#14 – The Long Night

August 8th, 2011


Oswald GlendaleGod, she’s got great legs, he kept thinking to himself as she was sitting in an over-sized chair.  Her legs were crossed lightly at the ankles.  Her arms, slack-wristed, were hung languidly over the arms of the chair.  He snapped another picture, and then another.

He pulled the camera away from his face to regard her without the interference of the lens between them.  He loved her, that was for sure.  It burned in him.  He loved her.  And she would love him, too.  He had never found a more flawless face in all his life – and being a plastic surgeon he was expert at picking out flaws.  She was even unspoiled, as she had sheepishly admitted during their breakfast interview when he had asked if she’d ever been in love; she had said that she’d never been physical with a man.

No, she was perfect.  And not just physically, her perky sense and bright attitude were perfect as well.  How could one not fall madly in love with her the very instant they saw her?  He wondered.  He had.  His thoughts had been consumed by her since their first meeting, they had been amplified by the first touch and their future’s fate had been sealed the first time his lips graced her hand.

“Simply stunning,” he replied in an awed tone.  For her part he was certain that she thought he was talking about the clothes – which were the pretense for this photo shoot in the first place.

She smiled broadly, exposing perfect teeth framed by luscious lips; luscious lips that would soon be his.

“I think we’re finished here,” he said, as he flipped mindlessly through the pictures captured on the newly bought camera.

She jumped from the chair and approached him.  His flesh burned with lust as she laid a hand on his arm while she previewed the images on the camera’s small screen.  “Oh, they look wonderful,” she added.

“They look more than wonderful,” he said, “this is the start of a whole new future for us.”

She giggled beautifully, “what do you mean?” She asked with an innocent sound in her voice.

“I don’t want this…  article…  to be the end of our work together,” he replied smoothly.  The end game for his manoeuvres to this point had been clear to him.  “Let’s have a drink,” he added swiftly.  From within the bag he had brought with him he withdrew a bottle of chilled champagne and two flutes.

As he sent the popped cork flying into the air he watched as the hair that framed her face so perfectly swayed as she giggled.  He watched the way that the sides of her mouth turned up, creaselessly, into the smile that accompanied it.  He watched the rise and fall of her bosom in the outfit that she now wore which was, by far, the most flattering and revealing of any he’d seen her in so far.

She watched him as he poured; she looped her hair back behind her right ear and smiled at him.  “I never drink champagne,” she said softly, sweetly, perfectly.  “I hope it doesn’t go to my head.”

Kerstin WaterfordThe Rockwell was silent as they walked down the hall toward their respective apartments.  Their doors, hers and his, were opposite one another and offset by mere feet.  Frank’s came first but he continued the last two paces past his own door as Kerstin approached hers.

Neither said a word as she slipped the key into the lock and opened the door.  They entered silently, removed their shoes and stood only far enough into the apartment to let the door close between them and the hallway.

“I thought you might want some company,” Frank said quietly.

“Oh,” she replied as if she hadn’t noticed him there until then.  “Yeah, I guess,” she said, “I mean…  yeah.”

Those words hung in the air for minutes before either one moved.  They watched one another in the dim light that was cast through the windows from the street.  They had each forgotten to flip on a light and the tension that had built in the room made both of them aware that any movement made or any words spoken would send into motion a series of events that quite possibly neither was ready for.

Finally Kerstin spoke, “I…” her voice probably would have trailed off anyhow, but she never had a chance.  Frank’s lips met hers in a passionate fury and neither one of them could have cared less what she was about to say.  Her fingers snaked up under his shirt and soon she had pulled it off over his head; she caressed his body and kissed along his pronounced collar bone.

Frank slid up from her hips to her waist and then up along the sides of her torso, he gently plucked away at the buttons of her shirt as he continued to kiss a line from her ear down to her neck and then down further as her shirt was peeled away.  He stopped abruptly and pulled away, her shirt was spread open and his hands were once again on her waist.  He looked into her eyes and then down to left shoulder where a large purple bruise had formed.  She glanced briefly at the bruise and then back at him, he opened his mouth to speak.  “Don’t…” was all she said.

He didn’t.

His eyes locked on hers as he slowly leaned in and kissed the bruise, before continuing to kiss his way down her chest.

Sarah PriceSarah giggled as it happened again.  “Oh my goodness,” she said out loud, “it never stops tickling your nose.”

Oswald smiled, it was a dashing smile, and she couldn’t help but notice, “are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, very much,” she replied.  She felt on top of the world.  She had just finished a great photo shoot that was to accompany a great article that was written about her; for a fashion magazine.  She didn’t know how else she could feel.

He nodded, “good, I had hoped so.”  She twirled around in the outfit that she had been wearing since the photo shoot had ended.  It was a beautiful dress but she hadn’t thought about the fact that Oswald would remain after the pictures were finished being taken.  The outfit was starting to get uncomfortable – or, perhaps, she was just getting too exuberant for its design.

She watched him watch her twirl.  She liked that he was so captivated by her.  He was so handsome and kind to her.  He said all the nicest things and made her feel more special than anyone else had, ever.  She could tell that he was just the best kind of man.  Even her father hadn’t been as supportive.  Oh, he gave her every opportunity, but then he was critical of her work and of her designs.

Well, she thought as she brought the champagne flute to her lips again, obviously her father was wrong.

“You are dashing,” she said quite out of the blue as she landed rather roughly in the chair that they’d used as a prop for the photo shoot, she was feeling the effects of the alcohol.  “Dashing as all get out.”

Oswald chuckled, “thank you,” he said, “you are very lovely, Sarah.” He reached for her hand and she smiled as he held it.

“Thank you!” She said enthusiastically, “that’s nice to hear.”  She set down the champagne flute to free her other hand and hooked her hair behind her ear.

“Sarah, I’ve wanted to say that to you since the moment I first saw you…  but I didn’t want to scare you,” he added, still holding her hand.

She giggled and broke eye contact with him briefly, “oh well you shouldn’t worry about that,” she said as she reached across and laid her hand upon the hand that held hers, it took her two tries to make contact, her head was starting to swim.  “I like you very much.”

“And I like you.” He said, she thought she spied a look of almost-pain on his face, but she couldn’t be sure as her eyelids drew heavy.  “I like you very much, too.” she heard him say.

And then she was out cold.

Harry CustoneHarry Custone was sitting in his car outside the home of Senator Charles Taylor, R-Mass.  The good senator was in Washington and so the large Cambridge mansion was dark except for a light in what Harry knew to be the study.

Harry watched as the black van pulled into the driveway right on schedule.  He watched the men in their customary fedoras and black pinstripe suits climbed out of the vehicle and made their way to the front door of the house.

It was only a few minutes before they returned carrying the still form of Vivian Taylor.  They rolled her into the back of the van, climbed in and drove off as nonchalantly as if they had been picking up her dry cleaning.

It had cost him every favour that he was owed to get this job done but no one could disappear the wife of a senator better than these boys.  Where she was headed wasn’t exactly the sort of place where Vivian Taylor belonged, but he was confident that they would be able to keep her there long enough for Senator Taylor to learn his lesson for double crossing Harry’s boss, Oliver Jordan.

He picked up the disposable mobile phone from the centre console and dialled the number.  It rang twice before a familiar voice answered, “hello?”

“Charles?”  Harry asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer before continuing; “Senator Taylor,” he spoke in a low and gravelly voice, “Oliver Jordan wishes to express his sympathies at the disappearance of your wife.”

“What?”  The senator replied, “what are you talking about?!”  As he pulled the phone away from his ear he could hear the man’s voice on the other end of the line shouting with increasing panic.  As he drove away from the scene he tossed the phone from the car.

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