Magnus

by Tina Martin

  MAGNUS

  A St. Claire Novel

  Tina Martin

  Copyright @ 2019 Tina Martin

  MAGNUS

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real people, names, places, things or events are a product of the author’s imagination and strictly coincidental and are used fictitiously.

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  The English language in itself doesn’t have the words to express my love for you,

  I see a beautiful creature with flawless features that can make my sun shine on cue.

  All you have to do is look at me with that look – that gentle loving stare

  And my life is alright, I can see the light. You turned it on, you cared.

  But until that day I’ll pretend and say my night visions will do

  Knowing deep inside there’s a pain I can’t hide that can only be cured by you.

  An excerpt from ‘Night Visions’ by M. Martin, Jr.

  Magnus

  A St. Claire Novel

  PROLOGUE

  Shiloh

  “Do you ever feel like we’re stuck here?” Dakota asks me after she blows a plume of smoke and tosses a cigarette butt onto the black gravel, smashing it with a dingy canvas shoe. I’ve never seen the skinny, white girl eat a thing but she smokes like a winter chimney. We’re standing just outside the rear entrance of the restaurant – Bistro Le Bon – where we both work as waitresses. She came out to light up – her form of stress relief. I came out for fresh air. Maybe I can actually get that now since she’s done spewing second-hand smoke into the atmosphere.

  “I wouldn’t say stuck, necessarily,” I tell her, glancing at the septum piercing in her nose and above her left eyebrow. She’s one of those eccentric girls who lives for sterling- silver-everything and extra holes in their bodies to accommodate all of it. The excess jewelry compliments her hot pink hair (that’s fading back to its original blonde color), forearm tattoos and coffin-black fingernails. She’s pale, could stand to get a tan but she tries to do the job with makeup instead – hiding eczema on her cheeks in the process. She doesn’t look like the type of chick who would work at an upscale bistro, but she makes more tips than I do, so who am I to judge? Maybe I should follow her blueprint, change my look to grunge and flirt with bikers and high-ranking businessmen who are levels above me – yet who don’t mind the company of those beneath them. The servants. The people who fetch them beer, wine and expensive food on little plates.

  “I think everything we do in life is a stepping stone to something greater,” I add. I’m not sure if I believe the hype, but hey, it sounds like good advice for this particular conversation.

  Dakota scoffs. Rolls her ice-blue eyes. “We’re friggin’ waitresses. What’s next for us to do, Lo?”

  “Anything we want,” I respond, sounding more inspirational than encouraging. I’m trying to stay positive since she’s bent on being negative, but the truth of the matter is, somebody, somewhere wishes they had this modest, low-paying waitressing job I have even though I don’t think it’s an ideal position for me. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman and this is how I earn money. I don’t knock the profession, but I know I can do so much better.

  “Lies.” Dakota coughs. “We can’t do anything we want. I can’t walk up to a corporate office and ask for a job.”

  You shonuff can’t. Not with all that faded pink hair. That’s for darn sure. “Nah, not like that, Dakota. What I mean is, we work here because we need money to take care of ourselves, right? But while we’re working a job we don’t necessarily…um…want, we can take a few classes here and there to make us better prepared for that next position. That way, you can walk up to a corporate office and get a job.” After you dye your hair that is…

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah…reach for the stars. The sky’s the limit. Blah, blah, friggin’ blah—sounds like a bunch of hogwash to me. My mama told me the same thing when I was growing up and guess what she’s doing?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Waitressing and bussing tables over at The Coffee House…been there ever since my dad quit on her and that’s been five years ago.”

  Dakota breaks into a smoker’s coughing spell and starts fidgeting like she’s due to light up again. I glance at my watch. Only five more minutes left of our fifteen-minute break and we’re back to being people pleasers.

  “What I need to do is find myself a sugar daddy like you did.”

  “Like me?” I laugh off the craziness. “Sugar daddy? The closest thing I’ve come to having a sugar daddy is the actual candy—you know, the hard caramel.”

  “Well, he’s light-skinned, so if you want to call him hard caramel, the name definitely fits.”

  Our laughter fills the alley, bounces off the dumpsters.

  “You know who I’m talking about, right?” she asks.

  “Sure don’t. I don’t have, nor have I ever had a sugar daddy.”

  “Well, he’s been coming here like every Wednesday night and he only sits in your section. If for some reason you ain’t here, he leaves. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed him. He’s a regular. Your regular.”

  “To be honest with you, Dakota, I’m just trying to keep my head above water. I don’t give a lot of attention to all that.”

  “You’re such a friggin’ liar, Lo. You know that good-looking, light-skinned black guy who sits in your section with those incredible green eyes. Girl, he’s so fine, he makes me stutter when I attempt to speak to him. He smells like expensive cologne and money. That guy.”

  “I know who you’re talking about. The guy that’s always in a suit when he comes in?”

  “Yes!”

  “The rich dude Rico briefs us about?”

  Rico – he’s the manager of Bistro Le Bon. I heard he only got the job because he was related the owner. Anyway, he likes to keep the place running as smoothly as possible with no hiccups so he always gives us a heads up when high rollers come thru.

  “Bingo. That guy. His name is Magnus or something weird like that. He stares at you like you’re listed under the appetizers on the menu.”

  “Okay, you’re so wrong,” I say amused with my palms up. “I’ve never flirted with that guy.”

  “I didn’t say you did. And, F.Y.I, you don’t have to flirt with a guy for him to want you.”

  “Okay, timeout—he doesn’t want me. He comes in, orders his food and goes on his way. I’ve never had a conversation with him about anything. He’s always staring into space. Zoning out. Always quiet. Very particular about what he wants. It’s weird. I just try my best to get him situated so I can leave his table. I don’t like the vibes I get when I’m close to him.”

  “What kind of vibes? Hard caramel vibes?” She winks at me.

  I grin and roll my eyes. “Noo. Just a bizarre feeling. I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”

  “Well, whatever the case, he’s loaded. That much I can tell. He drives a Bentley Bentayga. How many dudes you know pushing two-hundred-thousand-dollar cars ‘round her
e?”

  “I don’t keep track of who’s pushing what. I’m trying to pay bills. I ain’t got time to be keeping track of what other folks got.”

  She plays with her lighter, rolling the dial, flicking it on so it flames over and over again. “I’m just telling you what I saw, but you’ll see it for yourself now that I brought it to your attention. It’s Wednesday. Your hard caramel is due here at around six o’clock.”

  I laugh it off again. “How old is this guy?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say he was late thirties, but when you look like that, age doesn’t matter, girlfriend.”

  “Late thirties? You called him a sugar daddy. That makes him sound like an old man seeking the attention of a much younger woman. I’m twenty-seven.”

  “Young enough.”

  “Here’s the question of the day—if finding a sugar daddy is your way out of waitressing at this place, why are you still here?”

  “I can’t just find any ol’ body. I’m crossing my fingers for one of them Carolina Panthers. Got my eyes on Luke and Christian.”

  A chuckle escapes my lips. “Don’t get your hopes up. The closest you’re going to get to either of them is wearing the number 59 or 22 on their jerseys, and you have to buy those.”

  “Ugh…you get on my nerves.”

  “Yeah, well now customers can get on your nerves. Break’s over,” I tell her. “We better go back in before Rico pops a blood vessel.”

  Two waitresses staying on an extended break would be enough to make Rico lose his mind, especially going into the late afternoon-evening rush.

  I gather a breath and head back inside behind Dakota hoping the time will pass by quickly. The faster it does, the quicker I can get off of my feet, go home and relax with my papa.

  Chapter One

  Magnus

  I want a baby.

  My son – my only child – was five-years-old when he died. Five. He didn’t have a chance to live his life. It was over before it began.

  His name was Magnus Jude St. Claire, Jr. He and my wife, the love of my life – his mother, Nicoletta – died in a car accident. An intoxicated woman ran a stoplight. As the case in most drunk driving crashes, the drunk survived but my family is gone. My only comfort is that they died together, but how is that really comforting? I have neither of them and the memories of us are slowly fading away.

  To ease the pain, I pour all of my energy into my work. For five years, I’ve run MJS Communications, a company I founded and built from the ground up. We shape infrastructure. Build networks. Optimize bandwidth specific to business needs. Other companies have tried to imitate my model but they don’t have the smarts. No one does communications like MJS, and no one ever will. It’s my specialty. I’ve been interviewed by Forbes. Tech Crunch. MSNBC. All of those technologically inclined outlets. Locally, I’ve spoken with a few news and radio shows. Everyone wants to know the secret of how I became a billionaire in five years.

  Well, when you lose it all, there’s nowhere else to go but up, so that’s where I went. Up. And I kept going until I was numb. I kept telling myself I was doing this for the family I lost and so I continued climbing.

  My success doesn’t satisfy me. It used to when they were here. My family. My heart – Nicoletta and MJ.

  Success for me now is a reminder I’m rich and have nobody to share it with. No one to leave it all to. No children. No brothers or sisters I know of though my foster mother told me there was a possibility I had siblings. I never looked for any of them. From what I’ve gathered, my parents died long before I could establish any real memories of them. My foster mother passed a year ago and the only people I’m close to are some people I hired. My lawyer. My therapist. A few guys at work who I consider friends but choose to view them as consultants to keep things on a professional level. I’m alone in this world – me and these billions.

  But not for long. I have a plan. A sad, demented one, but a plan nonetheless.

  When I lost Nicoletta and MJ, I died with them. I can’t tell you how many different ways I’ve thought of killing myself. Pills. A single shot to the dome. Carbon monoxide in the garage. The list goes on.

  To look at me, you would never see this side. You won’t see a man who’s broken. Depressed. Suffering. Suicidal. A man who clearly needs help. No, you’d see the black guy with swag in designer suits, who has a collection of foreign cars (some of which I’ve never driven). You’d see a confident gentleman, behaving like I don’t have a care in the world. The guy women throw themselves at. I have them all rubbernecking. I could choose any woman I want to have my baby. Shoot, I can have five babies by five women if I wanted. But I only want one woman and one baby. A son? Daughter? It doesn’t matter. I just want to leave a part of me behind before I decide how and when I’ll leave this earth. After careful consideration, I’ve chosen the woman who I think would be a perfect mother for my child. She’d make a good single mother to raise the child who’d carry on my legacy.

  Her.

  The girl from Bistro Le Bon.

  I can see her from my car. I know her shifts. Know when she’s at work. She’s a waitress. Mid-twenties. Average body, thick where it counts. Her hair is black. I’ve never been able to determine its length since she always has it up in a top knot. That’s always bothered me. Her eyes are dark. I haven’t stared into them long enough to determine if they’re brown or black.

  I’ll find out tonight.

  I get out of the car, walk into the bistro and the maître D – the woman with too much makeup who always flirts with me – leads me over to the table I requested.

  I’ve been following bistro girl for a while now. Not on social media, which I don’t use, by the way, and not like a stalker. Just general following. The in-passing-but-not-really kind of following. For instance, I happen to frequent Bistro Le Bon and she works here so I see her. Since I’m here so often, I know what she drives. Since I know what she drives, I know if I see an old, two-door, faded, pale-yellow, beat-up LeBaron that looks like it caught the losing end of a four-car pile-up, she’s at work.

  After her shift one day last week, I saw her get into the car and close her eyes. I assumed she was saying a prayer for the thing to start. It did and blew out a cloud of white smoke when she revved the engine, but she put that thing I drive and putt-putted her way home.

  I don’t know much about cars except how to buy and drive them. I do know that white smoke coming from a tailpipe was never good. Here it was the dead of winter and the chick probably done blew a head gasket. While Charlotte, North Carolina didn’t see that much in the way of snow, this area still got hit hard with some pretty low temperatures. This morning, the temperature was below freezing and during this time of the year, it gets dark around five in the evening which meant lower temperatures from lack of sunlight. She’d definitely need reliable transportation.

  That’s where I come in. Her misfortune is good for me. Good for my plan with this woman – a proposition – an offer she probably will refuse initially but would eventually accept because she wouldn’t have much of a choice. Without a job, she’d be out on her tail soon because if I’m being honest, her waitressing skills suck. She’s spilled water on me twice, almost spilled coffee on me once and I didn’t even order coffee. But this is what really irks me – every time I step a foot into this restaurant, she treats me like she’s never seen me before. I’ve been coming here three days a week for the last three months (not stalking, just observing her) and still, I’m virtually a stranger to this girl. Not even on a first name basis. Not a dawn of recognition, a welcome back or good to see you again smile. Nothing. Yet and still, even though I realize she doesn’t know how to do her job properly, I make it a point to sit in the section where I know she’s working – like where I’m sitting now – and she has yet to come over here and take my order. I’m not sure what the hold-up is – I really don’t care what the hold-up is – I want some water and at this point, I’ll take it spilled or however else I can get it.


  “Excuse me,” I say, flagging down a different waitress who’d bounced past my table a few times now. Pink-haired broad holding a tray.

  She smiles. “Ye-yes, Sir?”

  “Can you have my waitress come over, please?”

  “Do you remember who your waitress was?”

  “I know who she’s supposed to be—the girl with her hair balled into a knot at the top of her head.”

  “Oh.” She pivoted to look for her and responded, “She’s pretty slammed at the moment, but I’m available. My name is Dakota. Let me get you started with something to drink.”

  I shake my head slowly – one of my anger-taming techniques. “No. I appreciate it, but that’s not what I asked of you. I want you to get my waitress to come over here, please.”

  “Oh-kay…” she says in a way that tells me she thinks my request is outlandish. Was I rude or short with her? Probably so, but I didn’t care. She should’ve listened to my request. Isn’t the customer always right or some crap like that? Or maybe her drawing out the word, okay, is a warning. It’s busy in here tonight. Crowded. Noisy. Conversations are loud and they run into each other. Laughter, abundant. It’s jumping like this every Wednesday. Most people would take the first waitress they could get for quicker service. Me, not so much. I want what I want. And I want my ponytail-wearing, water-spilling waitress serving me – not a chick with pink hair and too many tattoos to count.

  “Let me go find her,” she finally says, bouncing her happy-go-lucky flat booty away from me.

  I bet she’s relieved now that she doesn’t have my table. A lot of people don’t know how to take me, especially women. I’ve always been straightforward. It’s something Nicoletta understood about me. Other people can’t handle it. They see it as rude, curt, insolent, discourteous, which is fine with me. If I gave a crap about what people thought of me, I wouldn’t be a billionaire.