“I love that color,” one of the women, Sharon, said as they parted.
“Color?”
“Your lipstick. It really brings out your green eyes. Red is always a romantic color.”
Jenna smiled genuinely. “It’s called Blood Crave, and I just bought it. It was thirty-three dollars, but maybe it’s a lucky color for me.” She had never known red to be lucky, but it was possible.
As Jenna walked towards her departure gate, she thought about the fact that people in Georgia were pleasant enough, and maybe she should be there, touring Atlanta for a singles trip. Then again, the nameless man who picked up strange women on the plane might live there too, and he wasn’t the type Jenna was looking for.
She sat at her gate and watched people, studying them. She saw couples holding-hands, most of them looking content. She saw families corralling small children and wondered if such a thing was in her future. When the time came, she boarded her flight.
That was how she came to be in seat 25-c next to the Italian men and sipping a Bloody Mary and eating pretzels. Doctor Ed would warn her about alcohol with her medication, but he wasn’t there and she didn’t want to have another bout of anxiety on the plane.
She spared a glance behind her at the many men, women, and children in the seats that stretched back into the wing and the tail section. For all she knew, some of the people signed up for the singles trip might have been on that plane at that very moment.
It could’ve been that man sitting and reading a paperback book and sipping a dark drink. Maybe the two women sitting and giggling to one another. Those two girls and Jenna could meet and become great friends, call each other for years afterwards to laugh about the tour and the misadventures they found in Italy.
Jenna gladly returned to reading her mystery, beginning to think she knew who committed the crime and eager to see if she was right. She was glad her mother suggested this author. He was a clever writer.
Turning back to the end of the book, Jenna looked at the black and white photograph of the author, a British writer who now lived in the United States. Frowning, she decided he was very distinguished looking, and reminded her slightly of a model for a fancy clothing line. He looked smart.
She closed her book, took a pill, and leaned back in her seat. If the trip didn’t work out, maybe Mr. Abbott the mystery writer would one day come to the library where she worked and sign books. He might meet her eyes and say, “Doesn’t it just burn your bum that the books on shelves here are different sizes, shapes, and colors?”
Jenna would say, “It does. Do you like odd numbers and cats?”
“I do indeed. Anyone civilized should,” the author would say.
Jenna began to fall asleep.
“And would you care to marry me, Jenna?”
“Very much.”
She fell deeply asleep in seconds.
How many?
No more and no less than three.
Chapter 8
Barry
Michael Fisher
"It's about time."
Barry leaned back, taking a long sip from the double 12-year Scotch whiskey the flight attendant handed him.
"Stewardess, I'm gonna need another one of these if we don't land soon."
The flight attendant looked down at the bane of this flight. Sure, he was in shape and not too hard on the eyes, but this guy was obviously an insufferable jerk. She gave him her best professional smile and continued on her way down the aisle.
Barry "The Needle" Nero acted like he was God's gift to the world. He sprawled in his First Class seat, stretching his polished vintage wingtips into the space of the empty seat to his right. He loosened his red bow tie and unbuttoned his collar. He closed his eyes and thought back on the stresses of the day as he continued sipping his scotch, the peaty flavor rolling over his tongue.
* * *
The alarm on Barry Nero's smartphone softly faded in, gently bringing his mind to the world of the conscious without the jarring effect of an alarm clock. He stretched his limbs, relishing the feeling of the cool, soft sheets on his bare skin.
Only allowing himself a few moments to enjoy the sensation, Barry swung his legs off the side of the bed, the bamboo laminate flooring cool to the touch of his feet. Standing in view of the mirror that covered the wall opposite the bed, he continued to stretch and flex, admiring the patterns his muscles made across his nude body, the product of hours upon hours of strenuous work with Gustav, his personal trainer.
He turned about before the mirror, taking in the masses of muscle adorned with quality inkwork, collected all over the world from the best in the industry. The front of his torso was a grotesque demonic face over a background of maggots. His backpiece was a biomechanical masterpiece. An entire sleeve of perfectly done traditional Japanese work with a coiling dragon wrapped his right arm above a splashing koi. The opposite side was all American traditional work.
Barry loved the sight of his member standing proud in the morning sunlight, the beams casting a strong shadow on the stark white wall. That was the tool he used night after night, satisfying uncounted numbers of young, nubile women. Once he got his television show, he didn't even have to try anymore. They threw themselves at him.
At one time, being a tattoo artist in the Big Apple was enough to get steady action. Once Stewed, Screwed and Tattooed hit the air, Barry pulled more bumper than a body shop. Having a camera crew following you around the city was bound to draw some attention, but once it became known that the show was not just about the shop, that his conquests were shown on camera, every gold digger in town wanted their fifteen seconds of fame.
Barry did his morning workout, bare as the day he was born save the ink. He figured there was no reason to dirty more clothes. Also, doing his morning push-ups in his tumescent state reminded him of whatever needle groupie he had his way with the night before.
Not that they were ever there in the morning. Once he climaxed, the full condom was tossed in the wastebasket by the bed and the young woman asked, nay, told to find her way out.
This had backfired on occasion. There was the crazy redhead who refused to leave, even after his private security company showed up. The girl still wrote love letters to him, thrown away by the counter boy at the shop unopened.
After his morning calisthenics, Barry took a shower, the water hot enough to scald away any potential remnants of guilt or shame from the night before. He stroked his hands across his rippling muscles, appreciating how thorough his aesthetist, Kate, was at removing every trace of body hair that had once marred his perfect canvas. He ran his vintage single-edge safety razor over his face, followed by a multi-bladed device on the top of his head once the searing water had softened his little remaining hair.
Many people would think he shaved his head down to the scalp to look the part of a tough guy. He didn't need that bit of vanity. He knew he was tough and had the physique to back it up. The same as many men in their early twenties, he was afflicted with male pattern baldness. Rather than show any sign of aging, he removed every trace of the condition.
He emerged into the cool air of his well-appointed loft, located in the ever-so trendy neighborhood of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It was a fashionably spartan living space. Exactly what he needed, nothing extra. At least, that's what he told the ladies. His living room space was dominated by a seventy-inch LED television that doubled as the monitor for his high end laptop, the wireless keyboard and mouse resting on a black lacquered coffee table. He had purchased it on one of his many trips to Japan. Barry got it for a steal, and it was a perfect match for his leather sofa.
In one corner near the kitchen, Barry had a small art studio arranged. The white drawing table sat against the wall, an unfinished sketch abandoned on its surface. A tall easel sat beside it, a painting of a rose with skull in its center rested on its cradle. It wasn't Barry's work but he needed to keep up the pretense of being a working artist, at least for the ladies.
Certainly, he still worked at Mark
of Cain, his shop in the newly-gentrified neighborhood called the Bowery. Once one of the toughest areas of Manhattan, home tomany of the old timers’ tiny shops and the legendary music venue CBGB, the Bowery had history. These days, CBs was taken over by a clothing store, and Barry the Needle had purchased the space at 52 Bowery, the former shop of old school tattooer.
He also bought the store fronts on either side. There was no way he was going to work in that tiny space, like the old days. He had the building gutted and remade in his image. It wasn't too hard when you had a TV network backing you.
Mark of Cain Tattoo was born.
Barry was lucky to have gotten his spot on that show in Miami five years ago. It put the name Barry the Needle in the spotlight. Barry was enough of a jerk that he stood out from the main guys on the show, but charming enough to make people like him. After two seasons, they offered him his own show, and even better, his own shop built to his specifications. Sure, he had to deal with cameras on him all damn day, but they paid him well for the hassle.
There were now two entire lines of clothing with his artwork displayed in bright colors. The Stewed, Screwed and Tattooed line was sold at big-name department stores, while the Mark of Cain line, embroidered and sequined, was sold exclusively at high-end boutiques and tattoo shops for a premium price tag.
Wandering about his loft, Barry allowed his pink skin to air-dry. He strolled into the kitchen area, pulled a large bag of protein powder from cabinet, and made a breakfast smoothie of the strawberry-flavored powder, almond milk, and fresh berries from the corner co-op and ice.
Barry sipped his drink as he headed back to his bedroom, or at least the area that qualified as such. The life of excess definitely suited him. He had come a long way from his childhood in a low-income neighborhood in Queens.
He pulled on a pair of tight black boxer briefs, the designer logo stitched into the elastic. It was soon followed by his stylishly vintage-looking black trousers with matching braces. He slipped into the white linen button down, over a white tank, of course. A red silk bow tie and a tweed vest completed the retro look. Not that any of these clothes were actually vintage. While the hipsters around Williamsburg were scouring the thrift shops for suitably old style clothing, Barry just bought it new.
He looked at his watch, a nice stainless timepiece, and realized his ride would be there any minute. He always liked to keep the studio's drivers waiting. It reminded them who was in charge, or so he thought.
He dropped his glass in the sink, knowing the maid that came in twice a week would take care of it. His bags were waiting by the door, packed the day before with all the stylish clothing an American personality would need for a week in Italy.
He grabbed his black fedora, with its red band to match his trademark tie, and slipped it on his bald head. Sliding the strap of a black leather laptop bag over his right shoulder, he took one last look in the mirror by the door, making sure he looked perfect.
Rolling the suitcases into the hallway, he locked the deadbolt and pocketed the keys. He strutted down the hallway to the elevator, desperately looking forward to this trip.
A week without the cameras would be a blessing. His assistant, the one the studio assigned him, not the latest in a long string of apprentices he ran through Mark of Cain, had done some research. The resort in Derosso, Italy looked to be exactly what he needed. There was talk of how free the European women were sexually, compared to how prudish Americans could be. A week of boozing and sex would be just what the doctor ordered.
Of course, his day to day life already fit that description, but he wouldn't have to work in Italy, nor perform for the television cameras. Just the small digital camera in his laptop bag, slung over his shoulder. You had to have some proof of what occurred.
Barry certainly had no intention of being able to actually remember it.
* * *
The limo ride from Williamsburg to JFK was to be as expected, slow and maddening. Luckily, for Barry at least, the minibar was well stocked and there was a TV set in the console in the back.
He flipped through the channels, amazed at the variety it got, when he came across a rerun of an episode of his show. It was a good one, too. It was the episode where he went off on the big guy that does all the cartoony pinup tattoos. What was his name again? Barry knew it was Italian, like his own. Caputo, that was it!
Barry thought the guy was actually going to take a swing at him when he started ripping on his guest's weight issue. Talk about intimidating. He might be fat, but Joe is still a big ass guinea, and if he had connected, it would’ve hurt. Instead, there was just a lot of screaming and posturing. After the show wrapped, they went out for drinks, almost like it never happened. It was ironic how scripted these shows really are.
Barry sank back in the leather upholstery and drank deeply from his glass of vodka on the rocks. Open container laws didn't count for stars in the backs of their limos. He started thinking over his plans for the trip. Carlos, his assistant, told him about the wonders of the resort in Derosso.
Barry had been told that it truly was full service. If you ran out of Scotch, you called the front desk and a new bottle was sent up. If you wanted lobster and Brussels sprouts at 3 am, it would show up at your door before the lobster was done leaking steam. If you were lonely and didn't want to go on the prowl, a quick call would provide you with company in whatever numbers or sexes you desired.
What he didn’t realize was that the studio made sure that his bill was covered. Their star had been more than a little volatile as of late. They were hoping this little break from the cameras would calm him down a bit. It was worth the expenditure.
The long, black Lincoln slid through the traffic at a slow crawl. If the privacy window were not up, Barry would have been treated to a number of profane outbursts, in Spanish as well as English. Instead, he poured himself another glass of vodka as he settled into the mental wasteland that was cable networks.
Some celebrity was caught cheating on his equally famous wife with another star of a slightly lower status. That right there was why Barry had no intentions of ever marrying. Why limit yourself to banging one woman for the rest of your life when you could have the pick of the litter? At least, until age started taking away his physical prowess, but there were drugs that would help with that. For now, he still had his health…that and the testosterone injections he got from his doctor every three months.
The guy said that increased testosterone is believed to be a cause of baldness in middle-aged men. Good thing, it didn't apply to Barry. Twenty-four was far from middle-aged, and the testosterone helped increase his muscle mass and definition. Sure, it also increased his aggression. It was worth the trade-off.
He closed his eyes and thought back on the twins he had invited over to his place over the weekend. It was a good thing the shop could run without him. Barry didn't leave the bed all weekend, except for certain necessary elimination functions and to rehydrate. They were quite enthusiastic, as well as creative. He actually learned a couple new tricks. He smiled as his unconsciously rubbed his hand against his stiffening organ.
The car jerked to a halt as the horn blared. Barry snapped out of his revelry, and his body relaxed its arousal. Barry leaned forward and knocked on the glass dividing him from the driver.
The window slid down into the front seat. A slender man, dark of complexion and hair, looked back in the rear view mirror. His irritation was clear as day, but he tried to turn it off for his client in the back.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Nero."
"What is going on up there?"
"I'm sorry, sir," his brow was wrinkled in frustration, "but a cab almost hit us when he cut us off. I am certain that you do not want to be late for your flight due to a traffic accident."
"At the rate we are going, I'm afraid I'll be late for my flight anyway."
"Once again, I apologize, Mr. Nero. We are almost to the airport. It is only another mile or so until the exit. We should be there in plenty of time."
/> "Sounds good." Barry's voice was beginning to take on a slur from the multiple vodkas. He picked up the fifth and shook it, wondering if he could get it on the plane. Deciding against it, he topped off his glass from the clear bottle.
* * *
As the limousine smoothly slid up to the curb in the United Airlines drop-off area, skycaps in light blue uniform shirts hustled out to the vehicle, unsure what high profile person would be behind the tinted windows. As one of the skycaps reached to open the rear door, it swung open of its own accord.
Barry the Needle almost buried his face in the pavement when he missed his footing. Luckily, the man reached out and saved the inebriated star from an embarrassing event. Little did he know, paparazzi photographers got his tumble on film anyway. The pics would be uploaded to all the entertainment news sites before Barry would make it on the plane.
Barry shook off the hands that were steadying him. He mumbled something about his bags as he snatched up his leather satchel from the seat in the car. Tossing the strap across his torso, he stood tall and tried to maintain his illusion of sobriety as he walked through the automatic doors.
"Damn! Rich as hell and they still don't tip for shit." The skycaps removed the matching designer luggage from the trunk and processed it through their station, hurrying it on its way to the awaiting airliner.
As Barry cleared the automatic doors, he was greeted by a representative from the airline.
"Mr. Nero, we are so glad that you chose us for your carrier to Italy today. My name is Thomas. Let's get you checked in and through security. Your flight will be leaving in thirty minutes."
The two men walked, or perhaps stumbled, up to the counter, skipping the line. There were grumbles of irritation from the line, unsure of why this hipster deserved such privilege. The agent at the counter gave Barry the biggest smile she could muster, trying to ignore the fact that his eyes barely left the swell of the chest of her uniform.
Feral Hearts Page 9
