He started to wilt in the late afternoon sun, his shirt sticking to his back and decided to try to adopt a more informal dress. Although he wore them as armor, business suits apparently weren’t necessary in the warm climate. Rolling up the sleeves of his no longer crisp white shirt, he entered his hotel. He passed the glamorous pricey shops, available to only the wealthy; the acquisition of their wares now within his means. Who was he kidding? He wore thrift on his soul like a clown wore makeup on his face. Remove the makeup, is the clown really there? Remove the dressing from his profile, is Peter really there?
He sighed over the burden of his personal insecurities. He would just have to find a more inexpensive place to shop.
Entering his room, he turned on the shower in his sumptuous bathroom, the marble unlike anything he had ever seen until Sylvia Wadsworth had introduced him to the finest side of Sarasota real estate.
Tomorrow would prove the wisdom of his advice to move. Jose and Scotty would arrive late this evening. They planned to meet first thing in the morning to go and look at Abby’s choice of homes. By the end of the day, he hoped he could maneuver them to a quiet location for a talk.
He planned to ask some pressing questions that nagged anxiously at him. His job description prevented him from questioning the motives or private business of his clients, yet he couldn’t dismiss the troublesome premonition that something mystical permeated his clients. He was concerned that he had allowed this phenomenal opportunity to overwhelm his life.
Because of this momentous change, he felt he had a right to ask some questions. He longed to avoid confrontation, yet the clearly unexpected and curious wealth of his clients begged questions. He hoped his interest would not cast him in a venal light. He wanted their relationships to flourish on a more fiduciary, affectionate level. He enjoyed their confidence, but clearly felt an invisible wall of some sort.
And what’s behind the infernal sunglasses? Running his chubby fingers through his thinning sandy hair, he realized he didn’t believe the congenital eye infection story. It was very disconcerting to talk to someone and never see their eyes. Except the one time that Abby had slipped them off for him. Reflecting on the sudden surprise of their slightly unusual golden quality, he made the astonishing connection that had been eluding him. They all wore a golden aura about them. Their golden-streaked hair, the skin of both Scotty and Jose, all suggested a subtle goldenness. That’s odd.
Tomorrow would be the first time he’d lay eyes on all three at the same time. Oh yes, and their two dogs, Barney and Echo. They shouldn’t be a problem, Sarasota seemed to be an inordinately tolerant community of dog lovers. Not intending to offend, he hoped Abby and Jose could take his questions in stride.
Passing the hotel landline sitting on the Chippendale-style desk, he saw a red message light blinking. Did I miss a call from Abby?
Dialing into the message center, he found himself ordered to contact the Newtown Police Department at his earliest convenience.
Frowning, he wondered how they knew how to find him as only Tiffany knew his itinerary. Something must have happened to his elderly parents. His father was eighty years old, after all. They knew of his change in fortune, but not the name of his hotel. An only child, his parents relied on him.
Conception had come late for his mother after doctors convinced his parents she could never conceive. The fact that his mother’s pregnancy came as she turned forty eight and his father fifty firmly relegated them to the role of shocked and reticent parents, stumbling along, trying their best. It probably contributed to his lack of confidence and reliance on his professional demeanor to formulate his personality. Shrugging off his introspection, he remembered how he loved his parents and quickly dialed their number in Sussex County.
Chapter 23
Armoni hurried back to his hotel, ready to explode with giddiness. The three days it had taken to accomplish the task had felt endless, but the sale had concluded successfully. The gold dealers behaved much more professionally in New York City. They failed to bat an eye when he pulled his lump of gold out of his paper bag. The cash resided safe and sound—except for the wad in his pocket—in the bank.
They tried to talk him into one of those newfangled plastic cards with his fingerprints. Oh no, he weren’t no fool. Not gunna let some stupid clerk trick him into giving his fingerprints. He preferred hard cash in his pocket, anyway. Cash always speaks loudest in a crowded room.
Pulling up to the hotel parking attendant, he flipped him the keys to his brand new, two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-smackeroo Lamborghini SUV, cherry red with a gold-trimmed black lightning bolt down the side panels. Yeah, the snotty, board-up-his-ass dealer sure wasn’t pleased about his insistence on the lightning bolt. Slapping his documents from the bank on the dealer’s desk sure had changed his tune.
He reached into the back of his new wheels to grab the shopping bags he had accumulated from his riotous shopping spree for the new duds he needed and were befitting for a man of his obvious new stature.
He loved making snot-nosed gay blades dance to the tunes he called as he forced them to run ragged trying to please him. He wouldn’t have even bothered with them, but everyone knew they were the best source of what they called fashion. Anxious to get himself some fashion, he had privately thought his taste as good as the stuck-up blades. Most of the duds he left the store with looked like the same things he had picked out in the first place.
Once the blades realized what he liked, they had bent over backwards to kiss his ass. He had a few numbers that he couldn’t wait to try on. Like the red and yellow Anaconda skin shitkickers. He whistled, recalling how they had politely suggested that the ‘gentleman’s boots might be a tad inappropriate’. Just to show them who was in charge, he bought an additional pair in turquoise and white. Sure turned their faces green—with envy, of course.
He couldn’t wait to change. Oh yeah, maybe it would be a good idea to shower up first. He hoped he might be able to find a willing babe to help him celebrate. He imagined he could have any girl he wanted, now that he was so obviously a man of substance. Cupping his crotch in his meaty hands, he laughed as he entered the sumptuous lobby spotting two uptown ladies with big fake tits staring at his crotch.
Obviously, they’re interested in the goods. What girl wouldn’t be? They’re probably wondering how they can be the lucky ones to celebrate with me.
Strolling right up to them, his bandy legs now shod in his turquoise and white shitkickers, he smacked the nearest one on the ass as he stuck a dirty fingernail between his teeth, removing a piece of his late hot-dog lunch and giving it a quick flick to the floor.
“How ‘bout you two hot babes joining me tonight to celebrate our new relationship?”
No sooner had he closed his mouth then all hell broke loose. The broads started screaming. The cops rushed into the hotel, arrested him for assault and took him downtown to get booked. It had taken him all night to convince them it was just a mistake.
A visit from one of the broad’s husbands attempting to get to the bottom of the incident had certainly helped. Apparently, they wanted to fly home quickly, finding the whole experience sordid. Did I hear that asshole say sordid? They refused to press charges and he was released.
Slinking back to his hotel, tired, confused and deflated, he climbed into his hotel bed, alone and lonely. He felt crushed and disillusioned, not understanding why his recent good fortune did not entitle him to any available female he wanted. Bummed out, he deciding to celebrate tomorrow, quietly, by himself.
Chapter 24
Ginger Mae Shrute sat on the bar stool, scanning her reflection in the expensive mirror on the back bar of the tony Martini Madness on Park Avenue. It was a great location to spot lonely business men casually enjoying a quiet drink before dinner.
From the distance, she realized she still projected a glamorous image, even though she leaned toward the mature side. Only up close could you discern the lines around her eyes that even Botox failed to completely o
bliterate. And yeah, she knew the five extra pounds needed to come off. But luckily, she still projected the look that had helped her face maintain its healthy, pretty girl next door appeal.
Lucky with my choice of plastic surgeons, she thought cynically, having been nipped and tucked for years. She knew she could pass for thirty five, quite a distance from her actual forty eight. She tried to banish the worry about her longevity in her chosen industry, which remained a game for the youthful.
She still managed to rope them in, but she figured she would last maybe three years before she faced reducing her fees or starting to risk rejection. Her new priority forced her to save every dollar she could, squirreling it away for the time when she could say fuck you to the johns and grab her runaway money to make a last stab at a normal life. As if anyone actually lived a normal life anymore. But she must think of Daisy now.
She checked her emerging grayish-brown roots in the mirror, noting she could get away with them for another two weeks, tops. She had even given up her hairdresser, saving money by coloring her hair herself. Two separate processes. Two separate colors. It looked fairly good. Had to keep her short blond locks natural looking. She had dropped her nail salon too. Glancing at her rosy pink oval nails, she noticed a few chips. A home manicure just didn’t hold up half as well as a pro job.
“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?” Looking up into the bright-blue eyes of a friendly and eager businessman, probably from the Midwest, she dismissed him with a cool eye flick. He was clearly not clued in and would be a waste of her valuable time. Probably thought he had found himself a single NYC career girl who would be overjoyed to burn her evening talking to a married Minnesota businessman in the big city without his wife. He would shoo her out his hotel room door in the morning with a promise to call her next time he was back in town, and then zip back to his upstanding wife and children, all the while congratulating himself on his sophisticated daring in the big city.
“Miss, would you care for a cocktail?” asked Mr. Daring Businessman, trying again. She turned to respond as he stuck out his hand to introduce himself. “Hi, I’m Jackson Bonderclod, friends just call me Jack.”
Sighing audibly, Ginger Mae tiredly gathered her drink and purse, shot Mr. Daring Businessman a casual go fuck yourself look, and left him standing with his hand still proffered, an embarrassed surprised look on his marginally attractive face. She slid off her bar stool, noticing the bartender observe the exchange. Well, this should get his panties out of the knot she had probably wadded them up into as he tried to figure out if he was going to have a problem running off a working girl. What working girl would rebuff Mr. Daring Businessman? The smart ones, she grinned to herself, watching the bartender visibly relax as she took a new seat at a small table in the back of the room, all the better to observe her targets from.
She scanned the room, noting the slim prospects. Implementing her new plan required a target of just the right type, easy to manipulate. A dork, hungry to experience what it would be like to have the enthralled attention of the cheerleader that had rebuffed him in high school, the homecoming beauty queen he had secretly beat off to in the privacy of his stinking adolescent bedroom.
She shook her head as she evaluated every man in the room. She knew men better than she knew herself. The disgusting predictability of men always revolved around their cocks.
If she had an extra dollar for every time even the most educated, confident or successful john had said to her, with a nod to their cocks, “So, how ya like it?” she could retire. If I could just stop laughing first.
They never understood that a woman judged a man differently. Bright confident smile? Check. Any brains? Check. Can he make me laugh? Check. Does he have a good heart? Check. Does he have any money? Well, can’t have everything. These characteristics made the sex good. Not the size of his cock. A woman only cares about the cock if it doesn’t work. The johns all think that the bigger the cock, the more a woman will like the sex, therefore, by extension, them.
The only thing Ginger Mae could say about the occasional large dick she had encountered, and she really meant occasional, was that he wasn’t touching her with it. She definitely wasn’t into pain. And it sure felt miserable, regardless of how hard she faked it. Want to impress a john? Tell him what a sensational cock he had. He would fall in love. If she had realized that when she was eighteen, she would probably own the world by now.
Well, she knew it now. And she planned on making it pay off in a big way while she could still dazzle them. The last time she had found the perfect john, it had lasted five years. She hadn’t found it necessary to see any other johns the whole time. He had given her a luxury apartment, charge accounts, elegant dinners, international vacations. All paid for by him.
She had thought it would go on forever. And she had actually grown fond of him. The fact that she had spent all major holidays and most weekends alone mattered little. Just as she was ready to convince him to sign the apartment over to her, she discovered her pregnancy. Foolishly, she had misjudged him. Where she assumed it would only make him feel more responsible, financially of course, she had forgotten how men react when cornered with their own indiscretions.
He had cut off her charge accounts without warning. She had found herself locked out of her apartment and her frantic calls to his cell had stopped being answered. The apartment house concierge had hand-delivered an envelope containing a tersely worded note with $10,000 enclosed. She burned with the humiliating memory. Two words—Move on.
And she had, of course. A cheap apartment and back to work, fast, before she started to show. Not that the johns would even care all that much. She had worked up until her seventh month. And then Daisy came. She had given birth alone, in her apartment, no one the wiser. She had planned to take the baby and leave it at the local firehouse, but, inexplicably, she had changed her mind. She had kept the baby, found an Armenian woman from her apartment house to babysit and gone back to work four months after the birth. That was over five years ago and to this day, sadly, her little Daisy had yet to utter a single word.
A clattering at the door to the bar caught her attention. Glancing out the windows, she discovered snow, the flakes backlit by the streetlights like rare mid-summer fireflies. Her attention wandered back to the squat figure at the door. She tapped a slender finger on the varnished tabletop. Hmm, she wondered, let’s size this guy up.
His head bulged out of proportion to his body, his bandy legs were encased in the most ridiculous screaming-yellow cowboy boots. He removed a black leather trench coat trimmed in a silver fur of some sort. Even from her distant seat she could see the buttery texture of the coat. She assumed the boots, although tasteless, had cost a pretty penny. Then he looked up, spotting her staring. She extended a modest smile, trying valiantly to repress her revulsion as she got a clear look at his face. Oh well, duty calls. And, quite possibly, he might be the ticket she longed for.
His unsophisticated demeanor stood out like a swarm of hornets at a nudist camp; a real rube. They made the easiest targets, especially the unfortunate looking ones. Time to start her act.
Waving wildly to catch his attention, she stood up, dropping her purse in the process. She bent down to retrieve it, allowing him to glimpse the correct amount of thigh. Straightening, she beckoned him to her table again, as he stood there with his mouth open, the dull look in his eyes testimony to slow brain function. She crooked her finger again, encouraging him with another nonthreatening smile. He turned and looked over his right shoulder, then his left. Seeing no one, he hesitantly moved in her direction. As he neared, she pulled out a chair from her table and patted it enthusiastically. Plastering a big smile on her face as he sat, she said to herself, Okay, Ginger Mae, let’s land this big tuna.
“Hi, I was beginning to think you were standing me up. It’s a good thing I waited the extra hour, I thought I might have gotten the time wrong.” She opened her eyes wide, batting them charmingly.
“Lady, I have no idea what you’re
talkin’ bout. You must have me confused with someone else.” Looking around, he snapped his fingers to summon the attention of the frowning cocktail waitress. “I’m here to celebrate and I don’t want no trouble. Ya want something ta drink, since you’re here anyway?”
“You mean you aren’t my date? You’re wearing pretty yellow cowboy boots like Alice told me you would be. And you sure are handsome like she said you would be. Are you saying you’re not Jonathan Littlecock?”
“Littlecock? Are you kidding me?” He laughed so hard, slapping his knee, that the bartender looked up to give them a glare. She joined in with his laughter and with that, the ice broke.
It didn’t take Ginger Mae long to convince her new friend that her date had failed to show up. It didn’t take him long to convince her to spend her evening celebrating with him at his hotel. She knew she had picked the right guy when they left Martini Madness and he took her to his car, a showy Lamborghini SUV with a tacky lightning bolt decal down the side. Her eyes started tabulating major dollar signs.
She almost blew it when they got into the SUV. The odorously strange stale smell in the vehicle, combined with the alcohol, made her nauseous. When her new friend abruptly slid his dirty fingers up her dress and started pawing around, her automatic response was to pop her blade out of her purse and hold it to his throat.
Alien Species Intervention: Books 1-3: An Alien Apocalyptic Saga (Species Intervention #6609) Page 34
