What do you want?
Feedback is my friend. Original short story. Yeehah.
It occurs to me that I am in a very, very bad position.
Duct taped to a chair in the basement of an abandoned office building, to be slightly more specific.
The scene is the usual, and fairly easy to imagine- one fluorescent light about eight feet above me, flickering cause it’s old and broken. Desks line one wall, some with drawers missing; random boxes of random files are stacked in random piles along the random walls and everything is just random, random, random. Fleetingly I wonder if anyone’s set foot in here since 1987. Judging from the water stains running down from the broken ceiling and the trackless dust all over everything I’d say that the last person in here had gravity defying bangs and legwarmers on. But maybe that’s just that Duran Duran poster over there talking.
Next you’ll be looking for the big, burly guys with vaguely threatening Brooklyn accents. I would be, too, except they don’t exist. Well, I’m sure they do, but they’re blowing someone else’s brains out right now. Somewhere over in Williamsburg, maybe, under the Bridge. Nice night out, probably. That lucky bastard gets to see the stars one last time before he gets his. Me, I get to see… An old office. A rotting tomb of corporate conglomeration, the final resting place of all the slack-jawed lackeys that ever tried to move up life’s ladder by getting balding middle aged men coffee.
Suddenly I feel very bitter.
That could have been me.
Except.
“So, you figure it out yet?”
Okay, so maybe there is a little bit of a Brooklyn accent there. But I’m not from around here- it might be Queens.
“Hmmm?” Sex personified presses her 10mm Glock a little bit harder into my jugular. If you’ve never felt your pulse beat against a barrel of cool metal that could kill you, let me tell you, it’s something of a head rush. Of course, this chick’s pouty lips aren’t helping.
“No.” I don’t know why I’m here. I have absolutely no clue. One minute I’m walking down the street; the next, bam, blindfolded in the back of a van with spray-painted windows. This would be great had it not been for the fact that I watched Aphrodite here load that gun and take the safety off before resting it against my neck.
“What do you want?” I ask her, stalling (I hope) for time.
She smirks, gets closer. I would lean back if I could, inch slowly away from her dangerous beauty, but the duct tape prevents that and I’m not sure that I want to.
ShesgettingclosernowshessittingonmylapandwhoahereyesareSOGREEN
“You know exactly what I want.”
The gun has moved; it’s trailing down my chest. Had this been a movie, I would have said oh-so-seductively “You want me, here, now, up against the wall.” As it is I am still uncertain of what she wants. The only thing I’m certain of at this point is that this whole scenario is giving me a hard on. I’d rather not have her know about it. Those are real bullets in that gun, after all, and my head isn’t the only place they can go.
Those eyes are incredible. The only color in the room. You can tell just how crazy she is by looking into them. They’re a very violent shade of green.
“No. I don’t know what you want.”
Her eyes narrow. It’s frightening.
“I want the diamonds, you idiot. Where are they?”
Diamonds?
“Diamonds?” It’s a sad, sad world when it’s all you can do to echo your own thoughts out loud.
Apparently she thinks so, too. Cause something just clicked and all of a sudden I’m a lot more aware of the gun in her hand then of the way her low-rise jeans cover her ass.
“Yes. The diamonds.” Her voice is clipped, impatient.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her mouth opens, but in place of words there’s a harsh, digital rendition of “Ode to Joy.” Her eyes close for a moment and she sighs. I’d be frustrated, too, I think. Interruption is at best a major annoyance.
She stands up, moves out to the edge of the circle of light. I hear her terse “What?” into the cell phone, but she’s facing away from me. That’s okay. I like the view from back here.
Jeans, dark blue and boot cut. Nice. Black muscle tank- she can pull it off without being butch. Nice. Long, dark hair falls to the middle of her back and where was I? Distracted. Diamonds… that’s a nice tattoo ya got there, sweetheart. I’ve seen that symbol before, and now I can guess who you belong to, and I know you’re talking to them although I can’t make out what you’re saying…
The cell phone gets replaced in her pocket and she runs her hand through her hair, agitated, before turning around.
We stare at each other for a few seconds. It’s very intense.
Finally she breaks the silence. Physically, not verbally. Her boots make thumping sounds on the carpet as she crosses back to me. Two seconds later she’s got a knife in her hand- from her boot, I suppose. This night has been a lesson in periphery- I’ve noticed more without looking away from her beautiful eyes. The knife is a nice one. Diamond sharp- diamonds again!- giver of a quick, painless death. It bears the same symbol as her lower back; that one that’s been in all the papers lately, the insignia of the latest hard-core underground organized crime association. Mafia. Gang. Whatever. Maybe a little bit of both.
I almost wonder how she wound up with them. But I know better than to ask.
One swift swipe and the duct tape loosens. She rips it away. Blood rushes back into my arms and it stings. She waits a few seconds before hauling me to my feet, still aiming the gun at me.
No fast moves, I say to myself. No fast moves… and I fall flat on my face. My legs have been asleep, can I get a little sympathy here?
She pulls me up, gentler this time.
“Walk,” she says, gesturing towards the stairs, and her voice isn’t gentle at all.
On the street the night is warm and still. An empty, for being in one of the busiest cities in the world. Abandoned and closed shipping warehouses. It’s a cliché, that’s true, but I like it. She puts the gun away and looks at me.
“Sorry,” she says.
“It’s okay. Business is business,” I reply.
She walks to her motorcycle, parked by a loading dock, and I follow her. “Look, I can’t take you out of here with me. Go down this street, take the second left, then the third right. That’ll get you to Furman Street… go left on Furman and that’ll get you to the bridge. After that, you’re on your own. It’s a nice area- Brooklyn Heights- no one should bother you.” Her hands twist through her hair, piling it on top of her head. She shrugs into a black leather jacket and picks up her helmet.
“Again, sorry. Fuck up in management- you know?” Her laugh is a little forced but still easy.
And for some reason I have to know. Before she rides away from me and out of my life.
“What do you want?” I ask her.
She looks at me, her expression unreadable, setting her helmet down on the seat. Her boots click twice on the asphalt and then she’s standing right in front of me.
“Diamonds,” she says, and kisses me. It’s quick, it’s hotter than I thought it would be, more urgent. She’ll burn herself up, kissing like that. Spontaneous human combustion, but I’m not running for a fire extinguisher.
“…you?”
“Huh?”
“What about you? What do you want?” And she’s looking at me again.
“You,” I say. “I want you.”
She laughs, kissing me again. Her hair is down again, my hands are in it and it feels like silk. She tastes like strawberries. Strawberries flambéed with brandy. I don’t know what that tastes like but it sounds good. Fiery. Mmmmm. She bites my lower lip and breaks away.
There’s no goodbye. Just a Look before she puts up her hair once more and pulls her helmet on. The visor is already down and tinted, so I can’t see her face anymore. Maybe I feel just a little safer for that. Maybe not.
The engine roars and the bike (a Yamaha that looks way too powerful for her to handle if I didn’t know better) roars down the street. No friendly wave of the hand as she turns the corner and disappears. Goodbye, No Name Goddess, I will never forget you, although I might want to. I start walking, out of Industry City and this gangster-movie nightmare and back into my own life.
What do you want? She had asked me, staring up at me with those hellfire green eyes.
What do I want? I laugh.
Give me blue eyes and minivans. Brown eyes and New Jersey, suburbs and nothing out of the ordinary.
Somewhere out in the night a motorcycle roars. Under a bridge someone dies. Take all my diamonds, Lord. I’m not cut out for this stuff.
It occurs to me that I am in a very, very bad position.
Duct taped to a chair in the basement of an abandoned office building, to be slightly more specific.
The scene is the usual, and fairly easy to imagine- one fluorescent light about eight feet above me, flickering cause it’s old and broken. Desks line one wall, some with drawers missing; random boxes of random files are stacked in random piles along the random walls and everything is just random, random, random. Fleetingly I wonder if anyone’s set foot in here since 1987. Judging from the water stains running down from the broken ceiling and the trackless dust all over everything I’d say that the last person in here had gravity defying bangs and legwarmers on. But maybe that’s just that Duran Duran poster over there talking.
Next you’ll be looking for the big, burly guys with vaguely threatening Brooklyn accents. I would be, too, except they don’t exist. Well, I’m sure they do, but they’re blowing someone else’s brains out right now. Somewhere over in Williamsburg, maybe, under the Bridge. Nice night out, probably. That lucky bastard gets to see the stars one last time before he gets his. Me, I get to see… An old office. A rotting tomb of corporate conglomeration, the final resting place of all the slack-jawed lackeys that ever tried to move up life’s ladder by getting balding middle aged men coffee.
Suddenly I feel very bitter.
That could have been me.
Except.
“So, you figure it out yet?”
Okay, so maybe there is a little bit of a Brooklyn accent there. But I’m not from around here- it might be Queens.
“Hmmm?” Sex personified presses her 10mm Glock a little bit harder into my jugular. If you’ve never felt your pulse beat against a barrel of cool metal that could kill you, let me tell you, it’s something of a head rush. Of course, this chick’s pouty lips aren’t helping.
“No.” I don’t know why I’m here. I have absolutely no clue. One minute I’m walking down the street; the next, bam, blindfolded in the back of a van with spray-painted windows. This would be great had it not been for the fact that I watched Aphrodite here load that gun and take the safety off before resting it against my neck.
“What do you want?” I ask her, stalling (I hope) for time.
She smirks, gets closer. I would lean back if I could, inch slowly away from her dangerous beauty, but the duct tape prevents that and I’m not sure that I want to.
ShesgettingclosernowshessittingonmylapandwhoahereyesareSOGREEN
“You know exactly what I want.”
The gun has moved; it’s trailing down my chest. Had this been a movie, I would have said oh-so-seductively “You want me, here, now, up against the wall.” As it is I am still uncertain of what she wants. The only thing I’m certain of at this point is that this whole scenario is giving me a hard on. I’d rather not have her know about it. Those are real bullets in that gun, after all, and my head isn’t the only place they can go.
Those eyes are incredible. The only color in the room. You can tell just how crazy she is by looking into them. They’re a very violent shade of green.
“No. I don’t know what you want.”
Her eyes narrow. It’s frightening.
“I want the diamonds, you idiot. Where are they?”
Diamonds?
“Diamonds?” It’s a sad, sad world when it’s all you can do to echo your own thoughts out loud.
Apparently she thinks so, too. Cause something just clicked and all of a sudden I’m a lot more aware of the gun in her hand then of the way her low-rise jeans cover her ass.
“Yes. The diamonds.” Her voice is clipped, impatient.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her mouth opens, but in place of words there’s a harsh, digital rendition of “Ode to Joy.” Her eyes close for a moment and she sighs. I’d be frustrated, too, I think. Interruption is at best a major annoyance.
She stands up, moves out to the edge of the circle of light. I hear her terse “What?” into the cell phone, but she’s facing away from me. That’s okay. I like the view from back here.
Jeans, dark blue and boot cut. Nice. Black muscle tank- she can pull it off without being butch. Nice. Long, dark hair falls to the middle of her back and where was I? Distracted. Diamonds… that’s a nice tattoo ya got there, sweetheart. I’ve seen that symbol before, and now I can guess who you belong to, and I know you’re talking to them although I can’t make out what you’re saying…
The cell phone gets replaced in her pocket and she runs her hand through her hair, agitated, before turning around.
We stare at each other for a few seconds. It’s very intense.
Finally she breaks the silence. Physically, not verbally. Her boots make thumping sounds on the carpet as she crosses back to me. Two seconds later she’s got a knife in her hand- from her boot, I suppose. This night has been a lesson in periphery- I’ve noticed more without looking away from her beautiful eyes. The knife is a nice one. Diamond sharp- diamonds again!- giver of a quick, painless death. It bears the same symbol as her lower back; that one that’s been in all the papers lately, the insignia of the latest hard-core underground organized crime association. Mafia. Gang. Whatever. Maybe a little bit of both.
I almost wonder how she wound up with them. But I know better than to ask.
One swift swipe and the duct tape loosens. She rips it away. Blood rushes back into my arms and it stings. She waits a few seconds before hauling me to my feet, still aiming the gun at me.
No fast moves, I say to myself. No fast moves… and I fall flat on my face. My legs have been asleep, can I get a little sympathy here?
She pulls me up, gentler this time.
“Walk,” she says, gesturing towards the stairs, and her voice isn’t gentle at all.
On the street the night is warm and still. An empty, for being in one of the busiest cities in the world. Abandoned and closed shipping warehouses. It’s a cliché, that’s true, but I like it. She puts the gun away and looks at me.
“Sorry,” she says.
“It’s okay. Business is business,” I reply.
She walks to her motorcycle, parked by a loading dock, and I follow her. “Look, I can’t take you out of here with me. Go down this street, take the second left, then the third right. That’ll get you to Furman Street… go left on Furman and that’ll get you to the bridge. After that, you’re on your own. It’s a nice area- Brooklyn Heights- no one should bother you.” Her hands twist through her hair, piling it on top of her head. She shrugs into a black leather jacket and picks up her helmet.
“Again, sorry. Fuck up in management- you know?” Her laugh is a little forced but still easy.
And for some reason I have to know. Before she rides away from me and out of my life.
“What do you want?” I ask her.
She looks at me, her expression unreadable, setting her helmet down on the seat. Her boots click twice on the asphalt and then she’s standing right in front of me.
“Diamonds,” she says, and kisses me. It’s quick, it’s hotter than I thought it would be, more urgent. She’ll burn herself up, kissing like that. Spontaneous human combustion, but I’m not running for a fire extinguisher.
“…you?”
“Huh?”
“What about you? What do you want?” And she’s looking at me again.
“You,” I say. “I want you.”
She laughs, kissing me again. Her hair is down again, my hands are in it and it feels like silk. She tastes like strawberries. Strawberries flambéed with brandy. I don’t know what that tastes like but it sounds good. Fiery. Mmmmm. She bites my lower lip and breaks away.
There’s no goodbye. Just a Look before she puts up her hair once more and pulls her helmet on. The visor is already down and tinted, so I can’t see her face anymore. Maybe I feel just a little safer for that. Maybe not.
The engine roars and the bike (a Yamaha that looks way too powerful for her to handle if I didn’t know better) roars down the street. No friendly wave of the hand as she turns the corner and disappears. Goodbye, No Name Goddess, I will never forget you, although I might want to. I start walking, out of Industry City and this gangster-movie nightmare and back into my own life.
What do you want? She had asked me, staring up at me with those hellfire green eyes.
What do I want? I laugh.
Give me blue eyes and minivans. Brown eyes and New Jersey, suburbs and nothing out of the ordinary.
Somewhere out in the night a motorcycle roars. Under a bridge someone dies. Take all my diamonds, Lord. I’m not cut out for this stuff.