The alcohol began to hum a soft, sweet hymn through the lower basin of his mind. The tremor, the laugh, hell, the fear, had been a welcome surprise. At the very wrong end of the gun he was fifteen years old again. But this time he had not whimpered for his mother.
The gun had been too real. Metal. Dark. Oily. The light had actually danced into rainbows as it ran from sleek, gleaming metal. But the shadows had loved him. The Gun. He had called him the Gun. He had a name. He knew his parents had talked about him when they thought he had not been able to listen. And he had a name. But he had called him, simply, the Gun.
The Gun had been too real. Cold. Dark. Brooding. The shadows had caressed him. He had served drinks while slipping under the light - becoming the shadow and the obstruction all in one. "Is that how people see me?" he wondered. He knew he never inspired that kind of fear. But the...mystique. The hesitancy to interrupt, the reverence. That seemed like the memories one found in a mirror.
He heard her key turn in the lock. "Hi, honey! You're home!" he called out. He sat there and waited while she turned out of her coat. She walked into the study, saw his empty glass and he saw the hesitation. His kiss could wait. She turned and grabbed the bottle of bourbon and poured herself a drink and then grabbed the Scotch for him.
She sipped her bourbon and bent down to kiss him softly on the lips. She smiled as she pulled away. She always smiled just after a kiss. She had tasted of bourbon. "Well, you're alive. That much of your plan seems to have worked out."
She settled into chair so recently occupied by the man with the gun and crossed her legs. He couldn't see her feet from this angle but knew that one of her pumps would be dangling from her toes having lost purchase on her heal. With her perfectly swept back blonde hair and the tan skirt that outlined her figure with a black top unbuttoned almost to the limit of good taste and a rock glass of bourbon - she was temptation.
She was not beautiful. Something with the nose being a little too... something. If you found yourself looking closely enough to find the imperfections in her features, you found yourself lost. For while you would never have defined her as beautiful, you would have been caught up in desire. She was lust, temptation. It inspired his pet name for her.
He had learned to resist beauty and sex and money and power. He had never thought to steel himself against intelligence. Fortunately for him, she hadn't either. He was making a fortune on the periphery of her social scene. People with more money than sense, almost always the ones who had inherited the fortune rather than the ones who had earned it, were too happy to invest with him. Some of those investments had even been legitimate. And profitable. And he was working his way up to bigger and bigger fish when he had been introduced to the heiress of the Farfenelli fortune.
She watched him for almost a year playing his games and hopping from bed to bed with the daughters and wives and mistresses of men with fortunes enough to crush him if they ever found out. But they trusted him. They all liked him. She could not figure out why. Whatever spell he cast, however he engendered such trust, it failed to work on her. She disliked him almost immediately.
And then, one night at one party, over drinks of course, they talked. She told him that she thought he was a fraud. He said of course he was. She told him that she thought he was out to make as much money as he could off of the insipid and arrogant. He said of course he was. She pointed out that he was basically a whore for every bit of silicone and plastic and hair extended trollop that subsisted on the arms of billionaire cuckolds and fools. He sipped the last of his Scotch.
"I have had far too much to drink and I am trying to pick a fight with you, but you just aren't going to commit, are you?"
He smiled at her. She had not seen that smile before. She wondered how many of the women here had seen that smile.
"I learned long ago to never argue with a woman smarter than me." He smiled again and this time seemed to notice her noticing his smile and quickly sipped his drink.
''Why did you do that?"
"What?"
"Cover your smile with a rock glass of mostly Scotch flavored ice? Don't think there was even a sip left in there."
He looked at her and then at his glass and then smirked. She was strangely certain that no one else here, male or female, had seen that smirk before. It was... awkward. It was embarrassed. She felt the tip of her tongue touch her upper lip as she realized that smirk was... honest. And she was acutely aware that he had seen her wet her lips and blushed slightly as she knew he would misread this.
He looked down at his drink. He looked her in the eyes, "How many guys have tried to kiss you after you wet your lips like that?"
She found herself laughing and just managed to wave her left hand in the air - the hell if she was going to sweep her hair back over that one - charming - comment. With her right hand she lifted her glass of bourbon to her lips and too late realized that it was basically just ice.
They both laughed at that.
They often laughed. Mostly at themselves. As she sat across from him with one shoe dangling from her toes, they were not smiling. "What was he like?"
"He is smart. Smart enough to not let on how smart he is. Calculating. Cold. A killer. If the dollars hadn't been so preposterously big, he would have shot me on general principle."
That hung in the air. They had talked over and over again about how much of the truth to tell the man with the gun. One train of thought was to keep the dollars reasonable. Believable. The truth, the actual amounts, was literally ridiculous. They had finally decided to not decide. He would make the call based on what he found with the man and the gun here in the room.
"The truth was so stupid, I had to be telling the truth. If it had been reasonable, he would have smelled a con and I would have an additional nostril."
He hid his smile behind his glass of Scotch. She did nothing to hide her disdain at his gallows humor.
"How much does he know? You played the brother card..."
"He knew we were brothers. Or he knew I would say we were brothers. He knew the story about Junior shooting his mother. Don't know if he believed that either."
"He is smart"
"Told you."
"Does he really pretend to work for the Russians?"
"Calls them the Neckless. And yes, he maintains that appearance."
She sips her bourbon. He notices just a bit of her lipstick at the edge of her glass. She exhales deeply and looks over the books on the shelves just to his left. The tip of her tongue finds her upper lip. She frowns.
He looks down at his Scotch. He looks over at the bottles of liquor just over her right shoulder. He drinks deeply and realizes through the numbness of his lips that he is most certainly drunk.
"I love you," he says to her.
"Of course you do."
End Chapter Six
She sipped her bourbon and bent down to kiss him softly on the lips. She smiled as she pulled away. She always smiled just after a kiss. She had tasted of bourbon. "Well, you're alive. That much of your plan seems to have worked out."
She settled into chair so recently occupied by the man with the gun and crossed her legs. He couldn't see her feet from this angle but knew that one of her pumps would be dangling from her toes having lost purchase on her heal. With her perfectly swept back blonde hair and the tan skirt that outlined her figure with a black top unbuttoned almost to the limit of good taste and a rock glass of bourbon - she was temptation.
She was not beautiful. Something with the nose being a little too... something. If you found yourself looking closely enough to find the imperfections in her features, you found yourself lost. For while you would never have defined her as beautiful, you would have been caught up in desire. She was lust, temptation. It inspired his pet name for her.
He had learned to resist beauty and sex and money and power. He had never thought to steel himself against intelligence. Fortunately for him, she hadn't either. He was making a fortune on the periphery of her social scene. People with more money than sense, almost always the ones who had inherited the fortune rather than the ones who had earned it, were too happy to invest with him. Some of those investments had even been legitimate. And profitable. And he was working his way up to bigger and bigger fish when he had been introduced to the heiress of the Farfenelli fortune.
She watched him for almost a year playing his games and hopping from bed to bed with the daughters and wives and mistresses of men with fortunes enough to crush him if they ever found out. But they trusted him. They all liked him. She could not figure out why. Whatever spell he cast, however he engendered such trust, it failed to work on her. She disliked him almost immediately.
And then, one night at one party, over drinks of course, they talked. She told him that she thought he was a fraud. He said of course he was. She told him that she thought he was out to make as much money as he could off of the insipid and arrogant. He said of course he was. She pointed out that he was basically a whore for every bit of silicone and plastic and hair extended trollop that subsisted on the arms of billionaire cuckolds and fools. He sipped the last of his Scotch.
"I have had far too much to drink and I am trying to pick a fight with you, but you just aren't going to commit, are you?"
He smiled at her. She had not seen that smile before. She wondered how many of the women here had seen that smile.
"I learned long ago to never argue with a woman smarter than me." He smiled again and this time seemed to notice her noticing his smile and quickly sipped his drink.
''Why did you do that?"
"What?"
"Cover your smile with a rock glass of mostly Scotch flavored ice? Don't think there was even a sip left in there."
He looked at her and then at his glass and then smirked. She was strangely certain that no one else here, male or female, had seen that smirk before. It was... awkward. It was embarrassed. She felt the tip of her tongue touch her upper lip as she realized that smirk was... honest. And she was acutely aware that he had seen her wet her lips and blushed slightly as she knew he would misread this.
He looked down at his drink. He looked her in the eyes, "How many guys have tried to kiss you after you wet your lips like that?"
She found herself laughing and just managed to wave her left hand in the air - the hell if she was going to sweep her hair back over that one - charming - comment. With her right hand she lifted her glass of bourbon to her lips and too late realized that it was basically just ice.
They both laughed at that.
They often laughed. Mostly at themselves. As she sat across from him with one shoe dangling from her toes, they were not smiling. "What was he like?"
"He is smart. Smart enough to not let on how smart he is. Calculating. Cold. A killer. If the dollars hadn't been so preposterously big, he would have shot me on general principle."
That hung in the air. They had talked over and over again about how much of the truth to tell the man with the gun. One train of thought was to keep the dollars reasonable. Believable. The truth, the actual amounts, was literally ridiculous. They had finally decided to not decide. He would make the call based on what he found with the man and the gun here in the room.
"The truth was so stupid, I had to be telling the truth. If it had been reasonable, he would have smelled a con and I would have an additional nostril."
He hid his smile behind his glass of Scotch. She did nothing to hide her disdain at his gallows humor.
"How much does he know? You played the brother card..."
"He knew we were brothers. Or he knew I would say we were brothers. He knew the story about Junior shooting his mother. Don't know if he believed that either."
"He is smart"
"Told you."
"Does he really pretend to work for the Russians?"
"Calls them the Neckless. And yes, he maintains that appearance."
She sips her bourbon. He notices just a bit of her lipstick at the edge of her glass. She exhales deeply and looks over the books on the shelves just to his left. The tip of her tongue finds her upper lip. She frowns.
He looks down at his Scotch. He looks over at the bottles of liquor just over her right shoulder. He drinks deeply and realizes through the numbness of his lips that he is most certainly drunk.
"I love you," he says to her.
"Of course you do."
End Chapter Six
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