The Idea

Chapter 4 

Bowen

   Flaming red hair flies past the front window of the restaurant, she’s late. I don’t normally greet my employees at the door but Chantel called and said she was running at least an hour late from a water leak in her apartment, so now I have to deal with this bullshit. 

  The front door swings open and Harley strides in like she owns the place, again. I don’t know who in her life told her she has a crown on her head but her piece of humble pie will be expensive. 

   “Sorry, I’m late. I had to run all the way here,” she says out of breath, she leans forward and then lifts back up with her hands on top of her head to open her airways.

  “Why did you run all the way here? And from where?” I ask, she’s not wearing trainers so I know it couldn’t have been for the exercise. “You know there’s an app that you can use to get a ride pretty much anywhere. It’s called Uber.” 

  She looks at me dumbfounded. “What?!? Are you serious? You mean I could just call a car to drive me instead of running everywhere like Usain Bolt. What a concept, next you’re going to tell me we don’t have to call people anymore and we can just send them words.” Sarcasm drips from her tone and I don’t like it. She’s a mouthy little thing and it’s going to get her in trouble…but why does it make me hard as a fucking rock?

   “Yep, wouldn’t you know it, you can send words now. Like ‘hey I’m going to be fifteen minutes late because I have no consideration for anyone else’s time’. That would be appropriate for this scenario, don't you think?” I snap. 

  “Carrier pigeons still exist? Maybe I’ll send a raven next time.” She snaps back. 

  “Or a fucking text.” I yell.

  “I would have sent a text but A.” She holds up a tiny finger, Jesus she has small hands. “You didn’t give me your number. And B”, she holds up her middle finger, “I don’t have a phone to text you on anyway.” She then drops her first finger and flips me off with her still standing middle finger. I grab her middle finger in my fist and squeeze. 

  “Do that again and I’ll make you eat it.” I seethe.

   “How very Dahmer of you but human flesh isn’t my kink, whatever floats your boat though. If I see your face on TV I’ll remember this moment but don’t worry, I won’t tell them you threatened to make me eat my own finger.” She winks, she fucking winks at me. I release her finger and take a step back from her. I don’t normally lose my temper that quickly but this girl is getting on my fucking nerves. Without warning she shoves her middle finger in my mouth like the pint size psycho I’m realizing she is. I turn my head and she pulls her hand back. Why does her finger taste good? Like vanilla and something else. Something musky. 

  “You’re lucky I didn’t bite it off.” I spit, “who the fuck puts their finger in someone else’s mouth? What is that thought? Vanilla and…?” 

  Her smile is broad and it doesn’t take a genius to crack the code. 

  “Happy to know you like the way I taste,” she smirks at me and I just unknowingly tasted her pussy. 

  “Is that why you were late? Fucking your boyfriend?” I’m suddenly jealous and it’s a foreign feeling to me. I don’t get jealous, I don’t care enough about the women I’m with to give a second thought to who else they’re sleeping with. I mentally add getting tested to my list of things to do. 

  “Nope,” she says slyly, “I was late because I just had to trudge ten blocks to get here and I don’t know if you know this or not but it’s a freaking madhouse out there.” She hooks her thumb towards the bay windows. “There’s no boyfriend or prospects of boyfriends.” 

 So she’s single. I don’t know why I like the sound of that. I’m a decade and a half older than her, she can’t even go to a bar legally. 

  “If you really wanna know…” she pauses and I give her a blank stare. 

  “I’m enthralled,” I say dryly, my face not breaking its usual passive look. 

  “I had a super random sex dream last night and woke up with my hand already down my panties. You don’t happen to have a chest tattoo and speak Italian, do you?” 

  “No,” I narrow my eyes at her, what’s with all the weird fucking questions. I feel like she talks to me in circles and this is only our second interaction. 

  “Shame. In my dream you did,” she smiles and before I can answer or even form a coherent thought, Chantel walks through the door looking like she was rode hard and put away wet. 

  “I’m so sorry I’m late. What a shit show that was,” she says, pulling her bag from her shoulder. She walks past us towards the employee lockers. Harley and I follow her and as she grabs her apron and white button down.

  “This is Harley, you’re going to be training her today.” I say as she pulls her shirt over her head, a white tank top covers her body but I still notice Harley blush at her exposed body. 

  “Hi!” Chantel says as she buttons the front buttons of the shirt. “Let’s get you a uniform and we can get started.” 

As they walk off together, I can’t help myself. “Before you go Red, wash your hands.” I storm off and leave them to it. 

   

   Hours later I have gotten absolutely nothing done, I’m sitting at my desk in my office and I purposefully left the blinds on the window up so I could watch her. Chantel being the bitch that she is, gave her a shirt that could also qualify as a queen size bed sheet. My burner phone vibrates in my pocket, I barely peel my eyes away from the window long enough to pull it out of my pocket and read the name and location of the guy Dominic is paying me to take care of.  

Stefano Beretta 

121 S. Dison St.

I G****e Dison Street on my open laptop, I’m not stupid enough to G****e the actual address, a map of the city appears in front of me and quickly zeros in on Dison. It appears to be in a major subdivision across town and it’s a gated community. I grab my phone off the desk and send the thumbs up emoji before pulling the battery and SIM card from the phone. I toss the device in the bottom drawer of my desk and break the SIM card in two pieces. Another day, another job, another new burner phone number.

  I fell into this job by accident really. A mob boss was having dinner at the restaurant a few years ago and he rented out the entire venue for him and his men to dine, drink and plot. By the end of the dinner, I had sent the waitstaff home and I was basically just waiting for them to leave when a gunman shot through the glass window and killed the boss’ second in command. The men scattered, grabbing their holsters and jackets from the chairs and coat closet and running out the door to get their revenge. The mob boss sat in his chair the entire time his men scurried around the restaurant, I watched him from my seat at the bar as he finished his clams, blood pooling onto the table as his second lay across his unfinished meal. 

When he had finished his clams I got up, walked over to the table and asked him politely if there was anything else I could get him, he looked up at me, asked my name. I told him and he nodded before pulling the ring from the finger of the dead guy. I was in total shock and wasn’t sure if I should call the police or what to do with the guy who was currently ruining my new hardwood floors with his blood. 

  “You keep this between us Bowen, yeah?” He asked in a heavy Italian accent. I nodded my head because what the fuck else was I going to do? 

  “You got anywhere you can put him?” He motioned to the body and I thought for a second, coming up with nothing. I don’t watch CSI or Criminal Minds, I didn’t know how to dispose of a body without getting caught and ending up in jail for murder. 

  “I can put him in the walk-in freezer for now but I don’t have anywhere else.” I confess. “And he’d have to be gone by morning because my staff would lose their minds if they found a dead body in the freezer.” 

  “You gotta basement here?” He asked and I nodded. 

  “Put him down there, I’ll have one of my men pick him up tomorrow.” He stated as he wiped the sides of his mouth with a napkin. He stood up and pulled a stacked money clip from his front pocket. He pulled all the money from the clip and set it on the table. I eyed the money and then my gaze returned back to the fat bastard who just made me an accessory to murder. 

  “That should cover the meal and the window, I’ll have my men drop more off tomorrow when they pick up.” And he left. He walked out the front door like nothing had happened. I locked the door after he left and on autopilot grabbed a large table cloth, wrapped the guy up and dragged him downstairs. I cleaned that table and the floors until my fingers and eyes were bleach burned and you could eat off the damn floor in the dining area. The next morning, just like he promised, two guys showed up with an envelope and took the dead guy to whereabouts unknown. 

  “You gotta number?” One of the guys asked after the body was in the trunk of his Lincoln. 

  “Yeah,” I said, with a question in my tone. 

  “Well can I have it?” He spits, almost like I should have known to just had my phone number over to a mobster's henchmen when he strolled through the door to pick up the dead body they left behind.

  “Why?” I asked, the notion not making any sense. 

  “Boss wants it, there’s good money in this shit you know? Especially if you have the stomach for it.” There's a wicked look in his face, almost like he's fucking daring me.

With a sigh, I gave him my number and the rest as they say is history. I started getting cleanup calls for all the mob bosses and their men then it became its own service along with killing. I’ve become numb to the entire exchange, I wish I could say I feel bad about it but I’m not killing school teachers or nuns, the guys I’m hired to kill are bad men, they’ve done terrible things. Do I feel bad for their families? No. They’re better off. 

  “Looking for a new house?” Harley chirps from her spot next to my desk. Her voice startles me, bringing me back to the present. A Zillow listing sits on the forefront of my screen, the listing is two houses down from my target. That’s how I’ll get in, I’ll schedule a viewing and the over eager listing agent will give me the code for the gate. 

  “Something like that,” I mumble, clicking out of the screen. 

  “That’s a real nice neighborhood. I know a guy who lives there.” She nods her head and I stare at her. 

  “How was your first day?” I ask, am I making small talk? I never make small talk. I never ask my employees anything other than if they’re doing their jobs. 

  “Pretty good, learned a lot, made some money so that’s good.” She says, pulling her red hair from the tie letting it fall around her shoulders. Her scent hits me like a Mac truck and I realize quickly I need to stay away from her. I’m too damn old for her, too jaded at this point.

  “That’s good, was Chantel nice to you?” I ask, again with the fucking small talk. 

  “Chantel? Do you mean Chelsey?” She quirks any eyebrow. 

  “No, the girl who was training you.” I state, rolling my eyes. 

  “Her name is Chelsey.” She tries and fails to suppress a giggle. Huh. Is her name really Chelsey and I’ve been calling her Chantel for a fucking year and a half? Why didn’t she correct me? 

  “Sure, Chelsey, was she nice?” 

  “Nope. Look at this freaking shirt? My boobs are big but I think I could have easily fit into a medium.” She holds her arms out showing the shirt that is a sail at this point. I do notice her boobs though, they’re large on her small frame, with flared hips and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. Yes I noticed, I’m a guy. 

  “I don’t think she liked that you were watching me all day,” she says with a smirk. 

  “Probably not.” I confess, why am I telling her any of this? She smiles broadly at me, oh that’s why.

  “Well, I’m off unless you need anything else?” She leaves it an open ended question on purpose and I would really like to tell her I do need something else, like her bent over the desk sitting between us with that stupid shirt pulled up around her mouth so she can’t scream but I don’t. I look over to the map on the screen and a truly stupid idea forms. 

  “What are you doing this evening?” I ask, leaning back in my chair, I stretch the kinks out of my back and lift my arms over my head. She watches me with wide eyes and a partially open mouth, ah, so it does go both ways. Take a good look, Red. 

  “I don’t have any plans this evening,” she says almost whispering. 

  “Well, I’d like to go look at that house but apparently it’s a gated community and I hate real estate agents. It looks like it’s vacant, would you happen to know the gate code?” I ask, watching her face. She ponders the question for a long moment before giving me a slow nod. 

  “Yeah, I can do that. Are we going to be doing anything illegal?” Harley asks, her interest piqued. 

  “Define illegal.” I smirk and she claps her hands in front of her excitedly. 

  “Okay, I’ll meet you back here this evening then?” 

  “I can pick you up if you’d like.” I offer, and there’s another rule broken. Her face blanches slightly and she shakes her head no. 

  “That’s okay, I’ll just meet you back here, six okay?” She stumbles slightly over her words and now my interest is piqued, why doesn’t she want me to know where she lives? 

  “Six is fine.” I say with a smile. I don’t want to raise her suspicions but I’m definitely going to be looking into where she’s living. Maybe she still lives with her parents and doesn’t want to tell me? That’s plausible right? God, she’s young enough for that to be a plausible answer. Like she’s worried her dad is going to meet me at the door with a shotgun. My inner dialogue reminds me that I’m old enough to be her dad.  

  “I’m going to go get a phone today so if you wouldn’t mind giving me your number I can put it in there so if I’m late at least you’ll know.” She’s rambling and it’s fucking adorable. She wrings her hands in front of her like she just asked me out on a date and not the other way around. 

  “Sure,” I say and grab a sticky note from the desk, I scribble out the digits to my actual phone number not the one I give to clients. 

  “K, cool.” She says, grabbing the sticky note from my outstretched hand and backing out of my office. She smiles at me as her back hits the wall instead of the door, she blushes and I know without a shadow of a doubt, I’m in so much fucking trouble.