by Amarie Avant
“Hey, what’s the fucking deal?” He grabs my hands; 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 those 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 people 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 a 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,’ the guy finally appears genuinely sorry.
We grow silent over the next few seconds. I don't know what to say or 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…”
“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 petals. 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 are 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, I could still feel where 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 fath
er 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 requested 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 the gym 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 setup, 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 overseers an area almost as large as Queens, 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 ask such preposterous questions, regarding an imaginary Dr. Finch, someone has 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 woman 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 has 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 someone 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.
“Honestly Victor, she is a very beautiful girl.”
“Precisely! I thought she was child when I saved her from a bike.” I reminisce. “Burt the Butler, you can’t imagine how beautiful and tiny she is. If I could put her in my pocket, and just pull her out whenever I–”
“Shall I remind you that I am not to be called BURT THE BUTLER? And save her?” he scoffs. “Now operating under the guise that the minx has imprinted on you?”
Burt’s bashing of my character warrants a hearty laugh and nothing else.
After a quick shower, I dress in a black suit and shiny black Tom Fords. I step out the bedroom and into the living room.
Burt has his back to me, his nose in a newspaper, Burt says, “Your destination, I could only presume, is The Urban Gardens?”
“Burt, shame on you. I won’t even ask if there was a photo of Lux in the requestor’s file.”
“Luxury Nicole Whitson,” he mentions her entire name. The formalities of it all are beneath me, because I plan to know each and every inch of her body. Soon...
There are cars honking, kids screaming, and bicyclists zipping by. And that's just the tip of the iceberg in Harlem. If my mother knew I got on the train to this place, she’d have a stroke. So, luckily, Burt is on an unrequested “vacation” at the Bulgari as I make my way past 133rd street, looking for The Urban Gardens. Brownstones come and go. I almost go past the little shop while watching kids chalk the sidewalk.
A trio is close to the curb singing an old R&B tune that had exploded on the charts in England about 20 years ago. I pull out a crisp bill and allow it to fall into their guitar case. I'm feeling lucky today. Ready to see my tiny charm.
Then my senses pique. Within all the chaos of this active city, I feel a set of eyes on me. While walking down the street, I pretend to stop at a hot dog vendor, get in the line, and slowly take in my surroundings. I see a man, black as night, standing in the alley across the street. He's dressed in army fatigues and a crumply shirt. He has on mirrored sunglasses meant to intimidate.
I know this Brazilian hitman. I sigh and decide that Lux will have to wait a few more minutes. I head in his direction, weaving past slow moving cars, and then proceed through an alleyway. Should have known thi
s guy was also offered Whitson’s hit.
As an added “benefit”, when one or more persons have been given a prime mark, they get the chance to take out one another first. But X-Member requires that we utilize the same strategies of murder during the showdown. Yup, it’s nothing but a western movie, where the cowboys walk 100 feet in one direction and whoever draws first is king.
Right now, with the Brazilian, the art of Jujitsu will be our tactic. I’ve learned the ground-fighting skills that will force this assassin to stay on his toes, even though this is his specialty and marksmanship is mine.
“It’s just me and you, Vic,” he says in a hard tone, though I’m not even fazed by all the jagged scars on his arms and legs. He back flip and bounces off of a dumpster in one quick, agile movement.
“Okay,” I sigh.
The Brazilian begins kicking out at me, but I pull my silencer out and shoot him straight in his chest. Since he’s mid-air, his body slams back into the ground. He’s in shock as death claims him.
“My apologies,” I offer as his eyelids lower. But I won’t be scuffling with anyone because I have a date to attend to. I slip on my leather gloves, drag his body between two dumpsters and amble out of the alley.
It takes a few minutes to get back over to Urban Gardens. I breathe easy, knowing that the only other contender for Whitson’s death is dead. So, I won’t have to worry about any prospects for a few more days, when the requestor grows weary of waiting.
A dark-skinned woman with braids pauses to glance at me. A smile appears, as she looks me up and down. “How can I help you?”
I smile back, knowing she plans to make good on the request. Then my eyes lock onto my new prey.
“Victor…” Lux’s small, silky voice fills the shop before she steps out. I mentally deny the desire to fuck her right on the spot, as she comes out dressed in a peach maxi dress. The clothing brings out the cinnamon of her beautiful freckles, and those golden flecks in her eyes. I’ve been dreaming about her features ever since we met. “How did you know I worked here?”
