situation is a beautiful young woman."
"Luxury Whitson?" he murmurs.
"Burt you dirty dog, you deprived me of Miss Lux's information?" I ask, going back to the punching bag.
"I am not a dirty dog, and not technically. I removed her portions of the profile in X-Member, believing that this anonymous person is entirely too desperate. He's given locations from where the Doctor buys coffee – one creamer two sugars – down to the entire daily scheme of things with regards to Whitson. I wouldn't have you murder the man in front of his offspring."
I pause from pummeling the bag again, to give a sardonic look. Yeah, right. There isn't a question of me murdering Whitson in front of Luxury. I'm too much of a pro at this. I take delight in the most peculiar of opportunities. Burt wants to make sure I keep my eyes on the ball. My focus should be on killing Whitson, anywhere but in the proximity of Luxury. As soon as she had shoved all that hair from her face, and I actually took notice of her shapely figure, my dick hardened. She became a must.
"I'll disregard the fact that you selfishly didn't want me to enjoy Lux. Now, concerning her father, it would seem the requestor of Whitson's death had dotted all of his I's and crossed all of his T's. I practically read a thesis on why the old man should die."
I rub my chin. Whitson hadn't appeared to be a thief of some other psychotic scientist's invention. As I allow him to ramble on, it became evident that Whitson was the mastermind of the pending technological cardiovascular program that he was accused of stealing. Lux had stared me up and down while I stood there listening to her father's ramblings. I kept my anger at bay while reasoning that a cheap – $500k – mark had been made to benefit some anonymous. Or am I to assume that whoever initiated the request for Whitson's death knew of his invention and wanted to stake claim. That would all have to wait because there's nothing stopping me from having the little woman.