Young Love Murder

by April Brookshire

  Jackson was sent on his first real job when he was fourteen and I was twelve. Simon allowed me to help him with everything but the actual killing for the next two years. At the time, I was so envious. I suppose in the way that some younger siblings are jealous of an older sibling being given more freedom. And, being the older sibling that he is, Jackson rubbed it in my face.

  When I was fourteen and he was sixteen, Jackson helped me with my first job. Simon monitored us both on our first assignments, saying that he’d be there if needed, but that he didn’t want us to think he’d always be there to clean up our messes. Parenting 101: Teach the child to be self-reliant. Some basic principles are universal.

  My first target was a porn king in L.A. who had a kiddie porn business on the side. The police would have had no trouble gathering evidence against him, because the guy was as sloppy in his actions as he looked physically. Why we were brought in, I don’t know exactly. I didn’t ask either. But my guess is that he put the wrong person’s son or daughter in one of his flicks. We were told to destroy all of his footage and equipment.

  Pretending to be a runaway who just happened to stumble in his path one day, he thought to make me the star in his newest film. That is, until I took a knife to his throat and he realized that the only type of movie I would ever be in was a snuff film. Guess what? He’d be the star!

  I had felt a little numb afterwards, having only been a witness to executions before, never the executioner, but I didn’t feel guilty. Sometimes I wonder if that makes me a sociopath, but I don’t think so. I couldn’t kill an innocent human being, just monsters like him. People who prey on the innocent and crouch in dark alley ways or even in the light of day, waiting for their next victim to unsuspectingly come along. Jackson was a bit overzealous in starting the fire that night, but an anonymous call to 911 got it contained.

  The morning of my second day in Miami, Jackson calls from the airport letting me know that he’s arrived and in a taxi on his way to the hotel. Thirty minutes later, he enters the hotel room carrying luggage and a plastic shopping bag. “What’s in the bag?” I ask him, pausing to take in his appearance. Nice, I think humorously, he’s going for the dorky tourist look with plaid board shorts, tank top and flip flops. All he’s missing is a visor and obscenely large camera hanging from his neck. Huh, his hair’s blonde, haven’t seen it that color in a while. Guess while I work, he plans on bumming around, enjoying his vacation.

  Towering over me, at a couple inches over six feet, he gives me a sly grin before answering, “Your training videos, my young apprentice.”

  I raise my eyebrows arrogantly. “Training? Me? You’re looking at the master.”

  “Not when it comes to this subject. Check it out.” He tosses me the bag and wheels his suitcase into the spare bedroom, knowing instinctively which one I’d already chosen.

  Awkwardly, I catch it and pull out a stack of DVDs. Looking through the movies I realize that my brother has a talent for torture, beyond what Simon taught us. They all appear to be teen movies. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Jacks,” I yell through the open doorway. “I don’t need these!” I toss the pile onto the couch, watching them scatter.

  He reenters the living room, unfazed by my indignation. “Yes, you do. You don’t know how to act like a regular American teenager, Annie. These will help you,” he says snatching up one off the couch. “I’ll put in this one first.” He’s holding up a case that says Superbad on the cover. Never heard of it, but the boys on the cover are normal enough looking, if a little badly dressed. Another one has a pink cover and says Mean Girls, which doesn’t seem very pleasant at all. I give one title, High School Musical, a skeptical look. What the hell does singing and dancing have to do with high school? Okay, even with my limited pop culture knowledge, I know that this next movie is in no way related to my job.

  I hold up the case. “Really, Jackson? Do you think I’ll be running into many teenage vampires on this assignment?”

  He holds both palms over his heart, sighing dramatically. “That movie is so romantic. Team Edward forever.” I throw the movie case at his head, which he predictably catches while it’s midair.

  Shaking his head, he clucks his tongue, with a disapproving expression. “I think someone needs to watch Mean Girls first.”

  Many hours of torture later, we’ve watched all of the movies. I learned that all teenagers think about is what the opposite sex is thinking, getting drunk and getting laid. Oh, and not getting caught while doing any of those things. Social domination seems to rank up there in priorities for some of them too. Somehow, I doubt the whole breaking out into song and dance part in the musical. Oh yeah, and the vampire hidden in plain sight. I’m sure vampires would have as much aversion to public education as I do. If I were a vampire, I’d at least pretend to be human while attending college.

  If the films can be trusted as fact, teens lack communication skills, which result in misunderstandings between friends and lovers. They also aim to keep their parents in the dark about as many aspects of their lives as possible. I find it all fascinating and potentially useful. I did learn one other thing, teen movies are hilarious, realistic or not.

  Of course, Jackson thinks this job is some sort of entertainment for him. He insists on helping me out with it. The first thing to decide upon is the part that I’m going to play. Who will I need to be?

  After Jackson and I read over the latest information on my phone that Simon has sent by email, including the comings and goings of Gabriel and Max, we decide that I’ll play the part of a teenage vixen. Teenage boys seem to love the type of girl who has confidence and shows a higher level of sexual maturity than other girls. The information that we have on Gabriel and Max enlightens us to each of their personalities, their social habits and the places they frequent.

  Max is the ‘nice guy’. He’s had a couple of serious girlfriends, but is currently single. Gabriel is also single, but has had a long line of short meaningless relationships. He’s also known to be a bit of a jerk. They’re more than just cousins, they’re best friends. Gabriel’s father, Xavier Sanchez, is brother to Max’s mom, Lucy Garcia. Max is full Hispanic but Gabriel is half because his mother is white, of German and Scottish descent. Max’s father died when he was little so he’s been raised by a single mother. Max’s mother manages Xavier’s restaurant chain, along with overseeing day to day things for the gas stations.

  As Jackson leaves the room to take a shower, I go to my own room to lie on the bed, over the tea green comforter. Deciding to take a cue from Simon’s computer geeks, I log onto the internet on my tablet using the hotel’s Wi-Fi to cyberstalk the boys. Gabriel’s Facebook page is set to private, damn, but Max must be the trusting type, so naive, because his life is all laid out publicly for the world to see. Max has 376 friends. In self-derision, I think about the number of friends I’d have upon joining the social network, uh, none. The few people I suppose it could be said that I socialize with would never have a Facebook account. Except maybe Porky . . . Well, there you go, I’d have one friend on Facebook. But there’s no rule that says I have to actually know my friends.

  Max has numerous folders in his Photos section. Clicking on the one labeled Family, I browse through them. Mostly they’re of special occasions, birthdays, holidays and whatnot. Here, I get to see pictures of Lucy Garcia, Max and the Sanchez family. They look like the happy families I’ve seen across the world, smiling and carefree. Wonder which of them knows the entire truth behind the Sanchez wealth and if any are actually ignorant of the dirty secrets.

  I study a close-up picture of the boys together, with the ocean as a backdrop. Both Max and Gabriel have that sun-kissed look, but Max’s skin tone is darker in a way that only someone of full Hispanic descent possesses. His hair is the deepest of black. It tints blue under the sunlight, like a raven’s feathers. His eyes are so deep a brown they could pass for black in the right lighting and he has a thick fringe of lashes around his eyes. There’s innocence in his eyes and boyishne
ss to his smile. I can’t imagine how much more attractive he’ll be growing into adulthood.

  I know from pictures that Gabriel’s mother has a fair complexion, blonde hair and green eyes, while his father has the dark hair and skin of his Hispanic ancestors. With the mix of blood, Gabriel’s coloring is lighter than Max’s. But as where Max is still growing into his hotness, Gabriel is already there. His eyes are knowing and his smile has a sensual lift to it.

  Through my open doorway, I see Jackson exit his room and take up residence on the couch, TV remote in hand. Glancing again at the picture of Gabriel, my breath catches at the back of my throat. His lean, muscular body and tanned skin are shown off in a pair of white swim trunks. Dark chocolate hair, that seems to have natural highlights of black, and bright green eyes, surrounded by thick, long lashes, combine to create a lethal combination. Everything about him screams sensuality and a beautiful combination of two cultures. Talk about a nice mixing of genes.

  When it comes to my own appearance for this job, I’ll go for a more natural look. On my last job, I had my hair dyed a dark blonde and wore very dramatic makeup and clothing, wanting my looks to scream sex so the target would target me in return for human trafficking. I aim to stand out while in Miami, but not too much. That amount of glamour on a teenage girl in high school might just scream easy.

  For this job, I’ll dye my hair a reddish dark brown, something similar to what I remember my natural hair color looking like. The last time I actually saw my natural color, of course. I’ll wear simple but full makeup. In colors that will accent my golden brown eyes and fuller mouth, without overdoing it. I’ll also wear clothes that other girls my age wear, expensive and fashionable, but reasonable for the age.

  While traveling, I have to dress in more formal clothing. Don’t want to look like a teen when my passport says I’m in my twenties. Usually it’s easy to pull off with my toned, but curvy, figure. While I have to stay in fighting shape for my career, I’m a girl who likes her food and every country I travel to seems to have a favorite dish of mine calling out, ‘Eat me, Annabelle! That’s it, girl, go for seconds!’ Thank god for hotel gyms.

  Men of all age like the challenge, or so Jackson tells me. As if I haven’t figured that out years ago about grown men. I decide that my first encounter with Gabriel and Max shouldn’t be at school. It’s too boring and commonplace. I’d blend in too easily with all the other pretty girls. Tomorrow’s Friday, but I decide that my first day at school will be on Monday. This weekend I’ll stage my first encounter with them. Walking out onto the balcony coming off my room, I stare at the beach below, plotting.

  Chapter 2

  Gabriel

  “Hurry up, man!” I yell out the car window at Max as he shuts the front door behind him, still buttoning the shirt that he just snatched from my closet.

  “I’m hurrying! Chill. The club isn’t going anywhere,” he says peevishly, descending down the stone steps to where I’m parked in the wraparound driveway.

  “I know that, but I’m an impatient person, I don’t like waiting.” I glare at him jokingly. “If all the good ones are taken, it’ll be your fault.”

  He makes a scoffing noise. “As if that would stop you.”

  Grinning unrepentantly, I nod proudly. “True. But don’t worry. Since we’re taking my car and the chicks get all excited when they see it, if the good ones are taken we’ll just steal them with horsepower.” Driving down the long tree-lined drive, I rev the engine, getting excited for the night to come.

  “I still can’t believe your dad bought you a Ferrari. My mom says you’re too spoiled and that I’m stuck with my Mercedes until I produce a college diploma,” he whines petulantly, tucking in his shirt. Shaking his head, he then pulls the shirt back out of his waistband.

  “Yes, I am,” I admit proudly, ignoring his indecision. “My dad has to make up for being gone all the time in some way and I’m more than happy to accept his gifts of guilt.” I wave at the security men stationed at the gatehouse as I wait for the wrought iron gate to slide open.

  Max laughs. “I don’t even freaking have a dad. Does that mean I deserve something better than a Ferrari for that? Maybe I deserve my own helicopter?”

  “How about this, Cuz, if I get laid tonight, then I’ll let you borrow my car for your next date.” I think the offer is very magnanimous of me.

  “You’re too kind, Gabe,” Max remarks sarcastically. What a whiner. Before the Ferrari, I only had a Mustang.

  “I try,” I reply, knowing I’m pissing him off.

  As we near downtown Max’s suffering is forgotten. The club we’re going to is owned by one of my dad’s friends, so we don’t even get carded, slipping in through the back door. The place is a favorite of mine, and not just because of the free drinks. The owner went all out, with competition in Miami being so fierce on the club scene. At least tourism is good for something besides girls flocking here during spring break.

  The atmosphere is awesome. The bottom floor features a bar the entire length of one wall, with mirrors behind it, and enough bartenders that you don’t have to hop onto the bar to get a drink. The mirrors have horizontal bars at the top. The bars are attached to the mirror slowly spinning with each panel as they open and close allowing dancers to access the small dancing platforms behind the bar.

  On the dance floor are several platforms staged throughout the bottom level. Thick poles anchor the VIP area upstairs. To my delight, female dancers wearing close to nothing spin and gyrate on those poles. Small areas that open under the second level have round tables with bar stool seating in chrome and black leather. Waitresses in appropriately skimpy outfits, carrying trays of drinks, twist and spin their way between tables and dancers in a graceful dance of their own. The lights are flashing to the music as one of Miami’s hottest DJs is spinning. Strobe lights are highlighting the shimmer and sway of tiny skirts and barely-there dresses among the crowd.

  Heading up to the VIP area, it only gets better. Booths in supple black leather line the walls. Silk curtains hanging from the ceiling between booths give the illusion of privacy. A server wearing a low slung neon mini skirt and silky black top brings drinks over as we lean over the railing overlooking the dance floor. Here, I’m in my element.

  Standing up here, watching the dance floor below, I’m looking for my next conquest. The easy, desperate chicks are always handy as a last resort, but it’s the not so easy ones that are the most satisfying. And just look at all the hot chicks below, god do I love short dresses. I’m searching for the female that gains my interest the most, not necessarily the one in the sluttiest outfit. From my vantage point, I spy a hot platinum blonde, dancing amongst a group of females that I may just have to mosey down and introduce myself to.

  I turn to Max to let him know that I’m heading down to the dance floor, when I see that he’s staring intently towards the booths behind us. I follow his gaze to a booth where there’s a guy and girl sitting and see why he’s so enthralled. The girl is gorgeous. Even though she looks nothing like the girls I usually go for, I can’t help but appreciate her anyways. Measuring up the blonde guy that she’s sitting with, I’m not too discouraged. He looks a little older than me and most girls would probably think he’s handsome. But maybe he’s her gay best friend or something. With how well he’s put together, both his clothes and hair, it isn’t hard to believe.

  Returning my attention to the girl, with her glossy dark hair and light olive skin, my first thought is that she’s Hispanic. But quickly I realize she’s not, just a darker featured white person. Either one works for me, with myself being a mix of both.

  Max nudges me and leans over to say harshly, “Stop staring. I saw her first.”

  I nudge him back. “Did you also see that she’s with someone?”

  “Don’t care. I’m in love,” he practically moans the words, probably only half-joking. When isn’t he in love? In my opinion, it’s really sad the way he falls in and out of love all the time. Love is for morons who do
n’t realize how ridiculous it is to tie oneself to just one girl. I believe in having fun while I’m still young. Watching Max’s monthly mini-dramas is amusing, though.

  We’re both still staring at her, when I notice the guy casually glance over at us. He smirks and turns back to the girl. Leaning across the table, he says something to her that I can’t hear over the music and across the space. They both get up to leave. As she walks past us, she doesn’t even glance in my direction, which disappoints but doesn’t deter me.

  As they walk down the stairs, I lean over the railing again to watch her take the steps to the bottom. Her little black dress may not be as short as some of the others here, but I’m enjoying the view from behind. She has a great walk, confident and sexy.

  Max is also staring. “I have to talk to her,” he pronounces. This is going to be a problem. At least for him it is.

  “Max, look below, there are plenty of hot girls. Let that one go. She’s already taken,” I advise him, but I can’t help but feel the same way he’s feeling. It’s true, there are plenty of other options for tonight down there, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off of one option in particular.

  The girl and her gay best friend, as I like to think of him, make their way to the middle of the dance floor. As they start dancing to the track playing, I notice that there’s space between them. Aha! They aren’t together after all. If she was with me, I’d be dancing closer to her, a whole lot closer. She raises her arms over her head as she moves to the DJ’s remix of a Daft Punk classic. She then raises her eyes up to where we’re standing and I see her smile and wink.

  Did I just see that right? Max asks me something along the same lines, “Did you just see that?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “I’m going down there. She’s beckoning me.” Immediately, I walk to the stairs, hearing Max calling out behind me, his voice being drowned out by the pounding music. I don’t care if he saw her first. I don’t care if she is with some other dude. Her little flirtation was an invitation for more, and for me.