Contract Killer Stirs the Pot

Then I felt her pull me up, and my head went light and cloudy as I gazed into her intense and gorgeous face, so youthful and eager. It had been a long time since a woman had owned me this completely. I brushed her lips in a soft kiss. Her hand gave me a slight push back so she could speak.

"Fuck me, bad boy," she said over the splash of the shower as it cascaded around us. Her green eyes blazed, beads of water shimmering like tiny diamonds caught in her lashes. Then she spun around and bent over, arching her back and pressing the firm hump of her ass into my stomach, inviting me entrance to her pussy.

Naturally, I accepted the invitation.

I slipped into her and felt her warmth consume me. The shower head sprayed my back with pseudo-rain, splattering off me and dotting Sheila's back with liquid crystals. I gritted my teeth; Sheila's tightness clenched around me. Slowly, deliberately, I began to slide within her. I grabbed hold of her hips with my hands, my fingers sinking into her flesh, and worked up speed.

My head swam, drugged by Sheila's sex. No amount of pot or cocaine or meth amphetamine could give me the kind of high this girl did. Sheila was so tight that it was always a challenge to not spend myself entirely in the first minute inside of her, you know, like trying to not stuff an entire piece of pizza in your mouth after you haven't eaten in two days. My vision wavered, and every nerve in body exploded with snapping synapses. She began to fuck me, bucking back into me, and encouraged by my protesting moan, she started doing it harder. Wet smacking slaps clapped as if in applause as flesh met flesh.

"You going to cum already, you bitch?" she said with a bray of wild laughter.

In response to her question, I began to meet her gyrations with my own thrusts. My body tensed like one clenching muscle, but I refused to let it all go. Sheila wouldn't let me hear the end of it if I didn't manage at least a good five minutes. After a moment of near eruption, the storm passed, and I was meeting Sheila's hard fuck with one of my own, safe from spewing an unsatisfactory ending into her (for now).

"Not before you," I challenged. The hot jets of water shooting from the shower head were not the only things steaming up the glass doors. Sheila smacked one of the doors with a palm, leaving a smeared imprint. She arched into me, my manhood sinking deep.

"Ah, fuck!" she grunted. A satisfied smile curled my lips.

Her ass rippled as did my thighs as they slapped, and Sheila flung her head back, hair sending a spray of water into my face. Suddenly she tightened around me, milking me beyond comprehension, and that was the beginning of the end. Sheila cried out, and I followed suit, pulling out and shooting an arc of jism over the curve of her ass and into the small of her back.

The morning was off to a good start.

***

The first thing Kross did the moment I stepped through the doors of The Deep End was hand me an envelope. An expression that I could only interpret as mounting trouble shadowed my bartender's face as the envelope passed from his large, gnarly hands to mine. I frowned.

"This came for you," Kross said with a grunt. He had the kind of voice that sounded like his throat was lined with grit.

"From?"

"Found it slipped under the door, so I dunno."

I took the envelope. I hesitated, thinking that I had bribed/threatened everyone and anyone who might harbor an inkling of dissatisfaction with The Deep End's change of ownership. I decided to put an end to the mystery and fingered the envelope open. I was greeted with nothing more dangerous than a dinner invitation. The danger level rose when I discovered the dinner invitation had been sent by none other than Simeon Dread.

Simeon Dread- my father's rival and the man who had sent the Black Ghost to help me to an eternal dirt nap. I had no doubt that Dread had some kind of diabolical plot up his million dollar sleeves, the end of which he no doubt hoped to find me dead. Nonetheless, I was intrigued. It was certainly more interesting than a potential night of nothing more than "Everybody Loves Raymond" reruns. The invitation reeked of the scent of a trap, but it was also an opportunity to meet my adversary face-to-face. In short, a delicious dilemma. I decided to take a bite out of it.

I looked up at Kross and said, "Looks like I'm taking the night off."

***

I hate elitist black tie affairs, bumping elbows and sharing stock market tips with New York's finest. The upper crust of the class system always seems stale; for the most part, these people are primarily comprised of money. Take away their dead presidents, and they're not much more than rulers of cardboard kingdoms. All these people want to talk about boils down to who has more dollars and cents, and I suppose that makes a kind of sense when you realize the Almighty Dollar is the only thing that sets them apart and gives them their sense of entitlement. But then again, what better to give you a sense of entitlement than the knowledge you can kill a man with only a plastic spork? It's easier than you think.

A sea of old, graying men in black-and-white stretched out before me like a lost scene of the geriatric version of "March of the Penguins." Many of the elderly penguins' arms were decorated with young, doe-eyed blondes who looked more confused than beautiful. A few older women decked out in pearls and stretched faces formed clucking groups that were no doubt gossiping about the penguins with the young blondes. My mind turned to Shakespeare. Life was certainly a stage, and we were but players on it.

I noticed two large, trunk-necked twins in matching tuxedoes: Johnny and Jimmy Knox, better known as the Tuxedo Brothers. They served as Dread's personal guard which only meant that Dread was somewhere close. I felt my mouth go dry in anticipation. As if in response, Simeon shimmered out of the shadows behind and between the twins. A silver cane gleamed in his hands.

A slim man, Dread sported a dark tux and a sly smile framed by a trim, gray goatee. His hair matched the color of his cane, and it swept back from his temples as if forming tiny horns. A more sinister and sophisticated-looking adversary one could not hope for. His intelligent, cold eyes scanned the crowd and then paused once they caught me in their steely gaze. He gave me a slight nod. I nodded back, two predators acknowledging the other. Dread whispered something into the ear of one of the Tuxedo Brothers before turning and disappearing into the crowd, apparently to mingle.

First contact had been made. I worked my way to the bar for a much-needed drink and to wait for what would happen next. The ball was in Dread's court, and like Iverson, I assumed Dread would be a ball hog.

I had just downed my first shot of bourbon when a brawny hand clamped down on my shoulder. I didn't so much as flinch, but I felt my heart flitter- just a bit. This was it. I turned into the stony features of one of the Tuxedo Brothers.

"Someone wants to meet you," Johnny/Jimmy (who could tell which one) said.

One Tuxedo Brother led me to a room where the other Tuxedo Brother stood guard, a look of petulant disgust chiseled into his face. The twins exchanged grunts like the dressed up gorillas they really were. The door opened, and I entered the private sanctuary of Simeon Dread, leaving both gorillas behind me.

Dread rose from the depths of a thick, leather chair and extended a hand. I took it in an obligatory shake. His grip was crisp and firm. His hand slid away.

"Please, sit," Dread said, and he motioned to a chair opposite his own.

"Thank you," I said and took it.

"Drink?" he offered as he walked over to small bar and poured one.

"Thank you," I accepted as he poured another. Drinks in hand, Dread sat down and took a moment to take his measure of me. I waited, having already taken my own of him. I glanced around the room. Large bay windows behind Dread allowed a sweeping view of the city below his building. The room, itself, looked sterile. No pictures, no papers, no files, no personal flourishes, simply two chairs and walls of book shelves lined with leather volumes with gold titles gleaming on the spines.

"You don't look like much," Dread finally said.

"So my mother often told me," I conceded. Dread laughed at my reflection and stroked his goatee with one hand. In the other, he gripped his cane. I noticed the handle was an elegantly engraved wolf's head. The head's mouth was open in a snarl; Dread's index finger played amongst the intricately carved teeth. Fitting. I felt as though I was dancing in the mouth of a wolf, myself.

"And I expected no sense of humor. You must forgive me, but the kind of people I have dealt with from your profession in the past were quite... what's the word?"

"Insane."

Dread's lips twisted in a smile. "Let's just say colorful."

"I'm the exception. If not for my line of work, I'd be considered boring."

Dread's smile widened. His expression was not unlike that of the silver wolf's head in his grasp.

"Somehow, I doubt that," he said. I paused, sipped my drink and watched Dread's expression. Here was my arch enemy, inviting me to have drinks and showering me with minor compliments. Well, maybe not compliments but he had yet to incite me to violence, and that was a surprise. Then again, what did I expect? For him to press a button that would drop me into a shark tank or a cavern of bubbling lava? Life was not a James Bond movie, and Simeon Dread was not Blofeld. However, life might be a horror movie, and Dread was about to transform into the Wolf man.

"We have a mutual problem," Dread said, breaking my train of thought. He remained in humanoid form (for now).

"Sociopathic tendencies?"

"The Black Ghost," Dread said. His smile disappeared; his face turned hard. I understood why so many people were afraid of this man. His expression would have turned most mortal men into stone, but it was his words rather than his face that put a chill in my blood. And let me tell you, it takes a lot to put a chill into my blood.

"The Black Ghost," I repeated. "The woman you hired to kill me." A visual from my dream flashed through my head: the Ghost's womanhood opening like a mouth to swallow me, teeth like bullets, fire rumbling up from her core.

Dread shook his head and countered, "I never hired the Ghost to kill you though I have used her in the past. But your death, you must realize, might lead to a mob war, a blood feud. Your father would come after me with every resource, assuming me to be the culprit behind your demise."

"Naturally," I concurred.

"This kind of war would be bloody, long, and expensive. In short, they are not cost effective. And I am not one to waste resources unnecessarily."

"I see your point."

"This means that either a third party hired the Ghost in hopes of weakening both your father's and my own enterprises or worse, the Ghost is working independently," Dread said and crossed his legs. He downed the rest of his drink, smacked his lips, and thumped his glass on an end table. His lips gleamed with moisture.

"So why have you brought me here and told me this?" I said although the answer seemed obvious. I wanted to hear my suspicions verified by Dread.

"I want to hire you," Dread replied. "To kill the Black Ghost."

If Dread had given me a chill before with his words, now he had straight up frozen the blood in my veins. I had to admit, the last thing I would have imagined happening that evening was Dread hiring me for a job. I had visualized a match of wills most likely ending in with a shootout with the Tuxedo Brothers and a daring, 'Die Hard'-esque escape by yours truly out of Dread Tower, the building consumed by flames behind me. This alternate circumstance, however, would have to do. When one is a contract killer, one quickly learns to be flexible.

"Easier said than done. Even if I had the slightest idea of where to begin looking for the Ghost, I can't guarantee that I'd find her," I said.

Dread leaned forward in his chair. He allowed his cane to rest against his chair, and his hands and fingers templed under his chin. His eyes gleamed with sinister light. Dread looked like an illustration of Mephistopheles come to life.

"What if I told you that she was here tonight by my invitation at this very party? I've given her an indication that I know about her attempt on you. She believes us to still have a very healthy business relationship."

"I'd ask how you knew about the attempt on me."

"Mr. Fontana told me before he disappeared. He'd heard that I'd put a hit on you using the Black Ghost, and when I told him that simply wasn't the case, we put two-and-two together. A shame that Fontana so suddenly vanished after being placed on my payroll and the attempt on your life as I have a feeling that he might have known more than he disclosed," Dread said, and his wolfish smile reappeared. His teeth shone in the dim moonlight filtering in the bay windows.

I said nothing, reminiscing on Fontana as he pleaded for his life. A dark shadow crept over my thoughts. Things seemed to be falling into place. But maybe a little too clearly and conveniently.

"In any case," Dread continued, "the Ghost must be taken care of before she can cause any further disruption. It's for our mutual benefit."

I grinned. "Speaking of benefits, are there any attached to your proposal that may tip the scales of persuasion?"

Dread patted his wolf-headed cane and said the magic words, "Three million dollars and the guarantee that I will never order harm to any member of your family."

It seemed too good to be true, so I knew it probably wasn't. Still, why not?

"I'll do it."

***

I worked my way through the throng of party guests, one eye on the look out for the Black Ghost, my thoughts now a flood of questions. I had only gotten a good look at Ghosty once, and I had narrowly survived the encounter. Since then, she visited me in my dreams, but that was it. Could I even recognize her? Maybe...

The Black Ghost looked Italian to me, possibly Greek but certainly of Mediterranean descent. She had sweeping black hair, strong features, and an athletic body worthy of Michelangelo's best sculptures. She shouldn't be a hard person to miss, but people in my profession have a way of becoming chameleons. My eyes scanning the crowd, I saw no one fitting her description.

Dread might not be telling the truth about his invitation to her, and even if he was, the Ghost might not have bothered to come. For all I knew, Dread was playing me into some kind of trap. I couldn't rule out the possibility, at least not yet.

With my mind on the Ghost, I never noticed the other woman approach me, not until she was close enough to tickle my neck with her hot breath and make the hair on my arms ripple into goose bumps.

"We meet again," the silky voice said into my ear, and I twisted, half-expecting the Ghost and only finding myself even more surprised.

She was dark-haired and dark-eyed with a look fit for Satan's mistress and to be honest, that's close to what she was. Her face held a hot, smoldering expression that might have turned any other man to a puddle of bubbling goo, ready to perform any heinous dead she might ask of him. I, on the other hand, had met her before and knew her game. I had killed her brother and then made horrible, repulsive love to her next to her brother's still warm corpse.

Needless to say, I live a very interesting life although one that has reserved me a very special place in hell.

"And here I thought that this city was big enough for the both of us," I greeted her, meeting her gaze. The dark-haired demon's lips spread back in a diabolical smile. I tried to keep my eyes of her hourglass figure, one struggling against the confines of a short, black cocktail dress. Diamond earrings glistened and hung low from her ears while more diamonds circled her neck and spilled into the curve of her cleavage.

"Before we set about getting nostalgic, I should take the time to introduce myself," she said and stuck out her hand. "I'm Veronica Dread."

I let her hand dangle in the air. For a moment, my heart stopped, did a double take, and puttered back to a coughing start. What was with these people and their uncanny ability to drop bombshells on me? I felt like Main Street, Baghdad.

"You're Simeon's..."

"Wife," she finished. I knew Simeon Dread was notorious for protecting members of his family from the media, and hardly any pictures of his current wives or any previous ones existed in the public realm, but this revelation came as something of a shock. I had not felt more out of my element in a long, long time. I wondered if this was part of Dread's plan. Veronica's smile widened.

"Don't worry. Simeon knows nothing about our... past. But you should know he was the one who hired you to kill my brother," she said.

"Delightful," was all I could think to say. The taste had gone out of my mouth as my mind reeled to out all the fresh information into context.

"Looks like you could use some air," Mrs. Dread said, and she grabbed my arm and started pulling me towards an open balcony. I allowed her to lead me, wondering how the evening could become any more complicated before finding the Black Ghost.

On the balcony, the night air felt brisk and cool. Dread Tower maintained a stunning view of the city sprawled around it, all blinking lights, reds and yellows. Dread Tower was like a modern day Mount Olympus from which the immortal Zeus (played by Simeon Dread in his finest role to date) watched over the mortals below. Then Veronica's arms were around me, dragging me into her warm embrace. She smelled sweet and exotic like some kind of foreign fruit with mouth watering cleavage.

"Kiss me," she breathed. My mind flashed to Sheila.

My mouth said, "Your husband."

My dark-haired demon grinned like an imp. Her teeth were a shiny, straight set of pearls framed by a set of luscious red lips. A breeze ruffled her hair.

"He lets me have a few toys to keep me occupied while he stays focused on his business. So take advantage of this situation and let me play with you... toy," she purred.

I tried not to remember the feel of her lips on me but failed. Veronica Dread radiated sex, poisoning all those who came in contact with her. I closed my eyes and saw Veronica, turned the image into Sheila, felt a strange twist of innards and an ache in my chest, and reopened my eyes.

"I can't," I said. Veronica's arms dropped away from me like lead weights. Her eyes blazed for a moment, fire plowing through her mind and undoubtedly incinerating me in a vivid visualization. Then realization and a sly smile informed her face.

"A sudden code of chivalry holding you back? Or maybe just a girl, someone innocent, someone new. A girl with a virgin soul and an angel's face," Veronica said, leaning in so close I could taste the wine on her breath. Her lips peeled back in a vicious smile.

"Why worship at the feet of an angel when you can fuck the devil?" she whispered.

Veronica Dread had a point. She was also built like a brick shithouse, so I probably would have fallen under her spell if she had not reopened her mouth and ruined her chances.

"Besides, Simeon's going to be in his meeting with that woman. We've got a good ten minutes," she said and licked her lips. If life was a comic strip, a gigantic exclamation point would have appeared over my head.

"What woman?" I said. Every fiber of my being shrieked in alarm.

***

Thank Christ, I have no fear of heights. Remembering the bay window of Dread's study, I noticed that the balcony of what I believed to be the same room was jumping distance from the balcony Veronica Dread had attempted to seduce me. I sent her away under the pretense of getting us some drinks and maneuvered myself on the banister.