by Luke Young
"Thanks."
They stood in silence for an awkward moment before he turned to go. When he was three steps away, Stephanie called after him, "Oh, Brock."
Turning back, he smiled. "Yes."
"Monday, um, Monday is the three-year anniversary of…"
"Yeah, I know." He frowned and let out a sigh.
"Will you be back?"
"Yes, definitely. I'll be back before noon."
"I'm thinking of going to the cemetery this year."
"Really?" He asked.
"Yes. Do you…" Looking down shyly to the concrete floor, she continued, "Maybe wanna go together?"
"I do." He nodded with a smile. "Pick you up at one?"
"Okay."
"Have a good day."
"You, too, and Brock…"
"Yes." Widening his eyes, he waited.
She gave him an angry look. "Kill a couple of those terrorist fuckers for me, will ya?"
After giving her an evil smile, he turned and strolled away.
3
After confirming that the boiler issue was resolved, Brock returned to his office. Walking through the door, he discovered Marci Scaggs sitting behind his desk with her head buried in a drawer. Dressed in a designer ensemble with a giant cleavage cutout, which accentuated her brand spanking new D-cup breasts, she looked like she could grace the cover of Vogue, on second thought, probably just Penthouse. The office was large and nicely furnished and four types of white chocolate snacks were displayed in bowls around the room. From white chocolate drops, to white chocolate covered pretzels, to truffles and even a bowl of white chocolate M&Ms, the office was a white chocolate lover's paradise. The M&Ms were Brock's favorite even though the Mars Corporation, makers of the tiny delectable treats, was universally hated around the plant and certainly Fullman's most serious and evil competitor.
Frowning, she looked up and growled, "Don't you have anything to eat in here besides white chocolate?"
"There's some tuna."
She returned a sour face. "Seriously, Brock, how can you survive only eating white chocolate and tuna?"
He sighed and slumped down in a chair near the desk. "I eat more than that!"
She gave him a skeptical look. "Yeah, what else do you eat?"
"Um, I had fish the other night and I eat chicken sometimes."
"Uh-huh."
"Oh, and I take all those supplements."
"Great, Brock." She rolled her eyes. "You could try to eat a vegetable once in a while."
He gave her a distasteful look. "I just don't like 'em."
After rising from her chair, she slipped in front of him and got to her knees. "You do have an amazing body for someone with such a poor diet."
"Well, I do like a thousand pushups a day so I can enjoy my white chocolate binges."
She started to unbutton his shirt.
He gently held her hands to stop her. "Marci, don’t."
"I need to see it again."
"Really?"
Nodding, she smiled. "Yes, I still don't believe you were able to do it."
"Okay, but just for a minute. I've got work to do." Leaning back, he looked toward the ceiling.
She unbuttoned his shirt, exposing his ten, count them, ten-pack abs. She sighed, shaking her head. "It's unbelievable… Taylor Lautner somehow kills himself in the gym and has an eight-pack and he's like one of ten guys on the planet with eight, but you, you're like this genetic masterpiece."
He returned his eyes to her and shrugged.
She rose to her feet while he buttoned his shirt. Picking up her Louis Vuitton handbag from the desk, which of course, matched her shoes, she asked, "What time are you picking me up for that charity thing tonight?"
"I told you I couldn't tonight. I've got that mission."
She pulled a mirror from her purse and checked her face. "Cancel it."
He rolled his eyes. "Okay, yeah, I'll just call the Secretary of Defense and tell him I can't make it."
"Awesome, so, what time?" Looking up, she gave him a bright smile.
"Marci, I'm kidding."
She shook her head and frowned like a spoiled child. "Brocky… I really wanted to talk to you about something important tonight."
"What?"
"I don't want to do it here. It has to be tonight.”
"I can't, you know I can't." He sighed. "Plus, I told you I'm not going anywhere with you again until you stop treating everyone like they're your servants."
She scoffed. "Well, pretty much everyone is your servant, right?"
"No, that's not right, Marci."
She looked at him, confused. "When you go to a restaurant the waiter, like, works for you right? And everyone in this company works for me because my daddy owns most of it… so, they're all my employees."
"Technically, yes, but you can't really treat—"
"They should all be happy to serve me, I mean, what else do they have going on in their pathetic little lives? They're all poor, right? So, they can't really be happy. And if their tiny little existence can somehow add just a nugget to my happiness, doesn't that make their lives somehow actually worthwhile?"
"No, Marci. There's more to life than money. Just having money doesn't make you happy."
"Sure, if you're ugly you're pretty miserable, too."
"No, that's not what I'm talking about." Shaking his head, he let out a tired sigh.
Suddenly she looked saddened. "Oh."
"What is it now?"
"I just had a thought, how do people who are ugly AND poor get out of bed every day? I mean, that's got to be like the worst."
After cringing and allowing her words to sink into his brain, he tilted his head. "Marci, haven't you ever heard beauty is in the eyes of the beholder?"
She returned to checking her look in the mirror, probably not listening to a word.
He finished his thought anyway. "Your idea of who is beautiful isn't necessarily—"
"I wonder if there's a charity I can donate to that specializes in helping only poor, ugly people?" She waited for his reply wearing a smile.
"I mean…" He lifted his hands in defeat. "Um, No… I'm sure that—"
Her smile widened. "I mean, no one is perfect. Everyone could use a little work here or there even me, well not anymore." She pushed her chest out and tilted her neck down to look at her new prizes. "Hey, you didn't mention them today."
"So do they still hurt?" He rolled his eyes.
"No they're almost fully healed." She smiled up to him, waiting. "How do they look today?"
"Spectacular, Marci." He announced with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
"I know, I love them, too." She returned to gazing at her cleavage. "I'm not sure why I waited so long, I mean, being a B-cup for all those years was a nightmare."
"Your old ones were cute, too. I think women are too hung up on breast size, I've seen—"
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. The door opened and a plain-looking woman in a business suit poked her head into the office. "Brock, we're ready to start."
"Okay, Melanie. Thanks."
Marci's face lit up. "Oh, Melanie, is it?"
Hesitantly, Melanie stepped into the room. "Yes, Miss Scaggs."
"Can I ask you a question?"
Brock put his hand in the air. "Please don't."
After shooting him a snide look, Marci plowed ahead. "You're sorta a pretty woman, but have you ever considered getting breast implants?"
"What?" Melanie replied.
"Marci, I don't think this is the time," Brock said.
Marci gave him a tired look. "Brock, I'm just trying to help." Returning her attention to Melanie, she began. "I'm just saying with so many options today, I don’t understand why any woman would deny herself big beautiful breasts."
Brock sighed. "Well, maybe because they're expensive and it's major surgery and potentially dangerous and—"
"Oh, you're crazy." Marci dismissed his comments with a wave of her hand. "Look, Melani
e, would you like to touch them? They're new and a bit tender, but I love them. I've never been happier."
"No, that's okay, I'm—"
"What've you got there… A’s?" Marci's eyes shot to Melanie's chest then she looked back up to her face wearing a sneer.
Melanie's jaw dropped. Her eyes went to Brock's who returned an apologetic look then to Marci, who was waiting with her eyes wide.
When Melanie didn't immediately reply, Marci added, "I mean, your frame could really support much larger breasts… D’s maybe, but definitely C’s"
Melanie shifted back and forth. "Um, well. I thought about it, but I'm about to get married and I—"
"You're getting married?" Marci frowned. "You are?"
"Yes, in June." Melanie smiled brightly. "He's a lawyer and—"
"That's great." Marci interrupted. "You hear that Brock, she's getting married."
"Yeah, I know I already told you about this. We're going to the—"
"Imagine how much better you'll look in your dress with something like these." Marci moved toward her until her massive chest was a foot or so from her face. "I insist you touch them."
Melanie looked to Brock seemingly for help. He simply shrugged and rubbed his head. "I would if I had more time, but—"
"In fact, I'm not leaving until you do."
Melanie poked one carefully with her finger then gave her an uneasy smile.
"You see, they feel natural. I love them." Marci walked back to the desk and opened her purse. Pulling a business card from inside, she presented it to her. "Here, call my guy. He's the best and very, very hard to get an appointment with. I'll pay for anything you want to have done. I've been looking for a way to give back and—"
"Okay…" Letting out a loud sigh, Brock rushed over to the two ladies and took the card from Marci's fingers. "I'll just hold this for you Melanie." He placed one hand on Marci's shoulder and motioned with the other toward the door. "Melanie, why don't you just go ahead and I'll be right there."
"Okay." Wearing a dumbfounded expression, Melanie turned and headed away.
He pushed the door closed and sighed, defeated. "You see? This is what I'm talking about." Returning his attention to Marci, he found her turned away and blowing her nose. "Marci?"
Turning to him, she sniffled. "So she's… she's getting married."
He nodded.
"And when are we going to get married or even set a date at least?"
"What?"
"You heard me, when?"
"Do we have to this now?" He closed his eyes and exhaled. "I've really got to go."
"We've been engaged for over a year now. I think it's time we actually set a date?"
"Marci, we've talked about this. With my military commitment and—"
"You're part-time. How is that even an issue here?"
"Seriously, you want to do this now?"
"I want to do it now. I think I deserve a reason— a real reason. Maybe you don't want to marry me, maybe—"
"Look. I, I just can't think about this right now."
"When can you think about it?"
He closed his eyes and sighed. "Soon, I guess."
"Soon… soon…" She shook her head. "Then I think we should take a little break. Yeah, we should break up."
"What?" His jaw dropped as he stared at her waiting for a response.
"You need to think about how you treat people and decide if you want to—"
"How I treat people?" His jaw dropped open. "You, you…"
"Yes, you. I will not wait for you forever. I have other options."
After shaking his head ruefully, he opened the door then turned back to her. "You want a break?"
"Yes…" She held her head high. "Yes, I do."
"You got it. Go explore some of those other options." Opening the door, he took off as a smile spread across his face.
4
After the meeting, Brock stripped down in his office and changed into shorts and a t-shirt. Just outside his second floor office door was a set of stairs leading down to an emergency exit. He scanned his badge to prevent the alarm from sounding, pushed open the door and took off. Running four miles in under twenty minutes, he returned slightly winded and headed to the gym. After a short workout followed by a shower, he replied to a few important emails, then headed to the lobby.
He found Akbar looking out the large glass windows to the parking lot. Brock said, "Got a hot date?"
Turning to him, Akbar smiled. "I wish. I'm waiting for my cousin. My car's in the shop."
"Should have told me… I would have dropped you off. I still can if—"
"No, I'm good. He's on his way."
After nodding, Brock slipped through the double doors and headed toward his car.
Pulling into the lot, Nasir drove toward the front door. He spotted Brock walking to his car and his eyes shot wide open. Following Brock as he walked, the car barreled toward the curb until at the last second, he slammed on the brakes, which let out a horrible squeal. Nasir looked toward Brock, who was now looking directly his way. Quickly tilting his head down, he brought his hands to his face and held still until Brock climbed into his SUV.
With his heart beating out of his chest, Nasir backed the car up away from the curb and pulled in front of the building.
Akbar climbed into the car wearing a concerned look. "What the hell's wrong with you?"
Ignoring him, Nasir pulled out his phone and after Brock backed his car out of the parking space, shot pictures of the license plate.
"What are you doing?"
"That's Cocoa Death!"
"What?" Akbar scoffed.
"I saw him kill my brother… your cousin. He's with the military."
"What did you call him?"
"Cocoa Death!" Nasir looked him in the eye. "I'm sure that's him. Now I can finally avenge Ali's death."
"That can't be. He's an executive. He's not in the military."
"Tell me… does he smell like chocolate?"
"Well, yeah…" Akbar shook his head. "But so does everyone in the building. It's a chocolate factory."
"No." Grabbing Akbar by the shirt, Nasir pulled his tiny body to him. "Tell me, does his skin smell like chocolate?"
"I don’t know." Akbar took hold of Nasir's wrist and shot him a hesitant look. "I don't think so."
Nasir kept hold of Akbar as he said, "That infidel tortured and killed your cousin. He tortured me. I could smell the disgusting sweet scent of him." With his eyes bugging out of his head, Nasir added, "I will never forget that smell."
"Look, I'm sure, I'm sure… it's not him," Akbar struggled to say.
"Are you… " Nasir shot him a sickened look. "Are you making friends here?"
"What? No!"
"Are you forgetting the reason you work here?"
"No, I… I only—"
"Your friend is going be dead along with the rest of them… and soon. Don't give me a reason to doubt where your loyalties lie."
"No, never I am loyal to Huday… loyal to the death!"
"Good!" Pushing Akbar away, Nasir gripped the steering wheel tight. "It's him. I know it is. I will prove it to you at home."
Twenty minutes later, on the grounds of the Fullman compound Brock stepped out of the guest house and headed to the main house dressed in fatigues. When he entered the library he found his mother, Carol, staring out the window sipping a martini.
Turning to him, Carol groaned. "No, Brock, not again."
"You know I have to do this. I've got to finish what I started."
"No, you don't."
Dropping his gear to the floor, he moved to the window next to his mother and looked out. "I can't rest until every last one of them is brought to justice."
"Who, Brock, who?"
He sighed. "Must we have the same argument every time I go?"
"Yes, we must! I love you and until you really listen and hear what I'm saying I'm going to keep saying it."
"My soul mate died in a vicious terrorist attack and un
til everyone responsible is—"
"You know in your heart, she was at least partially to blame."
"What?" He looked at her, shocked. "I'll never believe that." Moving to the sofa, he plopped down and dropped his head into his hands.
"Oh, Brock." After taking a sip of her martini, she headed toward him. Slipping down next to him on the sofa, she let out a hiccup as she patted his knee.
He looked her in the eye. "How can you even say that?"
She sighed. "Okay so you're making everyone responsible… pay, right?"
"That's right!"
"Then when are you going to go after the ambulance driver?"
He narrowed his eyes. "What? That doesn't even make any sense."
"No sense…" She scoffed. "She was run over by an ambulance!"
"Uh-huh… and the ambulance was on the way to the location of a terrorist attack."
"It was a failed terrorist attack."
"Yeah." He folded his arms and glared at her.
"A pretty pathetic one at that."
"Yeah, what are you trying to say?"
"That ambulance could have been on the way to treat a heart attack victim and if it was, what would you've done… gone after the man having the heart attack?"
He shrugged his shoulders and turned away from her.
"Look, if Constance hadn't been wearing those iPod headphones she might have heard the siren. But she didn't. She stepped off the London street corner and that was it. No one is to blame. It just happened."
"No."
"Using your logic, aren't the people at Apple Computer to blame then?"
"Steve Jobs is dead." Turning to her, he narrowed his eyes. "How do you know I didn't make him that way?"
"This is serious." She shook her head. "You're going to get yourself killed and that's not going to bring Constance back."
"Look, mom, this is something that I've just got to do. For me… for Constance and for all of us."
"Promise me you'll think about what I've said."
"I will… I've got to go." He kissed her on the cheek, breathing in the strong scent of gin and olives and made a sour face. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
He stood and picked his gear off the floor. "And you promise me you won't drink too much."
She shook her head in agreement. "Be safe."
