GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  With remarkable attention to detail, she peeled apart the bandage packaging and then curled the bandage around my finger. Our heads were only inches apart. I could see the slight wave to her hair, a flawless complexion on her tanned face, not an ounce of makeup. She did have a single mole on her right temple, which added to her aura. She was, indeed, The Natural. But there was something else about her, a motherly kindness.

  I realized we'd spent fifteen minutes chatting about nothing, tending to plants, the harmless cut on my finger. Perhaps she appreciated the lack of drama and confrontation, an escape from the tormented reality of her daily life.

  I debated how to allow my mind, my heart to address the tough topic. We all liked to escape reality on occasion, but I knew more than most that if you didn't deal with it, the memory would crawl up the back of your throat and explode into your senses, cratering your emotional foundation.

  I opened my mouth, but she spoke first, with her eyes still inspecting my finger.

  “I remember you on that night. The night my brother, Gustavo...perished.” Her accented voice was distinct but softer now.

  “I'm sorry you had to experience that.”

  “I'm only sorry Gustavo will not live the life he deserved and so dearly enjoyed.”

  I licked my lips.

  “I could see your forgiving eyes, wanting to reach out and help this frantic woman. Me.” She brought her hand to her chest.

  Perspiration gathered on the back of my neck. “But you ran. I chased after you, hoping I could reach you and share my heartache, hoping that would help in some way. Looking back, I know that was foolish of me. Maybe even selfish.”

  She turned and put a finger to my lips. “No, no, no. You are kind, that I could see. And now, here, I can feel it.”

  My body leaned forward just a couple of inches. I wanted to kiss her, but it wasn't right by her, maybe by me.

  “He loved life in this free land, so much opportunity, so many paths to happiness. But Gustavo was always happy, even before we moved to the States as young, naïve teenagers.” Her eyes drifted off.

  “You two were close, huh?”

  “We were all we had. When we moved to this area, we were on top of the world. Unlike most kids, we dreamed of learning, being in school, even doing homework,” she said, peering up from her five-four frame. “We were each other's biggest fans, both of us on the track and field team. That big brute, he could really spin the discus.“

  A deep breath, then a warm smile crossed her lips.

  A phone rang from the behind the curtain. She touched my wrist then held up a finger. “Please, just one second.”

  I paused, wondering what all of this meant, knowing much of the story was still inside her pretty little mind.

  I could hear Camila speak in her native Brazilian tongue, Portuguese. I couldn't speak the language, but using my limited Spanish knowledge, I tried to interpret a discussion that sounded one-sided—she spoke with such speed and intensity, I didn't have a prayer. Suddenly, her voice went silent. I thought back, and I'm pretty sure I heard, "Hola, madre," at the onset of her conversation. A full minute passed, and I considered calling out for her.

  Camila emerged, her eyes not meeting mine.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Thank you for caring, but I am doing just fine. Just dealing with the aftermath of Gustavo's death.”

  I searched for a way to re-engage her memories.

  “So, your brother was a champion discus thrower. And yourself?” I recalled what Ji had shared, but I hoped Camila would open up and share more.

  “Hurdles, 110 and 300. I loved the competition, the feeling of crossing the finish line first, then looking back and seeing every hurdle still standing.”

  I smiled and shook my head.

  “I was fortunate enough to qualify for a scholarship at Stanford, while Gustavo was admitted into the best culinary school on the West Coast. It was his calling. He was such a talent. We should all be so lucky to find our passion at such a young age.”

  “So true.”

  Strange chirping noises interrupted the flow of our conversation, emanating from the back room. I looked over her shoulder as the noises morphed into rhythmic beeping sounds, a couple of different pitches. I pointed a finger and opened my mouth to ask the obvious question.

  “It's nothing. Just give me a second.” She disappeared behind the curtain, like the Wizard of Oz.

  I tried to catch another glimpse, leaning to my left, and I think I saw a couple of blinking lights. I listened intently and might have heard the flick of a light switch then what sounded like a stream of key tapping, almost too fast to be human.

  Like a magician, she quickly reappeared in the front area, carrying two bottles of water. She offered me one. I didn't realize how thirsty I was. I cracked the seal and chugged a third of the bottle without uttering word.

  “Oh, thanks,” I said.

  She giggled and wiped her own mouth.

  An engine growled in rhythmic beats just outside her shop, and our heads swiveled in that direction. I wondered if Harley Man had returned. But the noise came from a vintage Corvette sitting along the curb, the hood up and two men huddled so close to the engine block they could have kissed it. Maybe they wanted to, who knew?

  “Did he hurt you?”

  She knew whom I was talking about.

  “No, of course not. Franco could not harm me, would not harm me.” Something about her statement seemed hollow, either her tone or the way she was trying to convince me of something that wasn't true. But she said it, and I wasn't in a place to question her integrity.

  “Good, it just seemed from where I was standing that...Franco was a little pissed.”

  “Yes, pissed. We were both pissed. We used to know each other, work together. He's just one of those guys who brings out the worst in me.” Her adorable mouth squeezed shut, like she'd regretted the words that just escaped her lips.

  I wasn't sure what "know each other, work together" really meant. It was part of the female language that guys like me could not easily decipher, although I had my theories. From what Ji had relayed to me, Camila and Franco most likely worked at Facebook together. Was there more to their relationship?

  “Can we see each other again?” I said without giving myself enough time to not ask.

  Her eyes shot open, and she glanced at me, then away again. She swept a few locks of blond hair off to the side of her face, which appeared a bit more stressed. Does she feel cornered by my question?

  “You are so nice, kind...I don't even know your name.”

  “Michael. Michael Doyle. Nice to meet you.” I extended a hand. She reciprocated, a silly smile now on her face. I took her hand, and without any provocation, leaned down and kissed the top of it.

  “Very charming, Michael Doyle, the knight.” She nodded, her long eyelashes closing for a brief second. Then she took in a deep breath.

  “I have a lot going on in my life. I...I enjoy talking with you. It's easy, like an ocean breeze.”

  I grabbed both of her hands.

  “Like an ocean breeze.” I had to repeat the words that felt like a real connection with another woman, finally.

  She pushed away. “Look, I don't know how to say this.”

  “Is it the Harley man, Franco?”

  “I have obligations, and they won't let me stop until I reach my goal,” she responded cryptically.

  I tilted my head and narrowed my eyes, trying to understand what she meant.

  Ding dong.

  Before I could respond, I turned to the door half expecting Ms. Chen, or a customer just like her, to engage Camila in a long, personal story. Instead, I saw two men in blue removing their hats.

  “Michael Doyle?”

  “Yes.” My arms dropped to my sides.

  “Stand away from the lady and put your hands on the counter where we can see them,” said one of the cops, directing me with one hand, his other hand perched on his sidearm. The pair looked like identic
al twins, both a shade under six feet, wearing gold-rimmed sunglasses, with brown hair that was encased with gel, or hairspray, or Super Glue.

  “What are you talking about? I'm just talking to her. What could be the problem?”

  “We do not want to ask a second time, nor do we want this to get physical,” said the other twin. “Do as we say. Now.“

  “What the fuck?” I said out loud, wishing I hadn't.

  I turned and leaned against the counter. One of the twins searched me, starting down at my ankles, moving his hands up my legs, then thighs...aggressively.

  “Whoa!” I said when he got too close for comfort.

  The cop finished the search and said, "All clear." He grabbed one arm and yanked it behind my back, sliding on a cuff and locking it; then he repeated the process with my other arm.

  I shook my head in disgrace and disgust. Had the world literally gone mad? I heard them muttering some shit about Miranda this, Miranda that, but I was in no mood. I looked up and Camila stared at me. What was she thinking?

  I'm sorry, I mouthed to her.

  She shut her eyes and pursed her lips.

  They opened the door and led me to a patrol car. Just as they put their hand on my head, a motorcycle shot out of a cannon, blowing by us going at least fifty. The twins did nothing. I saw the red helmet and Harley and knew it was Franco.

  He rocketed down the street, looked my direction, and shot me the finger.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Today

  I awoke to a blackout, and for just a moment, it felt like I'd been time-warped back to the alley, when darkness equated an unconscious mind screaming to be heard before I reached a more permanent state—perhaps the end of my life.

  I took in a breath, and I heard myself exhale, which was a good sign. But my chest felt heavy, like a weight was keeping my lungs from expanding. I ran through all the injuries I'd suffered in the last thirty-six hours, and I was trying to figure out how my lungs could have been damaged. The doctors never checked out my ribs, mainly because I didn't complain about them. They were sore, and I thought I saw a bruise in the vicinity last night. It was possible the kick by the man wearing the brown boot had broken a rib, which in turn had nicked a lung.

  The weight seemed to spread to my shoulders then my arms. A few seconds later, my legs felt heavy. Was this the early sign of a heart attack, given all the stress I'd put myself through lately? I was closer to forty than thirty. I closed my eyes and tried to calm my nerves.

  I must be in some type of dream state, where I could think clearly but not to the point of being conscious. I had to wake myself up. I focused and tried to raise my arms, wiggle, anything.

  Finally, I yelled out. "Ahh!" I flipped to the right and freed myself from most of the weight on me. I realized my turban was covering my eyes, and I felt a knee jabbing my back.

  “What the hell?” I turned back over and saw Andi with some type of green shit caked under her eyes, drooling on her pillow. She smelled like cucumbers. Wait, that's my pillow, in my bed.

  I poked the bear.

  “Huh?” She sounded groggy and scrunched her nose.

  “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.” I nudged her shoulder while noticing her left arm and leg had been draped over my body—the heart attack.

  “Hello, this isn't a dream, and I'm not Zac Efron.” At least I could find a bit of humor in this awkward situation.

  Her eyes opened slowly, and she turned her head to get her bearings.

  “What...how...why?”

  “I have the same questions. You're in my bed, so I thought you'd actually have the answers.”

  She stood up and wiped her eyes, a long, green University of North Texas T-shirt covering just enough of her to be decent in a public setting. And I considered this to be a public setting.

  “Michael Doyle, what kind of shit did you pull last night?”

  “What are you talking about? I barely recall checking in to this hotel and my head softly hitting the pillow.”

  “Well, how do you explain me being in your bed?” Her hands were now anchored to her hips, her puffy eyes narrowed.

  “Just because I'm a guy doesn't mean I lured you into my bed. Does the name Zac Efron mean anything to you?”

  She looked away briefly, quizzing herself apparently.

  “Okay, no. Don't go there.” She swung her finger in front of me.

  I touched my head, and I could feel half my bandaging had unraveled.

  “Do you need my help?” she asked with half-hearted conviction.

  “I'm capable. I just need to look in the mirror, like tying a tie.” I swung the bed covering off, and for a half-second, silence engulfed the room. We both stared at my penis, which was exposed and not in a restful state.

  “Oh my God!” I yelled out, embarrassed beyond belief.

  “Michael Doyle, you did not just do that. Tell me you didn't.” She put her hand over her face and marched to the bathroom.

  After covering back up, I proceeded to place a pillow over my head. How the hell do I get myself in these predicaments?

  “Can you throw me my clothes?” My voice was muffled, but I didn't want to remove my shield. If I could hide my face, maybe I could replay the last ten minutes. But what about the last ten hours? That, I had no memory of—again.

  She didn't hear me. “I said, can you toss me my clothes?”

  “Michael.” She was right next to me.

  I removed the pillow.

  She wasted no time in tossing a bucket of melted ice water on my face and neck.

  I jerked left and right and screamed out. "What the hell, Andi? Have you completely lost it?" Covers went this way and that.

  “What?” She scurried backward, falling into the adjoining bed. “Will you please cover your little missile? Damn thing keeps pointing at me.“

  “Will you please?“ I said calmly.

  “What?” She asked like she had no clue.

  “Don't say another word and turn around. I can then pick up my clothes, and dignity, and go to the bathroom.”

  She flipped around, and I jumped out of bed, looking everywhere, still wondering why my appendage had decided to put on a show at this exact moment. “Where are my clothes?”

  “I think I saw something by the TV.” She flicked a wayward wrist.

  As I shuffled into the bathroom, I heard her yell out again. “You've got some explaining to do.”

  “Likewise. You were in my bed, regardless of how I was dressed.” I washed my face, trying to clear my mind of all the drama, real or imagined.

  “Can you throw me a rag?” she called out.

  “Only if you admit that I didn't lure you into my bed.”

  I heard a huff. “Okay, just throw me a rag so I can wipe off my overnight face mask.”

  Without looking, I whipped a wet rag around the corner.

  Moments later, I walked out wearing jeans and a T-shirt. She had also slipped on a pair of jeans, molded to her shape, mostly lean but a few emerging curves. Her brown eyes looked up at me. She held up a brochure promoting a horror flick on one of the hotel channels.

  “I think I remember watching a movie last night. I guess I got scared in the middle of the night.” Her lower lip pushed out. It would have been cute had she not put me on the defensive.

  “Really?”

  “Well, what's your excuse?” she asked.

  “Dreams are a great thing apparently,” I said, releasing a smile. “Just wish I could remember the dream.“

  She started laughing, a little giggle at first, then it turned into deep laugh with tears spilling from her eyes. It was contagious, and I joined in, although I was laughing more at the impromptu cameo appearance of my...missile. Maybe she was as well.

  “Whew,” we said in tandem, then looked at each other.

  She held out her hand. “Truce? I'm sorry.”

  “Me too.” Just as I extended my hand, she jerked her hand back and brushed the side of her head.

  I tilted my head an
d said, “Smooth.”

  “Just reminding you how much quicker I am.” She winked at me.

  I shrugged and released a single chuckle, thinking Andi was possibly the most competitive girl I'd been around—and bordering on the cockiest.

  I buried a hand in my jeans pocket and pulled out a plug adaptor, white, rectangular.

  “What's that?”

  “Our hotel invader over at the Fairmont dropped it on the carpet when we apparently scared the shit out of him,” I said. “I scooped it up before we packed our things and switched hotels.“

  I glanced out of our seventh-floor window of the InterContinental Mark Hopkins and saw the stone facade of the Fairmont directly across the street. Three flags flapped in what appeared to be a surly wind. Thinking back to the previous day, I wasn't sure if we were lucky, stupid, or naïve. Maybe all of the above.

  After realizing the man I'd chased wouldn't simply reappear on the staircase, we had trudged back to the room and discussed possible motivations for our unexpected visitor. Could it have been a random misunderstanding? That was what I normally would have thought. But the last few weeks proved to be anything but normal for a guy who'd been living a seemingly mundane existence a month ago. Go to job, work out, sleep, eat, and repeat cycle—until that night in the piano bar at the Fairmount.

  We also knew the man could have been connected to the people who'd assaulted me. While neither Andi nor I were the types to back off, we also didn't want to invite danger into our lives. So we took the prudent route.

  “My bank account says we should probably head back to my apartment,” I said as we stuffed clothes and accoutrements into our bags.

  “They know where you live. They know you were here.” She raised an eyebrow.

  I inhaled a breath and felt pressure against my ribs, recalling the beating I'd received, the man in the red sweater with the accent, the sick temper, and the unworldly glass eye.