A Smudge of Gray: A Novel Page 7

  “It’s okay. Be careful with your fruit,” Trevor warned.

  Janice exited the elevator, leaving the beautiful being behind. The stillness of the silent hallway surrounded her. Identical doors lined each side as the hunter green zebra-striped carpet calmed her kitten heels. The sound of the recycled paper bags brushing her coat filtered through the corridor. Finally, she arrived at her resting place, room “717” written in Arial font. Janice put the sacks on the carpet, and then fumbled in her purse, which was on top of the bread.

  “You forgot this.”

  Janice jumped. She grabbed her chest. Then, she saw the man from the elevator, the man named Trevor. A grin painted her face as she saw a red apple surrounded by his gloved hand.

  “Oh, sorry to have startled you,” Trevor said.

  “It’s okay. I don’t know why I’m so jumpy tonight.”

  “Let me help you with those.” Trevor reached for one of her bags with his free hand, the briefcase in his other.

  “Thank you, but it’s okay…really.” Janice opened her door.

  “It’s the neighborly thing to do. Where would you like this?” Trevor asked.

  “Oh, you’re too kind. I can get it.” Janice reached for the light and walked inside. She was flustered by both the groceries in her hand and the man in her home. Janice led the way on the cream-colored carpet as the stylish condo enclosed them. Classic artwork mixed with contemporary abstracts hung on the white walls.

  “Over there is fine,” she instructed as Trevor walked into the kitchen. She chuckled. “You know, I usually don’t invite strangers into my condo like this.”

  Janice watched him move. His slick saunter, confident courage, and arresting appearance tickled her senses and played with her like a cat playing with a mouse. There was something to be said about the seemingly random sequence of events leading to her new guest, something that the single woman felt happened for a reason.

  “I’m not a stranger. You already know my name,” Trevor joked as he helped to position her bag on the all-glass table.

  Trevor’s Rolex caught her attention as an art lover’s replica of The Starry Night in the living room caught his. Janice gravitated toward the watch’s hands as he gravitated toward the painting’s brushstrokes. He neared the work of art and analyzed its cool colors and smooth swirls. He moved to the side as Janice flipped a switch showering the painting with a tailored spotlight.

  “This is beautiful. Where did you get this?” Trevor asked.

  Janice smiled and walked behind him as his masculine scent surged around her—a scent that stopped her cold. She studied him as he studied the painting. His gravitational pull sucked her in, slaying the reservations she had about this man she had just met.

  “Oh, I love art. I bought this from a studio uptown. It’s a complete oil based replica.” Janice watched Trevor set down his briefcase and move around the piece.

  While he analyzed the delicate oil reflecting from the spotlight, Janice analyzed Trevor’s face bathed in the same radiance. She studied his eyes, the way they swept over the painting. And she watched his brow scrunch so slightly as she knew the painting was massaging his mind. Janice could not speak anymore; she could only watch the piece of artwork in front of her, the piece enveloped by black. Her eyes continued down his black tie and finally stopped at the folds of fabric in the groin of his black slacks. She liked a man wearing pleats, a styled addition often killed by lackluster craftsmanship. She tilted her head lower and tracked the perfect crease of his pants resting on his arresting shoes.

  Janice remembered the advice her grandmother had given her as a child, the advice she used whenever a new man floated her way. “You can judge a lot from a man’s shoes. If they’re old and gray, stay away, but if they’re new and shine, give him your time.”

  The shoes of the man in front of her were leather colored in the darkest of gray. They were the face of Mona Lisa, and her eyes were the small accent of white that added a window into the soul of the shoes. Her grandmother’s adage didn’t account for gray shoes that glimmered in light, but whatever the interpretation, she knew that this man begged for further inspection.

  “I have some modern pieces over there,” Janice said as she gestured toward the perpendicular wall. She led him to a wild black & white abstract that hung next to a flat-screen television. Paint splattered the canvas as the image seemed to have no order, yet it seemed to be in perfect harmony.

  “I like it. Lots of emotion going on,” Trevor remarked.

  “You know who painted that?”

  “Pollock?”

  “Ha! Yours truly. I love painting. It lets me unwind from a hard day’s work.”

  “I take it painting isn’t your full time job,” Trevor observed as he took the painting in from a different light.

  “No, I’m an attorney.”

  “Oh, I see. You get people out of traffic tickets,” Trevor joked.

  “Not quite. I work organized crime cases. Right now, my life is my work,” Janice revealed.

  “And your work is your life, right?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Still, it’s good to find something to do to relax,” Trevor added.

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a business consultant. I travel a lot.”

  “Oh, sounds interesting. What market do you target?” Janice asked.

  “Well, mainly the financial industry, but just as any good businessman, I take on all sorts of clients.”

  “Do you have a condo here?” Janice asked.

  “No. Actually, I have a business meeting here.”

  Janice looked at his briefcase resting on her carpet.

  Another pale green abstract caught his eye. “When did you paint this one?”

  “After my cat died. I was a wreck for a while.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “How rude of me. I should have offered you something to drink,” Janice asked as her cheeks flushed.

  “No problem. Since you asked, do you have anything strong?”

  “I have some Brandy.”

  “If you have ice, I’m sold,” Trevor returned.

  “Coming right up.”

  Janice walked into the kitchen as her heels clinked on the tile. Her guest perused her art gallery. She didn’t have many visitors in her condo who cared about the art on the wall, but just as any good host, she had something for any occasion. Janice opened her top cupboard and rooted around the wine glasses. She rose on her toes and removed an unopened bottle of Christian Brothers Brandy and two sparkling glasses.

  “I see nothing with red, my favorite color?” Trevor said from the living room.

  Janice grabbed some ice and concocted two drinks. “I know, guess it’s a subconscious thing. Red means love.”

  The bubbly woman strolled back into the living room with the drinks. She had a grin on her face as she prepared for the next chapter in the book she was writing. The carpet muffled her footsteps, but her visitor was nowhere to be found. She took a breath, as she smelled his scent lingering; she knew he was still somewhere. She looked left and saw her abstract painting, and then glanced right to behold The Starry Night. Her brow furrowed as she looked down at the spot of Trevor’s briefcase, but it was gone.

  “Trevor?”

  A shadow shifted. She turned, and there was Trevor holding his silenced pistol in his gloved hand. Janice screamed. Two blasts hurled her way. She bobbed as both impaled her shoulder. The drink flew in the air. Blood splattered the couch. Janice bashed into the ground. The pain pierced her body. She squealed as her right heel split. Janice squirmed on the floor. She crawled toward the hall as her attacker glared. Tears filled her eyes as blood poured from her wounds. Janice scampered past the open bathroom, her mind numb. She clutched the wall leaving a handprint of blood. She tumbled into her back bedroom and slammed the door shut.

  Janice didn’t know what to do, where to go, how to survive. She was a prisoner in her own home, a place of protection,
a place now filled with terror. Janice stopped as blood poured down her arm and onto the carpet. Her breathing rocked her beaten body as the worst sound filled her ears—the sound of silence. Her knees slid across the carpet toward her attached Jack and Jill bathroom. Janice passed pictures on her nightstand, pictures of her parents, but they were useless as her father’s might and her mother’s compassion were nothing more than pigment on paper.

  Janice waited, her hands covered with blood. A knock hit the door. She yelped. She scuttled toward the bathroom. She entered as the open door to the hallway was in front of her, the hallway from which she had just made her escape. She stared at the stillness as she tried to soften her sobs. Blood oozed on the white tile. She tiptoed, and then lunged through the doorway, darting down the hall. A shadow moved behind her. She shrieked as she ran through the living room. Up ahead, the door presented itself, the door to freedom. Steps away, Janice tripped on Trevor’s briefcase. She toppled to the ground; her right leg bent back cracking the bone. Her cries echoed off the walls. She did her best to stand, now deadened to the pain. She turned as Trevor stepped her way. She watched as he raised his pistol. She screamed, and then a blast impaled her head, sending her frame against the wall. Blood sprayed everywhere as her vocal cords expelled the last bit of life. Trevor stood over her and flared his lip.

  “The color red also symbolizes death…especially blood red.”

  Chapter 13

  A pixilated character dressed like a mobster blasted another in a video game. The character yelled as he unloaded his fully automatic weapon. Brian sat on the edge of the couch as Jonathan, covered in pajamas, commanded the character with his controller. Brian relaxed still in his dress clothes, but plush slippers enveloped his feet. Both Father and Son let the television engross them.

  “Get ’em! Over there!” Brian encouraged.

  Jonathan jerked his body trying to dodge the blasts. He screeched, and then dropped the controller.

  “He killed you. Oh no!” Brian said as he tickled his son.

  Anne Marie meandered in drying a dish. She wore a woman’s swing robe in her favorite color—green. She shook her head with a coy look on her face.

  “What are you two lugs up to?” she asked.

  “Jonathan just got shot by a hitman,” Brian explained.

  “I’ll kill him. I have infinite lives,” Jonathan added.

  “I don’t know if I like that game. Killing and guns,” Anne Marie said.

  “It’s only make-believe. Right Jonathan?” Brian remarked as Jonathan picked up the controller.

  “Yeah.”

  More gun blasts belted from the TV’s 10-watt speaker. Jonathan reassumed his position on the floor as Brian sat on the arm of the couch. Anne Marie set the dish down on a side table, and walked to her husband. She caressed his shoulders, breaking up the fluid plaguing his muscles. Brian’s eyes drifted back as his wife stole his focus.

  “It’s nice to have you home for a change,” she whispered.

  Brian nuzzled her head with his hand. He kneaded her scalp as she breathed deeply. As they basked in each other, the sound of more explosions sliced through their serenity.

  “I think someone should get ready for bed,” Anne Marie instructed Jonathan.

  “Oh, Mom. Can’t I play some more?”

  “Your mother’s right. Go get ready for bed. That’s enough shooting for one night.”

  Jonathan hesitated, and then removed his thumb from the fire button. His character on screen stopped and succumbed to his attacker. Jonathan moped to the game system, killing it.

  “Tell Dad about your basketball game. You helped score the winning shot.”

  “Yeah, I passed it to the new kid, Kevin. And he made it at the buzzer,” Jonathan explained with enthusiasm.

  Brian smiled as he listened to his son’s story. He felt proud of his boy, proud of his son’s ability to overcome obstacles and to learn teamwork. Brian grabbed Jonathan and playfully pushed him around, inducing laughter, just as loving fathers did.

  “They seem to be a nice family. I met his mother, Laura, and she was telling me about her husband,” Anne Marie explained.

  “I’ll try my best to make the next game. I wanna see my son—the next Michael Jordan!” Brian rubbed Jonathan’s hair, tousling it.

  “And then I don’t have to look like a single mother. You could chat with some of the fathers.”

  “If I come, promise me one thing,” Brian asked his son with a serious face, stopping the fun.

  “What?”

  “That you’ll dunk the ball!” he said with a smile.

  “I can’t dunk it! I’m too short!”

  “Well you better start growing then, mister. Go get some sleep. Did you know Michael Jordan slept fifteen hours a day?”

  “No he didn’t!” Jonathan replied as he burst out laughing.

  “He did!” Brian said as he pressed his lips together and hugged him. “I love you, son.”

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  Anne Marie watched the two men in her life embrace, the two men whom she loved more than anything. While her life was simple to most, her place on the Earth revolved around family, something that was never simple, yet the image in front of her was.

  Jonathan shifted his love to his mother. He squeezed her just as he did every night.

  “Mom will be in to check on you,” Brian said.

  Anne Marie and Brian watched their son spring down the hallway toward his room. Brian repositioned himself on the couch. Anne Marie rested her head against his shoulder. They absorbed the tranquility as the sound of distant traffic far below their feet placated their minds. The 40-watt bulb from the end table lamp rinsed their souls as the couple breathed as one. They were in an aura, a moment where clarity met chaos, a moment they converged in, a moment that they always craved.

  “Isn’t this nice? Wouldn’t you want a job where you could be home every night with your family?” Anne Marie murmured as she combed his hair gently with her fingers.

  “You’re right. I could get used to this,” Brian exhaled.

  “Remember that night before Jonathan was born?”

  “How could I forget?” Brian whispered.

  “Remember how we had dinner?”

  “We shared lobster.”

  “You even remember what we ate?” Anne Marie smiled.

  “Of course. I remember that night, after dinner, getting lost in the casino. And then, you had to powder your nose. I remember waiting for you. The other guys waiting for their girlfriends and wives too. But when you walked out, I remember how all the guys looked at you like some heavenly angel. But it didn’t bother me, because I knew that you had something that I gave you, something that no other man had ever given you.” Brian touched his wife’s ring. “I remember you searched for me among the men, and then when you saw me, you gave me a smile that I still remember today. I remember how much I wanted to get back to the room, how much I wanted you. And then, I remember we couldn’t even find the elevator.”

  “But we did…”

  Anne Marie repositioned his head and silenced him with her lips. She kissed him softly at first, as the withered police detective accepted her advance, but then he took charge like a man, like a husband should. He kissed her deeply as his wife invigorated his taste buds. Brian held Anne Marie tightly. He felt her heart rate accelerate through the cotton fabric protecting the couple. Brian moved her to get a better angle as his right slipper fell off.

  “Ouch! Your badge,” she said. Brian shifted it around in his pocket.

  Brian slid between the grasp of her legs and let her thighs squeeze him. He worked on her neck as his wife exhaled and whimpered. He took a breath of her natural scent. Although the aroma filled his lungs and melted his mind, he could only describe it like the taste of water. Anne Marie clutched the back of his head as Brian probed inside her robe. As blood engorged his penis, Brian filled his hand with his wife’s breast.

  “Mom?” Jonathan’s voice resonated from
the hallway.

  Brian and Anne Marie startled at the voice of their creation. They smiled like two high school sweethearts hearing the door to the basement open.

  “To be continued. Come back to the bedroom in five minutes. I’ll make it worth your while,” Anne Marie whispered.

  Anne Marie had a flicker to her lips, as she enticed Brian’s mind and his libido with her feistiness. He knew that even though she was an angel on the streets, she was a devil under the sheets. Anne Marie trotted to their son as Brian collected himself on the couch. He breathed intensely as his family flowed over him. He wished he could keep this feeling forever, to seize it, to lock it in a safe, and to keep the key in a place that only he knew. But just as Anne Marie’s touch filled his mind, he realized that many things in his life could rob this seemingly safe safe.

  Brian stood up and slid his right foot back into its saddle. He grabbed the clean dish Anne Marie had left behind and walked into the kitchen to return it. Brian knew he still had four minutes of waiting time, four minutes of suspense for an offer that he couldn’t refuse. He stepped toward the table as a new picture in the center caught his eye. It was a 4 x 6 inch framed photograph of the Boise family, smiling collectively. It was the most recent photograph, one not from an exotic beach or amusement park, but rather a picture of the three at an Italian restaurant around the corner. Brian cleared his pockets and set his cell phone, his badge, and a receipt for two hamburgers next to the picture. Then, he meandered to the place of memories, the place that was the lifeline of the family unit—the refrigerator.

  The familiar beach photograph soothed his eyes as Brian drew a smiley face on the whiteboard. He saw the newest drawing by his son, the budding artist. Although it was drawn with stick figures and ovals, a joke to some, it was something that most parents could appreciate more than some painting by a dead artist. The picture showed two figures on a basketball court, not drawn to scale. “Jonathan” was scribbled below the small figure, but the letters scrawled below the other made Brian frown. They were five letters that didn’t spell some synonym for father; rather they spelled the synonym for teacher—the word “coach.”