"It's my color. I lost my—"
"Okay, Okay, I will wear the red dress." If I have to listen one more time how she lost her virginity, I will scream. "Wait a minute while I slip it on, putting you on speaker. I wish you were here to do my hair."
"Me too, it's the fucking MTA, transit fuckers are everywhere, holding traffic… I dunno, maybe two hours." I must note she is traveling thirty miles. My permanent residence or State for that matter is uncertain, but she insisted on joining me now. Claiming I spend too much time alone. People with secrets always do.
"I told you I'd have your things shipped."
"You are not trusting anyone with my Nana's Jesus artifacts and antiques."
"I'm pretty sure they have to be older and excavated to hold any of those titles."
"White peoples don't understand the spirit that family heirlooms can have if they don't cost millions. She was loved and, so will her things be."
"Oh my God, I'm sorry she passed away. No one told me."
"Don't use the Lord's name in vain. And no, she didn't die. Jengo put her in a home, Assisted Living, all her stuff couldn't go."
"But you were talking in the past ..."
"The language barrier is real, Chica," she sighs.
"Dramatizing singular unimportant events like a CNN newscaster is not a translation issue."
"Oh really, why didn't I understand one word of what you just said, hmm Evelyne?" In her mind, she has made her point, so I move on.
"Let me take a pic and send it to you."
"Ooh, hot mama. He not gonna know what hit him. Your ass looks great; it's going to bring all the boys to the yard."
"You sound like your brother." I laugh
Four times, I've checked myself out in the mirror, three times too many for a secure badass chica like me. Slim waist, double d's, and a big tight ass fulfill most men's list for the ideal woman; however, it limits one's wardrobe choices. Clothes fit great up top, and loose at the waist, or great at the waist and too tight up top. We can't all be apples and pears, and current fashion forgot the hourglass. I make it work because I come from a lineage who passed on the Ps and Qs. Usually, I dress in the most form-fitting material —thank you Kickboxing, Pendleton groups, and Yoga— that's clean, slap on five-inch heels, and go ... confidently.
My messy bun style deceives the eye into believing anything disordered takes less time to complete, yet it looks darling. Add the Ponti wild mane texture and length and you add a generous hour and a half to this particular hairstyle choice.
"Such a blessing," mama and grandmamma would say, as I sat tear-faced, while my mother took out her revenge in the guise of detangling my hair. As solace, my grandma would say, "you will think so too when you are eighty and other women are regaling hairpieces and wigs." The poor woman never knew me at all if she thought I'd make it to the age of an eighty.
Stay strong Evee, do not look up to the mirror over the vanity, I tell myself while I wash my hands for the third time. Please, please don't let me sweat out my pits.
Why am I so anxious I'm sweating?
Tomas Massimo de Moraes Garko
Gorgeous beast, many years my senior, charismatic, cunning, and deviant, intimidates me into behaving like a rock star groupie. The lounge, in direct violation of his home detention, is his Friday night hangout. Wealthy criminals.
Boss my R/T Charge r purrs relaxing the nervous energy coursing through my body. Rumbling vibrations sound off as I rev up the engine, my baby loves to growl. Sitting here waiting as Boss idles, I flick on a cd Jengo sent me. A rapper named Kendrick Lamar lets loose…
"Sit down ... Be humble,
Bitch! ... Sit down!
Be humble."
Yep, the hook is basic and crude. And yet helps me remember —even if we are all not the same, nobody has the right to throw on airs to keep you down— And when they try, you tell them,
"Bitch! Sit down ... Be humble."
Tonight, a certain someone has me second-guessing the power of my mojo, even though it is potent enough for every other man in the lounge.
He sits, yet there is nothing humble about him.
Tomas is exactly where I left him last week. If I were not stalking him, I would think he had never moved. Motionless, he glares jaw clenching as I dance. My hips swerve, and my arms raised above my head, in constant motion, all to seduce him.
Men are basic, one degree from the other. Most when separated from the security of their pack they fidget-- a show of how uncomfortable they are in their skin, or away from the pack. Constant phone checking, tap tap tap tap of the table, and the slight shaking of a leg are big tells crying, "I'm insecure."
Tonight, I've worked a couple of dance partners relieving them of their personal effects, reasoning because I'm fucking bored and tired of them mistaken grazing my ass. More importantly though, showing Tomas I'd be down riding with a criminal like him. He sees, yet, he does not engage.
The big fish ignores the bait. What kind of fish snuffs a juicy worm? Maybe he's just not hungry, and I sound fucking nuts, it's all his doing. Still, he watches. I am impatient and this makes a girl wonder.
I change tactics and stalk over toward him only to swerve into the next booth, my back to his side.
Inside my head, I conjure my persona… a wildlife biologist Moxie Trulove, initially her last name was May, and she studied storm patterns until she replaced it with Trulove in honor of her beloved animals. She now studies animals in their natural habitats. In character, I initiate my dramatic commentary; I have mastered the perfect accent of an Australian outback zoologist, by the way. And scene: "In a hushed tone, careful not disturb the wild, I must speak directly into my recorder. Audience ... Tomas Massimo de Moraes Garko, an Old Italian name evident by its numerous surnames has returned to the pride. When he left, the streets of New York, City, lost-- dramatic pause and drop two octaves-- the voice of a king. For he is one of the last remaining Lords of the jungle, well concrete jungle in this case. Upon his return, he encounters a soulless, dry, land, overtaken by foreign invading muskrats, but in a murky lounge, he spots his salvation, someone who might appease his ravenous appetite and provide him sustenance. Enough fuel to return the lands to what they once were. Relentlessly, he watches and stalks his voluptuous prey; me, by the way. I look over to him, he doesn't even flinch— I continue— a fierce hunter unrivaled by any other, he hunts for both necessity and sport. He needs to devour the meat and desires to play with the bones until he tires of them."
My dramatization, though borderline insane, is rather factual. I giggle at my brilliance. However, Tomas stays quietly indifferent.
CHAPTER 9
Prey or Predator
Tomas
She sticks her bottom lip out. The pout hits me straight to my cock. "It hurts right here." She's such a little liar and a faker. "Right here," I say pointing to her dark nipple.
"Ay Papi."
I growl at her submissive demeanor. Comilita has had time to learn my likes. She plays me well when she desires something. Fuck it, I have enough money to provide her with anything, she, or her sister, who is missing tonight, whatever they could dream of. Sometimes though Comilita shows her hand, she wants security. A commitment I cannot offer.
As her hand fist in my hair, she moans.
"Si, si, Senior Tomas. You make me feel so good. Mmm. Make me come, please."
My fingers discover her swollen clit. I work her hard like she likes. Her screams of pleasure have my cock rock hard. My fingers buried in her pussy and palm pressed against her mound I bite at her nipple. She begins to come.
"Oh, oh, yes, yes. Feel so good. I'm coming, I'm coming.
Her perfect hips and ass rise from my lap to meet my thrusts as he rides her orgasm out. Fuck I could film her erotic dance and make millions. Comilita is sex in motion.
Immediately after she finishes herself off, she kneels between my legs.
"Papi, Eres enorme." Without hesitation, she swallows my cock whole.
Choc
king herself on my length. "Oh, Comilita. How I love when you take it all."
Coming in Comilita's various holes satiated my lustful needs for a while, however, as always, it never lasts.
I am a wolf, I prowl.
Not for more sex, but for a promise— freedom. My city never lets me down. I turn on the signal jammer Agent Riley supplied to thwart my ankle locator.
"Where to Boss?"
"Same as last Friday."
"Gotcha."
This city never sleeps but it truly comes alive at night, as bright LED lights illuminate doorways and paths to each person's vice; friends, food, lovers, gambling, maybe a little live entertainment, anything to escape for a couple of hours. My venue of choice is off the beaten path; however, it is exactly what I need… a modicum of freedom and a hint of nostalgia.
Pictures of stars long gone and the City's beloved first American Italian mayor cover brick walls as a commemoration to its one-hundred-year-old history.
Low lights, smooth music, parka tiled dance floor, and worn leather seating, allow me to envision the Italian men and women, hoping to realize a better life in America so they risked the unknown and came. No different from those who come now, legally, or not, searching for jobs, religious freedoms, or better education for their children. How they ... how we, are all the same considering our basic needs, like food, water, and shelter, yet some of us would rob one another of the most vital need of all, security— a need for order, stability, and freedom from fear—the core to accepting where you belong in this world. Deep in thought, a girl draped in silk, taunting a woman's body and language, dances ... for me? I believe so.
Did I mention the ass on this girl?
Enraptured I exhale deeply as she openly glares into my eyes, giving my lungs a license to breathe. Poetic? I have my moments, however, the witch, the girl whose dance says she is all woman; commands attention and effortlessly pulls prose from a mobster. A dip, a swirl, arms above her head one word comes to mind… free. She's still young enough to sense it, I think, as her body appears to ascend, above all the world's rules and chains. I am not the only one the witch mindfucks.
With every chime of a new song, men crowd like children, stalking an ice cream truck, shoving each other to let go of their money first. Eagerness only toppled by ignorance, each man owns or is possessed into giving ... wallets, watches, maybe a ring. One hunter to another her game, scoping her prey, waiting for her moment, taking the prize when her mark is most vulnerable—his hands around a woman he only dreamt of catching the attention from or the rich douchebag with the hundred dollar haircut, tailored suit, too busy flaunting his Rolex, both are out of their mind too busy scheming, how to get her home missing the smooth thief among them. Wouldn't work on me.
I am not here for pussy, got enough at home. I would, however, be interested in her soul; if she was up for the challenge, I would take a sniff. Figure out what makes a classy girl, even if she is a pickpocketing criminal, choose a life of crime rather than leisure as some rich bastard's young trophy wife.
Not as if her fine ass could not have her pick.
Tonight, I'll ask her to dance. See if she can keep up with up with me in a Brazilian tempo versus the American top twenty classics normally played. I've watched her master— A little Canivte Para Vida. In a punk show of vulnerability, I've left my wallet in the car. My reasoning tells me if she considers me as a mark, it will alter our conversation. Allowing her to take something from me first, could label me as a chump, someone I suspect, she would never respect enough to supply the real story I desperately want to hear. Leaving my valuables, I remove her sticky finger play off the table. This is my hunt where I compose the rules, ending in her surrender.
The tempo quickens, and all suits leave her on the floor. She changes tactics and walks off the floor, stealing my chance to approach first, coming straight for me. I am slightly cautious, as she stops short of my table and turns past me to sit in the next booth. The girl begins speaking, a commentary of animals in the wild? I can barely understand what she's saying over the music and the awful accent. I do catch my full name, the words "foreign muskrats?", "Voluptuous prey?" Voluptuous, that would be her and something about "eating the bones of my prey," I believe. Well, now I know why this sexy chick is unattached she's a fucking mental case. Only when she gets up to leave, walking away, I catch her scent, its light, orchids, lemons, fresh like innocence, fuck me, and she looks even better going than she did coming, what an ass.
For the first time tonight, I let myself react and bite my fucking fist.
She makes her way to the bar alone, but not for long. I am going to introduce myself. I walk to the bar and lean in asking for an Americano.
Resting on the bar, I turn my body to stare at her head-on, while I pretend to wait for my drink. This is the closest I have ever been to her. Inhaling deeply to capture her lovely scent again, I move in and discover how much younger she appears this close. I need to confirm she is legal. Her ID must say twenty-one at least to frequent this bar. She is a crook, might be a fake. Her keen Italian features remind me of girls in my grandfather's old pinup books.
Light olive skin, eyes large and intelligent, catlike. Her nose is narrow, small, but slightly longer than the American trend. Her mouth, heaven help me, wide and lips full and her chin small. The longer I linger the younger and more edible she becomes. A decent man would walk away out of the goodness of his heart. Hoping somehow another man one in the future might do the same for his daughter. However, I'm not good. I have money, time, and more game than most everyone. I do not do what a noble man does; I do what a dominant prosperous King does… position myself to devour her young ripe ass.
And oh, did I mention what an ass it is, I need a touch.
"You are beautiful." She smiles, lifts an eyebrow, glances at me, next drops her eyelid, and turns away, flirting moves 101 to signal sexual interest.
While I am awestruck by her sensuous smile, some chump, creeps to her other side. He thinks sitting in the seat beside her a smart idea. Before he sits, he looks over and notices me. I shake my head no. He slithers away, smart choice.
"Did you just scare that man away?" voice like honey, she turns to me this time her gaze lingers.
"Maybe,"
"Maybe … either you did or did not."
"Maybe that man is a romantic and did not want to interfere with fate."
She laughs and her breast rise and fall. Please do that shit again.
"Or maybe once he got a decent look at your collector's item U-Boat, U-51 to be exact, watch— As she leans closer for clarity, I inhale deeply, she smells of rain and summer, and Acqua Di Parma perfume— Eighteen-carat gold to be exact, accessorized by a black Armani suit, shirt, and tie, he thought, oh shit! Crime Lord, I should run." She retreats.
Fuck, I did not think she would recognize the watch, it being an eclectic Italian piece. However, she just cased it. Which means she knows it costs as much as a luxury vehicle. Will she go for it? I would need to punish her severely. My cock wants out. Calm down, boy.
Leaning in closer, my nose touching her cheek, I hear her inhale.
"You like my watch?"
"That's what grabbed you out the trite comment I made on your behalf?" She exhales and sweet warm air brushes my ear.
"Well, you knew what you were saying when you opened this lovely mouth of yours." I run my thumb over her bottom lip. "I must say those lips are sinfully provocative, who cares what comes out of them."
"A compliment followed by a sexist observation, touché."
"Just trying to keep up?"
"You have trouble, keeping up?" She emphasizes the 'up'.
Ouch, and staying cool while she cut me, most men falter when I am close. My family calls it "leaning." Who is this girl?
"Touché. What are you drinking?"
"A Bellini,"
"Another Bellini for the lady she just beat me up." I take my seat giving her a chance to make her move. She does. Standing straight from the ba
rstool, she's that tall, the beauty comes closer leaning onto the bar, not before her hand reaches out to swipe hair fallen into my face behind my ear and smiles. Conflicted, I know I said I was not going to fuck her… yeah, but she had not touched me.
We fall easily into the—before you leave and come home with me—conversation until her phone rings. She checks it and at once in perfect Italian, she excuses herself, "un momento per favore."
Upon her return, she says, "Perdonami, È stato un piacere conoscerti',"
It was a pleasure to have met you'. Her Italian is fucking sexy. She is gone in an instant and my mouth may be ajar, in a state of shock. I need to fuckin regroup, what was I thinking… pressing on some young girl when I'm at the beginning of a war.
The ride home lasts seconds because this girl has my mind on rewind. I meet my houseguest with annoyance, "Not tonight." As they scamper away, sullen I make a mental note to send apology flowers. I need to trust the food they prepare.
CHAPTER 10
La Familia
Tomas
Ernesto's number shows on my phone.
"Ciao, nonno."
"How was therapy?"
"It was therapy." This means I am not cooperating, nor sharing state secrets.
"The time is nine, you are safe then?"
"Yes, the mountains provide shade and protection from heavy winds, as long as they blow from the east." This I say to let him know we have the as secure a connection as possible. However, we all know any information transmitted over the Internet is fair game if the government or some tech punk wanted to meddle. We know not to confess any personal sins in this way or ever actually.
"Fine, begin in twenty minutes." Click
Everyone signs on to the webinar, a new and vulnerable, medium of communication for illegitimate business, but necessary because of our scattered family. It's sad to think of the times before when we had meetings, small or important, there was always food, drink, and razzing occurring in one of our homes, usually Ernesto's. Even if we hated each other at the time, or a different time, we gathered for large home-cooked meals and be with each other, in our way.
For Blood and Beast: Tomas, For Blood (Garko Book 1) Page 6
