The Seventh Circle

What had he done? What was he thinking? He had crossed the line. She was going to slap him now and storm off the floor. Gina would find out and God knows what she would do.

Kyrie followed Marcus' retreat, her eyes still set on his with the most intense glare. She seized his palm outward hands in her own and pushed them down. Her hand flew to Marcus' face and rested there. The grit of Marcus' perpetual modicum of stubble scratched as her tender hand reached around his neck to pull him forward.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"My feet hurt," Kyrie murmured in his ear, "Let's find somewhere to sit." Marcus breathed in relief at her pardon and followed her, led by the hand.

She led him off the dance floor and to the dark fringes of the party where they stole along unseen until they reached the lonely darkened and deactivated escalator which was roped off and led up to the second floor.

"Where are we going?"

"Someplace quiet," Kyrie said. She bowed under the rope and tripped along the metal steps. Whatever this was, wherever it was going, Marcus could either follow her or stop it now. Marcus looked around and hesitated. He couldn't identify any of the silhouettes and shadows moving in the distance nor make out any of their voices. Nobody could possibly see him in the dusk of his surroundings. He ducked under the rope and followed Kyrie upstairs. What was he doing?

The top of the motionless escalator presented the strangely dim and vacant upper level of Stacy's Department Store. Only one light in ten overhead was lit. There were dozens of round clothing racks and farther back, straight rows of men's business and casual wear. There was no one in sight and the music from downstairs was a muffled and indiscernible thumping of bass.

"Kyrie?" Marcus ventured to say her name. There was no response. Marcus ambled along the tiled path and looked around, perplexed at Kyrie's disappearance. He made a careful circuit of the whole floor, past clothing, bedding, furniture and house wares before he came upon the fitting rooms. A light was on inside one of the rooms and crept through the wooden louvers.

"Marcus," Kyrie's voice startled him from behind as he touched the light wooden door. Kyrie was reposed on a sofa that faced the dressing room. One leg was bent upon the sofa and the other rested on the floor. Her body reclined on the arm and her hands rested, one atop her dark head and the other on the flat of her stomach. Her feet were now bare and her toes glittered red to match her fingertips. Their eyes met and her lips spread into a delicious smile. The trap was sprung. He was caught. There was no way out. Secretly, it is our deepest desire to be snatched up in sharp teeth and claws. Marcus wanted to be devoured, consumed mind body and soul. It is the utmost of human desires to be desired.

"What are we doing, Kyrie?"

"Whatever we want." She twirled her hair around a finger.

"Do you bring all the boys up here?"

Kyrie giggled and stood up. As she closed the few steps between them, she never took her eyes off of his. "You're my first," she whispered, close enough her breath warmed his lips. It was sweet, mixed of alcohol and lip-gloss. Marcus' heart could barely keep pace with his desire, which threatened mutiny with each pulse. His head swam as Kyrie turned from him and bent. She pulled her hair to one side and said over her shoulder, "Unzip me?"

This was the crux of his life. This was the point of no return, or had he already crossed it? Caught up in the irresistible current of the maelstrom, the most attractive option too often is to let go and drown. It only hurts more to struggle. His right forefinger traced the brass stitches up to the top and took hold of the grip to ease it down. The irony of red opening up to reveal soft untouched flesh underneath was lost as he ran his fingers inside Kyrie's dress around the curve of her hips and up to her breast. She turned on him again, with sudden vigor so that his hand jumped as if burned. She was giggling this time, her arms crossed to hold up the dress.

"Was this what you wanted?" She uncrossed her arms and it slipped to the floor. There was no brassier to hide her excitement. Her deep brown nipples were tight as if pinched and twisted. Marcus didn't answer, but took hold of Kyrie by her hips and pulled her back to him. His hands returned upwards as if by instinct, and Kyrie at last surrendered to their gentle onslaught. Marcus assuaged his ravenous hands by crushing one twin mass until the sweet coffee colored areola bulged smooth. He kissed the tender protrusion of flesh just inside the nipple and worked his feverish mouth toward it, kissing licking and sucking until its stiff texture was on his lips. He did not consume it in one hot raging mouthful, as his want screamed for him to do, but only took it gingerly between his teeth and teased the very tip with his tongue. Kyrie's chest heaved as she inhaled with audible enthusiasm. She pulled him, encouraging and pressing her chest into his face, until Marcus acquiesced, softly taking in all of her that he could. He squeezed his jaws and pulled his teeth back over her vulnerable skin. Kyrie made a sharp cry and thrust him hard into the fitting room door.

Marcus blinked away the sparks in his vision to find Kyrie covering herself and staring at him. He stared back like a man half-mad with starvation, his breath short and fervid, and his eyes ablaze. He followed her retreat this time. He didn't care if she slapped him. This couldn't end now. He could not have sold his soul so cheaply, not for a nip, just one bite of her rich, nourishing tit.

When she had backed into the arm of the sofa with nowhere else to go, she surprised Marcus with a blow to the face that nearly leveled him. Marcus fell over, hands bracing on his knees, and stared in shock at the floor. His ear was ringing and his face stung. As Kyrie grabbed him and pulled him back up, Marcus braced himself for her knee to pulverize his groin, but instead, her slick dulcet lips pressed into his again.

"Don't bite," she chided, but her lips spread at the same time. From her left hand she placed a pink tablet on the tip of her tongue and flicked it twice to make sure Marcus saw it. A pair of lips around the words 'Kiss Me' was pressed into it. Marcus moved in, and their mouths closed together as the whole of emotion, fear, desire, and anger mingled into one relentless impetus. Kyrie bit down on the pill, crushing it and the bitter powder mingled in their mouths. Marcus only vaguely cared what it was. If it was in Kyrie's mouth, he wanted it, and he drove his tongue in with untethered avarice to get it. Marcus pushed his entire body into Kyrie and they fell together, over the arm into the sofa. Clothing removed, fairly torn from his body in haste, there was almost no resistance to his entry. Her drenched black thong slid to the side of his thrusting, no time wasted taking it off. It was better that way, sexier. Marcus pushed and pulled with wanton disregard to pace or protection. Kyrie didn't try to hinder his approach, but submitted to this everlasting twinkling of heavenly catharsis. Marcus ached for release, but too soon. He wished himself numb to her hot slickened body, deaf to her begging pule for his length. He tried to slow down, to draw out their lovemaking, but Kyrie pulled him to the bottom of her depths.

"Just let go, Marcus. Let it go."

Her breath in his ear was all he could stand. He hurt as if he'd been kicked as tingling waves coursed down his spine. He kissed her neck just under her ear and scrunched her spiraling curls in his hand. He made his way across her soft cheek back to her mouth where he stayed to breathe in her life until her neck arched back and she barely stifled a scream. Kyrie was squeezing his cock and trembling inside as she thrashed and cried out. With one last push as hard and as deep as he could reach, he willed himself into her very core and erupted. With great, deep manly heaves and groans, he fell onto her. They held each other, puffing and panting, until the excitement was gone. By degrees, ecstasy became bliss and hot passion became cold mess.

Marcus played with Kyrie's hair as he stared at the curves of her face. She blinked slowly as if caressing him with her dark lashes. Their naked bodies held close for warmth, Marcus' jacket became a makeshift blanket.

"Why did we do this, Kyrie? Where does it go now?"

"You know why you did it, Marcus" Kyrie returned, "Because you needed it. I can still feel how much you needed it." She pressed a hand on herself and made a face as she were sore. True enough, he had poured months of frustration into her, but why was she so willing and eager to accept it?

"Why did you?"

"I love the way you look at me," she said, "It's like everyone else disappears. You look in my eyes like you're in love. Like you can't look away because you're afraid I won't be there when you look back. I'm not a dream, Marcus. I won't fade away." Marcus pushed her hair around her ear and kissed her again.

"Really?"

Kyrie frowned. The dreamy smile on Marcus' face evaporated. "That dried up bitch doesn't deserve you. You're not a husband. You're a pet, and if she doesn't care enough to give you what you need it's no wonder we wound up here. She saw everything and she left us alone together. It's her own fault." Marcus fell silent. He stared at Kyrie's mouth, unable to endure the truth in her eyes. "Where does it go now? Where can it go with her around?"

"What are you say—" Marcus began, but Kyrie interjected.

"She can not lose. She doesn't know how. What are you going to do, leave? Divorce?" Then she murmured in his ear in a low tone as if anyone were around to hear, "She'll kill you, Marcus. She'll kill us both." Kyrie's eyes betrayed genuine fear as she peeled her skin from the sticky leather.

"I want to get out of here," Kyrie announced, her eyes wide, and stood. Oddly, she covered her chest with an arm as she looked down at him. "Get dressed!" She hissed as if someone was right now plodding up the escalator to catch them. The bottoms of her breasts defied her arm's ability to conceal them.

"Come with me? I have more at home."

"Where are my shoes?"

Marcus and Mr. Neely

Marcus fingered the lettering on the weapon. Pietro Beretta... Made in Italy. He held the gun in his hand and thrust it toward the front door. Like a trained professional, he kept his trigger finger straight. He narrowed his eyes to slits and cocked his head. The door wasn't impressed.

Marcus rolled his eyes at his own pretense and tilted the weapon to its side. He pulled a switch and the clip sprang out of into his hand. He set the pistol on the coffee table and began pulling the bullets out to inspect each one. He carefully turned each round over, rolled it between his fingers, as if he could tell its precise diameter by touch, and set them on the table in a straight line. When he was satisfied none of the rounds were defective, he began counting them as he replaced them into the clip. He had repeated this process no less than five times. He continued to eyeball the front door. It stood defiant, tormenting him with its lifeless cyclopean eye.

Marcus didn't know what exactly he expected to come charging through that door, but anticipation grew along with his paranoia. He wondered if the bullets could penetrate the door. If they could, would they still be lethal on the other side? He stared at the peephole from his seat on the couch. Seconds became minutes until the red door began to turn blue around the edges. Marcus stared until the round brass ring shifted and shuddered with the infinitesimal movement of his eyes. He imagined a shadow quickly passed. It briefly blocked out the sunlight leaking through. He blinked his eyes hard and gave his head a shake before he resumed his vigil. The shadow crossed behind the door again. Or was it a different shadow? Somebody was out there. There were two or three of them in fact. Through that peephole ten feet away, he was certain he could see them jockeying for the best position to get the drop on him as soon they kicked in the door. Three? Did she really know how to hire a professional assassin let alone have the means to hire three?

Marcus' heart pounded almost visibly in his chest. His eyes locked onto the brushed metal handle. Was it moving? It was! Slowly, gradually the handle was moving down. Eyes widened. Pupils dilated. Breathing became a series of shallow rapid movements as Marcus, his hand trembling, slowly reached for the gun. As quietly as he could he pushed the clip back into the handle. He sharply drew breath through clenched teeth, cringing as it clicked. The sound, normally all but inaudible pealed like thunder, amplified a thousand fold by Marcus' anxiety. In three silent bounds, his heels never touched the floor. He closed the distance to the door and flattened himself against the wall. With his elbows locked, he pointed the gun at the floor. He passed his left hand under his right arm and grabbed the door handle. With a few quick breaths, he girded himself to face his would be executioners.

With an angry snarl, he wrenched the door open. It slammed, unimpeded, into the opposite wall. He turned and shoved the gun through the open door. He was even more disturbed by the sight that met his anxious eyes. Nothing. Nobody there. The scene before him was blank, devoid of humanity. It seemed empty of life itself. There was not so much as a scrawny squirrel or a ragged old crow perched in the leafless maple snag. Grey clouds had moved in. Rain was coming. For a long minute, Marcus stood there irresolute. Cold droplets of mist blew in his face and mingled with his sweat. Relief slowly displaced his fear as he realized the only thing out there was the wind-blown detritus of December, dead leaves and swirling maple keys. Thunder rumbled distantly. Nothing out of the ordinary, it rained almost every day this time of year

He became acutely aware of himself and quickly lowered the weapon before somebody saw him. After a nervous glance at the neighbors' houses, he put a hand into his tight grey tee shirt and used it to wipe his face dry. He ran this makeshift towel through his dusky bristles of hair and a smile burst from his mouth as he stepped back into the house.

"I'm going crazy," he murmured as the door clicked into place behind him. Peace was short lived as a cacophony of blaring music jolted Marcus' pounding heart anew. The phone was ringing

"Hello."

It was Gina. She spoke to him casually and sweetly. She inquired what he was doing. It was one of Marcus' foibles to open his mouth without speaking, cock his head slowly and return. He did this now, measuring his response before committing to it

"I was just sitting here thinking about you."

Gina cooed her appreciation of Marcus' devotion. He paced the floor and exchanged playful banter with his wife. He tucked the pistol into the front of his jeans and switched hands with the phone. He agreed to move the laundry to the drier and pick out something for dinner. Neither lover ever gave the slightest nuance of anger or suspicion. He was sure she was calling to see if he was dead yet. He wouldn't let her know he knew what she was up to. Not if I get you first, baby.

"I..." He stopped short. He remembered the taste of blood pouring out of his mouth the last time he said these words. He paused, silent

"I love you," he found the courage to articulate almost defiantly. Come and get me, bitch. After Gina reciprocated this ostensible affection, he dropped the phone on the couch and continued to pace the house.

Thunder erupted from the silence. It shook the very floor as sheets of sonorous rain began to pummel the house. Marcus' aimless patrol brought him to the kitchen where he stood staring out the square panes of the back door. The wind blew the rain in the direction he was facing so the storm door was spared all but a few stray drops. Marcus still could only see about twenty feet for the walls of water rolling across the muddy yard. He could just make out the shallow edge of the 'swimming pool'.

The swimming pool was an unfinished project. The cement was never poured. It was really only a mud hole now with a steep incline to a depth of ten feet. The ground was saturated, so that brown water filled the hole up to the crest of the incline. Marcus squinted through the grey curtains and saw the silhouette of a man creeping up to the walk. So preoccupied was he with the front door, he forgot they used the back door just as often. Somebody could have walked right in the back door and shot him in the back of the head while he was playing Special Forces at the front. He cursed his stupidity and continued to watch the shape advance. Marcus opened both doors and stood in the swirling mist ready with his hand resting on the gun in his pants.

Mr. Neely didn't know the weather here. With no umbrella, he tried to cover his head with his briefcase. Rain pounded his face regardless, and his glasses were spotted with fat drops. He tried to call out to the figure standing in the doorway. Through the rain, he could tell only that the figure was a man. He must be her husband

"... ... ing ...ina ...your --ife..." Marcus was sure the last word was 'wife'. Impossible to see through the rain, it was also impossible to hear anything clearly

"I have a message from your wife!" Marcus heard

Mr. Neely heard the clap of what he momentarily thought was thunder. So suddenly and inexplicably taken aback was he that he thought he must have been struck by lightning. Perhaps it was ill advised for him to reach into his jacket pocket, but how was he to know? He lost interest in whatever was in there and slowly withdrew. He coughed hard into his hand and stared aghast at blood. The sensation of being suddenly plunged head under water, the pressure, the fullness and stinging of the nasal sinus, now came over Mr. Neely as blood began to pour from his nostrils. He really couldn't comprehend what was happening to him. 'I've been shot' while so obvious, flash, bang, pain, blood, just couldn't be. The notion wouldn't register in his mind. He can't be dying! Why? Oh God! How did--Why? It made absolutely no sense. All that was left for him was impuissant confusion, desperate wild eyed fear, and death

Marcus didn't even consciously draw the weapon and before he realized what his hands had done, Mr. Neely was staggering backwards toward the pool. Marcus walked down the concrete steps into the raging downpour. He regarded Mr. Neely's terrified visage. He had dropped his briefcase. Rain continually diluted the blood from his face. His mouth was agape as he looked at his hands, at the hole in his chest and up at Marcus. He tried to speak, to ask this man for help, but his mouth just quivered wordlessly.

Marcus thought this was the last person he would ever suspect of being an assassin. He was wearing a brown plaid jacket with solid brown patches on the elbows. He was approaching sixty years old with a harmless, mild, balding, bespectacled appearance. His face had a look of someone horrified and appalled by the disastrous consequences of too small an offense.

"Why?" Mr. Neely managed to mouth silently. His vision began to tunnel. His hearing drowned out to a low ringing. What he could still see pulsed in hues of purple. He blinked repeatedly while he tried to remain standing but there was no improvement.

Marcus felt a sudden pang of remorse mixed with his own confusion. He wasn't sure what he should do now. Mr. Neely was groping at Marcus' arm. Marcus grasped him by the hand but it was no use. He was listing backwards. Marcus let him fall

Mr. Neely collapsed into the muddy slope of the swimming pool and slowly slid headfirst into the russet sludge. His eyes were dull and blank but his mouth still tried to form a plea for help as the cold brown mire flowed over and filled it. By degrees, his entire helpless form became entombed. Only the muddy toes of his shoes remained above to betray this convenient grave.