No Love for the Wicked

by Tiana Laveen

  “That’s okay. It’s just all right.” He glanced back down at the various choices, then looked back into her eyes. His handsomeness wasn’t compromised by his evil. A rather unfortunate trick from Mother Nature. “Do you like this perfume?” His brow rose as he held up the bottle.

  “It’s not my favorite.”

  “Which one is your favorite?” She couldn’t help but glare at him, yet remaining quiet was the only power she had at that moment. Depriving him of her tongue. “Which. One. Is. Your. Favorite?”

  She could feel her temperature rise as she relocated to the other side of the perfume display area, and grabbed another bottle. Making her way to him once more, she looked about, hoping a potential customer would arrive and crush this situation by ratting off a barrage of queries and forcing him to vacate. This man, for now the second time, had set off no alarms within her to warn her of his arrival. How could this be? Her usual sense of danger had failed her. Twice. When she handed him the bottle, he quickly grasped her hand before she could pull away.

  “Let go of me,” she said between gritted teeth.

  With a haunting smile, he allowed her hand to slip away, but not before christening it with a kiss. When his soft lips rested against her trembling hand, her entire body jolted. From head to toe, she was a temple of pure electricity, a powerful current flowed through her from his mere touch. She saw flashes of light, then darkness, and her head spun. Was it his light she saw? Was it his darkness she was now knee deep in? Her gut clenched with angel dust snorting butterflies, knotted anxiety tangled into a ball to be fed upon. The butterflies did a mean, drunken and high dance within her core. She felt high, too, with a sense of elation. Then devastation. His mere aura twisted her around and around.

  She rested against the counter for support, feeling light-headed, just as she’d had when he’d called while she was making dinner several evenings prior. Bracing herself, she tried with all of her might to pretend everything was fine. She had to. It was rare to meet someone like Angelo. There were horrendous souls all over New York and the entire world for that matter, but this man was a different breed. He was the lowest of the low, a king in depraved places, the most despicable of his kind. A bottle of poison with a pretty gold label. One hint of fear, and he had you. You became prey, and he’d hunt and hurt you over and over again, until he grew bored of you.

  He took the perfume bottle, and repeated the same routine. Stretching his long arm out, he sprayed it away from himself, then inhaled the air.

  “Christian Dior.” He obviously knew his perfumes. He hadn’t even read the label. “Very nice. Do you own a bottle?”

  She crossed her arms. “No.”

  “But you like it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why don’t you own a bottle?”

  “It’s expensive.”

  “Yeah… but maybe you don’t have any place to wear it. Maybe no one worth your attention has asked you out and taken you to some swanky restaurant on 5th Avenue, or treated ya to Henry’s Steakhouse on 6th Avenue for lunch. It’s obvious to me, nobody worth your time has let you have a shopping spree… buy anything your damn heart desires. I think you’d look choice in a Winter white fox stole.”

  She blinked a few times as she mulled a response, then smiled wearily at a customer in the gap perusing a few purses. Reluctantly turning back in his direction, she was surprised to see he wasn’t glaring at her. Instead, he was looking back down at the counter, as if he were still shopping. Interested in anything other than her.

  “I don’t need to have a man, or a date of any sort, as an excuse to smell nice. I’m enough.” He stood straight to his full height of about six foot five or six, as if the wickedness within him had awakened from a slumber and was ready to party. His full pink lips curled at her remarks, and his eyes darkened. He casually drew out his leather wallet and began to pull out large sums of money, one crisp fifty-dollar bill after the other, and laying them on the counter.

  “I’m going to buy you this perfume. I’m going to come over tonight and get a reading, too.”

  A dark aura surrounded him. Death in his heart…

  “I don’t want the perfume.” The heat of anger spread through her chest, rising quickly to her face. “I don’t want you coming to my apartment, either, and I’m not reading for you.” He picked up the box that the bottle had been in, checked the price, then placed another fifty-dollar bill down.

  “I didn’t ask you what you wanted. I’m telling you what I’m getting.” He grabbed his hat, placed it on his head, and adjusted it just so. “I can be out of your hair, blazin’ the streets, if you cool it. Now, be smart, baby. Come out from behind there.” He motioned for her to step towards him.

  She glared at him, hating every cell in his body, every strand of black hair on his head, every diamond and brimstone glint in his eye. Her limbs stiffened. She turned to concrete, refusing to budge. “Don’t make me repeat myself.” He spoke with a smile, which made it all the worse. This maniac is a predator. This man has no reason to not be everything I was told he is, just to spare me. How did I get in this mess? She stepped out from behind the counter and he slid his arm around her waist, bringing her flush against him.

  She forced herself to not react, and briefly closed her eyes. His scent intoxicated her. His natural aroma, aftershave, and cologne blended together, creating a poison – a horridly beautiful love spell. He smelled like the best day of her life, filled with the warmth of the pleasing sun and the cool, watchful eye of the moon. When she regarded him again, she swallowed her own soul – anything to protect it from this swine. The blackness in his eyes was the razor sharp hurt of unanswered prayers. His eyes bared the wistfulness, hazard, and anguish of his very being. An angry sea raged inside him, and no one could stop the surge. He only invited those who could not swim. Then, he laughed when they drowned. Warm breath curled against her ear as he leaned in close, and began to speak…

  “Let me make something crystal fuckin’ clear, lady.” She could feel his dick pressed against her… hard and long. His words and cock threatened her, and he was acting just like a good demon should. He tightened his grip on her, fingers pressing into the small of her back, securing to her to his unbreakable, inflexible form. Borderline painful. She had to use all of her strength to not to pretend she didn’t like it… to imagine she didn’t feel her panties beginning to marinate with the first drops of arousal. Her reaction confused her; how could she be turned on by such a person? He was everything she avoided, everything she deemed crooked and cruel.

  “I don’t want any problems,” she managed. Perhaps a softer approach would work.

  “And I don’t intend to give you any if you play nice. You’ll get a generous tip for a reading tonight. I’ll pay you well, then I’ll go away. As an extra bonus, you get the perfume, too.” He picked up the bottle from the counter with his free hand and waved it before placing it back down, as if it were some carrot on a stick. “That’s the perfume you’ll spray on your neck when you’re alone with no fella, since according to you, you don’t need one, right?” He tossed her a toothy grin. “You believe your potions, candles, and all that goofy shit you’ve got at home can replace what you feel right now? Are you fucking kidding me?

  “Nothin’ can replace this, baby. Not now, not ever. Come on… let loose.” He stared into her eyes, his pupils dilated, as if a flashlight were shining right upon them.

  He’s crazy. He’s out of his mind. The eyes always told the truth. The dark curtain of his long lashes did nothing to soften the blow of his beauty and wickedness.

  “I can feel your heart beating. It’s so fast, like a jet engine taking off over and over. I can smell the heat, fear, and desire comin’ off your body like steam. Nothin’ can replace a hard muscle against your womanly curves. So, go on. Enjoy the perfume. You’ll lie in bed, feeling sexy because you smell so damn good with your favorite scented concoction rubbed all over your skin. I want you to do what you do behind closed doors when you get
home after a long day on your feet: Slip your finger in that tight, wet hair pie of yours, and fuck yourself.”

  She writhed in his grasp, trying to break their embrace. It was impossible. He kept her secure with only one arm. What pain could he inflict with the other? He felt like bricks and stone. Muscle and calcified bone. He was nothing but strength in the flesh. It was impossible to be that hard to the touch, and yet, that was him.

  She settled down, counting the seconds, praying for release.

  “Stop it. I’m at work. Don’t talk to me like this.” She knew she sounded pitiful, but she had to try.

  He yanked her chin up, forcing her to look directly into his eyes.

  “I don’t give a shit if you’re in St. Peter’s Basilica in the middle of a prayer. I’ll say what I want. Next time you play with that snug slit between your fuckin’ thighs, Andrea, and selfishly keep all that fine trim to yourself, I want you to think of me. And when you cum, just know this: It’s me setting you free.”

  He released her and pushed her away. Hard. The look in his eyes brimmed with the hatred of a thousand behemoths, as if she were the worst person in the world to ever cross his path. How ironic. His eyes were on fire with black and light blue flames. His inner depth was tattooed with nothing but scorn.

  She ran her hand along her collar bone, resisting the urge to curse. To scream. He hadn’t done anything she could explain in words to any person. How could this make any sense? His threats were veiled like widows at funerals, his words guarded, teetering the line of a promise to destroy. He wouldn’t do anything, would he? She was in public. Her supervisor was mere feet away.

  …Sure he would. His reputation spoke for itself.

  “I’ll see you tonight, and I suggest you be there. Oh, and chill out. I’m a lady killer, but I don’t kill ladies. Catch ya on the flipside…”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Let’s Get Down to Business

  Step 5: Never mix business with pleasure.

  While he listened to Michael Jackson’s, ‘I Can’t Help It,’ Andrea studied him, her gaze fixed on his. She must dread him. Most did. He slipped off his black jacket and set it across the arm of her couch before making his way to her table, one hand in his pocket. He sat in the same spot his grandmother had been weeks prior.

  The window was half way open. Someone was blasting ‘How Long Has This Been Going On,’ by Ace. People walked about outside. A guy with a ball started spinning around. He was tall with a perfect afro. Angelo sniffed the air. It smelled like rain was on the way. He loved the rain, especially the peculiar scent of wet asphalt.

  The woman had her back turned to him as she looked inside a box. He wondered if she had a weapon stashed in there. If so, he’d come prepared.

  She never said a word. Pouting perhaps, or maybe trying to figure out if she could shoot him dead before he had a chance to blink. His eyes wandered down to her ass. Just then, she turned around and faced him, still flitting through the box. She sported a pair of tight denim jeans and a hunter green shirt with little white flowers, and ruffles about the collar and sleeves. Her thick black curls were pulled away from her face with a yellow handkerchief. Beautiful.

  She lit a couple of black candles, stealing peeks at him from the corner of her eye.

  “What are the candles for?”

  “To banish evil and protect me from negativity.”

  “Hmm.” He stroked his chin. “Maybe you should’ve lit them before I arrived.” She didn’t seem to enjoy his sense of humor, which made it all the funnier in his eyes.

  “Don’t try anything. I have a knife,” she warned as she darted about.

  All he could do was laugh.

  “That’s fuckin’ delightful. A pebble threatening a mountain. Aren’t you gonna offer me anything to drink?”

  “I’m all out of spit.”

  He sneered, then chuckled, shaking his head. He steepled his hands as he observed her doing her witchy little chores. Collecting the tricks of her trade.

  “Your smart mouth is startin’ to make me smile. At least when you hurl insults, it’s funny. I’m gettin’ a kick out of it.” She placed some sort of bronze rod on the table. As she retreated again, he called out to her. “Bend down and let me smell your neck.” He motioned for her to come closer, while she sucked her teeth as if a piece of gristle were wedged between them.

  “No. You don’t get to continue the bullshit you pulled at my job.” He licked his lower lip, amused by her so. “You’re on my turf now, and I will—”

  “Your turf, huh?” He looked around, then back at her. “You own the building?”

  “I will stab, scream, fight and bite! That’s a promise,” she continued, ignoring his jab, her hands fisted at her sides. “You took advantage of the fact that any negative attention drawn to me at that moment could get me fired.”

  “Well, a man must do what a man must do, foxy lady, and if you got fired, I would support you until you got another job, because that’s just the type of motherfucker I am. And let me tell you somethin’, Andrea.” He pointed at her, wanting to drive his point home. “Fuck your job. They don’t pay you enough, but we can get back to that later. It’s not about you being at work; it’s about me coming to you with a proposition. You would’ve never let me into your home without that encounter.” She pursed her lips. “I tried calling you, and you decided that wasn’t going to happen, either, so don’t fault a wolf for trying to find another way to get that deer runnin’ loose.”

  “I’m not a deer.”

  “Look, Bambi, if I don’t believe that I can climb the mountain, be the mountain, move the mountain, and inspire the pebble to believe she can take me on with just one wink and a well-timed hello, then I’m not a man at all.” He tossed her a wink. “I’ve got you so comfortable right now that you think your little daggers can penetrate me. That’s intentional. You’re mouthing off to a specialized cutthroat. I’m an expert, ya dig? And I have not lifted ONE. FUCKING. FINGER. TO. YOU.” He pounded his finger onto the table. “You can make fun and joke with me. In fact, I encourage it. I want you to feel comfortable because you’re right, this is your turf, your home. I need for you to feel okay around me because I want something from you. I need you to feel all right, in spite of who I am.”

  “You speak like a pimp. There are a few in my family and I know how this goes, the manipulation.”

  “You can call it what you want. I don’t come from a family of pimps. That’s not our sauce. I come from a family of robbers, cold-blooded murderers, psychopaths, drunks, proud immigrants, hard-workin’ squares, and criminally minded bastards you wouldn’t want to walk past in the light of day with fifty cops surroundin’ ya, let alone on a Saturday night… so don’t stand there and tell me what you think I’m doing, saying, or mean. The words I speak are legit. I’m solid as a rock.”

  They looked at one another, and though she was a bit difficult to read, she seemed completely taken aback by his words.

  “The point is, Mr. Ferrari, you knew I couldn’t react the way I would’ve liked to because I was at my job. I could not respond the way you deserved. You told me you would get your reading, then be out of my hair. That’s exactly what you said. I expect you to keep your word, especially since you claim to be solid.” She sauntered off, then quickly returned with two dark feathers.

  “I did say that.” He nodded. “Did you bring the perfume home like I told you?” She didn’t answer. As she started to walk back away from him, he grabbed her wrist. She winced and seethed as he brought it to his nose. He inhaled … “Mmmm… you smell mighty fine. You brought your present home. Good for you.”

  “Did I really have a choice?” She yanked herself away and marched back into her kitchen, turning on the faucet. The spigot screamed then juddered, and a burst of water crashed through, filling the basin.

  “There’s always a choice, Andrea. You just chose the best option.”

  “Yeah, the best option according to you, and that means nothin’. Every dollar in your po
cket is soaked in blood. I didn’t want you to buy me the perfume, I don’t want you to buy me anything. I said it then; I’m saying it now. I want no part of it.”

  “Every dollar you earn from workin’ that plantation field of yours as you stand on linoleum floors in B. Altman and Company, helping rich, frumpy broads find something to make their husband wanna fuck them again is blood money, too.”

  She glared at him, then huffed, as if what he said were the ramblings of a madman.

  “You don’t believe me? Who the hell do you think is makin’ all that perfume, Andrea? Some perfume wizard? It’s not just chemists. That’s only the first step. Who is standin’ in the hot warehouses boxing that shit up, huh? Wrappin’ it just so? You think those laborers are making big bucks punchin’ that clock? They get paid pennies on the dollar, even less after Uncle Sam gets his big, fat juicy cut. The people at the top get the majority of the profit while everyone else, who does all the work, gets scraps. It’s modern-day slave labor.”

  She started to straighten up her place, readjusting the placement of things here and there. She did everything but the reading.

  “You’re the final step, the last face seen after the delivery man has pulled up with that truck and stocked your shelves. They stick a pretty girl behind a glass counter, and now, she’s fallen for the ruses, believing she’s better than everyone else.” He didn’t miss how she slowed her pace and turned slightly away, avoiding eye contact. He was getting to her. His words were doing something ugly, worming their way inside, and he liked it. She’d never admit it. He didn’t need her to acknowledge that what he said was true. The truth hurt, and he was the king of pain.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She picked up a piece of paper and tossed it in the trash.