Smoke and Mirrors (17 page)

There was no space for a pulse, no time to think the shit through and psychoanalyze one’s choices. No. Just keep moving because the minute you sit still, you’ll end up with a razorblade at your fucking wrist…

Frank was so quiet, he wondered whether he’d walked away from the phone. He’d never yelled at the man, hell, Smoke rarely raised his voice to anyone…but he was changing. Emotions, passions and desires were pouring out of him, and they demanded an exit.

In retrospect, the irony of it all struck him as humorous. In his teen years, he didn’t have the rationale to dissect himself, to understand how all of this bullshit came to be. He also knew, deep down, that once he began to fuck, he would try to control it, to make it work for him instead of hurt him as it had done in the past. It would kill him a bit more if he allowed his mind to replay the worn, abusive tap of yesteryear. He simply couldn’t stomach it. He needed relief… he needed happiness.

Happiness?
What was happiness? Smoke wasn’t exactly certain.

“Remember earlier, Frank, when you mentioned firsts?”

“Yeah…”

“Did I ever tell you about my first girlfriend?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Well, she was a real sweet girl. She was a virgin, too. By the time I met her though, I was pretty sexually active. I wanted to see man, just one time, if I could make love, and not just
fuck
.” He looked dead center across the street at Paris’ home, then continued his conversation. “For this reason, I really wanted Cheryl—not because I was horny beyond belief, but to find out if I could be ‘normal’, just one fucking time in my whole miserable life, Frank. When she refused me, I realized maybe I was never supposed to be ‘normal’ in the first fucking place…”

“Look, Smoke,” Frank coughed heavily then continued. “You come from a line of men that are different. You guys are exceptional. I’m not tryna make light of what you’re telling me, I’m just telling you it ain’t all bad as it seems. The answer is not suicide, though. Don’t you ever try some shit like that again.”

“In death comes new life, Frank.” Smoke whispered with a smirk. Yes, he could feel it now. He surmised he was going slowly insane, had been for quite some time, and he wasn’t concerned with hiding it from everyone any longer. He needed a witness to this madness, and he’d found one. “Dad’s body is deep in the ground at Los Angeles National Cemetery. But from his death, the new me was born… a bona fide pimp, from the blood that runs in my veins down to my insatiable lust for the nicer things in life.”

Nice things made him feel important. Nice things covered pain, at least for a moment or two. Nice things made all the bad shit go away. Nice things sparkled, so he sparkled, too…

After being poor for so many years, then living a life that was fairly financially free, he refused to allow himself to ever be destitute again! He’d do what he was supposed to do and channel his inner work ethic. Whether it was instilled from his mother, within him from the time he popped out of her pussy or developed later, he was going to follow the code and obey his lust to be true to himself.

“You’re a legend, Smoke.” Frank reached back into the conversation with his massive hand and grabbed the damn dialogue by the throat. He was determined to keep Smoke on track, at all costs. “You’re self made, you didn’t care that no one was helping you; you were determined to find your first two whores that very week your father died!”

“I had to! I would’ve been homeless soon,” Smoke explained.

“And that was exactly what you did!”

At the time, it had been a struggle to simply just
be
. He had to figure this shit out, and fast! What could he say that would make women want to choose him, give him a chance? What could he do to pretend that he didn’t on some level hate women, because he didn’t trust them and it was time they paid for what they did to him? They’d hurt him. They’d lied to him, manipulated him. Yes, it was time to make them work for this. Make them
suffer
. Make them give up every damn thing they had and
then
some, but even
that
would never be enough!

How could he stand out from the crowd, despite his white flesh in a black male dominated profession? He was always on the job, learning, growing, becoming a bit less of Brent and a whole lot more of Smoke. Smoke wanted to make sure he had an edge, to follow the code and follow it hard.

Money and power controlled him, ruled him with an iron fist.

It was fundamental. Anything desirable to mankind could be lucrative. Everything revolved around, ran through, or stood directly below cash, currency and the like. He never discussed his mental mechanisms, the way his mind twisted and turned these notions like the inner workings of a Swiss clock. Matter of fact, he grew to enjoy being rather quiet, like a ghost only revealed from the corner of one’s lying eye.

Smoke had something special, but it took him a while to realize it. Like his old friend Carl had said back in the day, he had a wisdom about him, as if he’d lived a thousand lifetimes. Now, he was beginning to see the truth in that…

“Maybe you’re right,” Smoke huffed. “Maybe I just need a damn vacation.”

“Now you’re talkin’! I’ll be over in an hour. Do you need anything?” Frank asked with obvious relief in his tone.

“Nah, I’m fine. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Alright.” And he disconnected the call.

Smoke stood across the street, staring at Paris’ apartment building. He continued to grip his phone, knowing he’d just given Frank a ‘Get Out of Jail Free Card.’ He knew better, and he meant every damn thing he’d said. Something was different. Something was changing. The smoke in the air dispersed, morphing into something dense, heavy and ominous, like a New England fog. Most importantly, it refused to be ignored. He smiled, for inside, he was okay with that…yeah, that was just fine, for after the smoke clears, the truth is revealed…

*

Paris saw him
from one of the attic windows. That strange man she adored had been pacing up and down the sidewalk, his tall, strong body wearing a path in the concrete. She wondered whom he was speaking to, for at times, he looked rather animated. She observed him with the window cracked, and a romance book in her lap. She’d ordered this classic little number online: ‘The Bride’ by Julie Garwood. Paris loved the feel of a new hardbound book. Her Kindle lay cold on the dresser, for in the afternoons, she found the scent of the pages turning damn near intoxicating. She’d stolen herself away for a break, entering a room filled with odds and ends, and sat perched on a three legged chair that would give at any moment. It didn’t matter; she’d become distracted by the beautiful man that bid her ‘good day’ thus, a perfect excuse to place her book aside, and instead, concentrate on the real live, walking fairy tale in front of her. He kept glaring at her house…pausing, taking a long look, then turning away. It was unnerving yet satisfying, all at once. After some time, his call must’ve ended, for he turned on a dime and made his way back inside of his establishment, closing the door behind him.

And she missed him already…

*

Smoke enjoyed stalking
Ms. Raven…

Over many days, they continued to have phone conversations, flirt with one another, and roam in each other’s mental playground. He said things to her, things he hadn’t planned to say but they slipped out anyway. She was always so busy, which meant he couldn’t see her much, yet he was at peace with her admissions…for he could
see through
her, knew she told the truth. They’d talk on her porch at times, just sitting there, discussing mundane, simple things. She hadn’t had time for a date, but he hoped that would change soon. Regardless of these increased conversations and visits, his obsession never waned. Funny thing—he was now getting the attention of his whores due to his odd behavior. Such as when he sat with his anxious fingers wrapped around a pair of black binoculars and demanded he be left alone, undisturbed. It got to the point where he had to be harassed and hounded to take care of his duties, because he simply didn’t want to leave his stoop. So unlike him…

What if he missed another sighting of Paris? What was she wearing today? He’d sit there with his cigarette, his music playing at a low pitch, his head cocked to the side and a smirk on his face as he fed his voracious voyeurism. He’d listen to Ben Folds Five’s ‘Draw a Crowd’, and crack up, as if he’d just smoked an entire bag of weed in one sitting. Such a great feeling of being
alive
, like he had some shit to look forward to during his mornings. He relished in the fact that he knew the woman’s schedule inside and out, so much so, it helped him corner the little Pussycat that fateful day…

As she did every Tuesday around 1:00P.M. she left her apartment building. He never knew exactly where the little minx was going, but one thing he was certain of, it was time to confront her about their ‘living’ situation. One afternoon, he decided to follow her. He was pleased to see where’d she been going, and realized it would prove a perfect setting to discuss business matters with her. Things could get ugly; this way at least she’d watch herself, be on her best behavior. No one that works illegally wants to cause a damn scene in a financial institution. He kept on watching her, making mental notes for his grand confrontation. She stalled a bit, got out of her limousine after he’d already parked, which aided him in his plans. He made it inside and waited… He had several angles to play depending on her response, and he was armed and ready. The most disturbing part of his investigation happened to be when his concerns were validated. She was fucking beautiful, and his cock swung in her direction and sung her pretty praises…

This strong attraction drove him further into a life of dedicated voyeurism. He continued to do it long after he’d made his intentions clear to the woman. What a horrible obsession, one he couldn’t shake. He was out of control, but what the hell could he do? He hadn’t gotten his claws into her yet, hadn’t gotten what he wanted, but he was close…oh, so close. Pausing, he took a deep breath. When he turned away from the window, the ugly truth was there, waiting for him. The apartment was decked, the johns were monitored, and he was in control of the whole motherfucking operation—but no matter how the floors shined, how expensive the Oriental rugs were and how many Greek statues he had on each floor, he was living inside of the Devil’s ass and told to get comfy, because this had become his permanent residence and he was about to get suffocated and die. He wanted out into beautiful open spaces, but he felt so damn filthy…and trapped.

To his right stood the citadel of lustful fantasies come to life. Looking straight ahead was the sunny outside, covered in palm trees and a woman grinning from ear to ear that he couldn’t take his fucking eyes off of. Paris’ smooth light toffee complexion, jet-black hair, soulful eyes and lush lips stroked his dick with her mere image. He’d had too much of a good thing. He was surrounded by beautiful women on a daily basis, all willing to fuck him, no matter how tired they were. They brought him shitloads of money, but this one right here…well…
challenge accepted
. His desire for her superseded all else. He spotted her once again, this time waiting for Art, her limo driver. She wore a classy black pantsuit. Grabbing his binoculars, he adjusted them, wishing to see all the small, intricate details of her ensemble, her facial expressions, not miss one damn thing. Ahhh, that was better. Little pearl buttons ran down the front of her jacket, to match her pearl necklace.

Suddenly, the front door slammed abruptly, taking him away from his pleasure. Soon, he saw Felicia exit the place, angrily walking down the walkway, her zebra print flip flips clacking against the pavement like the repeated slap across a face. The woman got into her car and sped off as if there were some pressing emergency. He looked back towards Paris, but by then, she was gone…

*