****
When I leave the office I find a relatively disgruntled Kent standing outside the building smoking a cigarette. I get the impression that he's been waiting for me, most likely to hear what Blaine had to say.
I tell him I was yelled at too, just to keep things on an even keel. Sometimes it's easier to just tell people what they want to hear rather than spill the truth. In any case, I think he just wants to vent for being the one who got the flack for the botch up. I don't tell him to his face that I truly think it's his fault the man was killed. Although I doubt Wheaton's death means much to him anyway.
After a few rigid words are spoken between us, Kent gets on his way. I've worked with him only a couple of times before and, after last night, I doubt Blaine will pair me with him again. Frankly, there are a thousand Kents out there, but very few of me. At least, that's what Blaine tells me anyway.
The early evening air is bitterly cold as I make my way down the street, the wind biting at my skin and chilling me to my bones. This winter seems to have come on quicker than most, not creeping up like usual but storming upon us just as summer decided to fade away. I still see people walking around in shorts and t-shirts, their minds still trying to catch up with the sudden change. I guess, walking as I am in a simple white sweater and acid wash jeans, I'm equally in denial.
Thing is, I've got an excuse. I don't stick around any place long enough to get to know when the seasons change. Right now it's New York, or Brooklyn to be exact. Last year I was renting an apartment in Miami. This time next year I could be in Chicago, or Los Angeles, or over in Europe somewhere.
I go where the team go, and we never stay anywhere too long. When there's any hint of heat, we pack up and leave. That's our rule. Never leave a trace. Never outstay our welcome. You either quit when you're ahead, or bust out. It's the philosophy that Blaine's passed down to me for years.
So, right now, I'm renting a simple place in Brooklyn with a girl named Beth. Nice girl. Normal girl. Unlike me.
I even have a job, working in a clothes shop as a sales assistant. It's part of my cover, it's how I spend most of my days. I earn a regular income from it, pay my bills, fill in my taxes. It's all to make me appear as normal as possible. All one big cover for the person I truly am underneath.
Around the corner I reach my car. Another part of my illusion. Banged up and cheap. Paint threatening to strip off the doors. Engine that refuses to start on the first go and chugs like a steam train when it finally gets going. I jump inside and turn the key, wiping the condensation clean from the inside window. The damn thing doesn't even have heating, which was fine back in Miami but not so good here. Perhaps I'll ask Blaine for an upgrade.
It struggles into life and I make my way through the city, passing by revelers preparing for heavy nights of drinking. Standard fare for a Friday night after a long week at work.
My apartment isn't the nicest. But it's not the worst either. Just a place to rest my head when I'm not working, be that selling clothes or stealing jewels. When I reach it I find Beth fiddling with her hair in front of the dresser in the living room. I know she's got a steady boyfriend and is probably got her official 'date night' tonight, as she calls it.
The idea is alien to me. Not only going on a date, but actually having a boyfriend. Sex for me is one of two things. It's either part of my job in luring rich men back to their mansions, or it's entirely circumstantial. On my own time I don't go out looking for it like, say, a guy would, but when it finds me I won't always turn it down either. It's a release, sometimes, that I just need. A few hours lost in a random guy who I actually find attractive. Not some rich 40 year old with an erectile dysfunction in the middle of a mid-life crisis.
Beth, though, is a sweet girl. The sort of girl I like to be around to remind me of what the other side of life is like. Sometimes I wonder whether I might have turned out like her if things has gone differently. Going to college, having a nice boyfriend to take home to my parents. Only I don't have any parents to go home to. That's the whole reason I ended up in this gig.
She's classically cute, though. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a light tan to her skin that's clearly been manufactured by skin care products and the odd visit to the sunbed. White teeth shine behind her pink lips, her smile infectious. When I walk in, I smile back and she immediately asks me how my day's been.
“OK,” I say. My replies are often like that, not giving much away. I suppose she just takes it as me being tired from busting my ass in the shop all day, which on most days I am. But not today. Today I'm tired for a different reason altogether.
“You going out tonight?” she asks, turning from me to the mirror as she continues to work her hair into place.
“Erm, probably not. I'm pretty beat.”
“Ah Lily, come on honey. I'm going out with some of the girls. Come with us. You'd get along well with them.”
“I'm not sure,” I say, followed by a series of added invitations that borders on pestering.
Annoyingly, she's almost too nice, and refuses to take 'no' for an answer. I can see it all playing out now. Me, Beth, a bunch of her college friends. Having to field questions all night about where I'm going in life and what my prospects are. Hearing about their boyfriends and college dramas.
Yuck.
And then I think about the alternative. Sit here, alone, and dwell on Wheaton. See that bullet explode through his skull a thousand times over and over. Hear him hit the floor and watch the blood pool beneath him and curl around the legs of his desk. And then, inevitably, think of my dad too, and the night he and my mom died...
“OK,” I say, after her tenth time of asking. “I'll come.”
Beth's face curls up in delight and she rushes into the small kitchen attached to the living room. A moment later she's back with two glasses of wine. She passes one to me, clinks them together, and then sucks the entire thing straight down her neck.
College kids, I think to myself, shaking my head, as she urges me to do the same.
Deceit (Part 1) Page 3
