The Mark of Cain (2 page)

To the casual observer, had there been one, they
would probably think that he never gave in to self-indulgence, which was why he
was savoring this experience so. But that wasn’t true. He indulged his
every
desire. However, usually, he had the proverbial world on his shoulders and,
therefore, could never fully enjoy
any
moment. His mind was always too
full of manipulations, his heart too full of anger and revenge, or more minor
things like annoyance. But, right now, he had been liberated of all of that.
Right now, he was able to cast that off, for his future was now free. He could
do whatever he wanted now that his five-century-long obsession had finally come
to a resolution.

He had spent the past twenty years tying things up
since having little Anahara—the girl the five-hundred-year-old prophecy had
talked about—and her immediate family murdered. In all that time, he hadn’t
touched American soil. But now he was back. He’d been back for three months.
Three months since he had lost those “righteous” zealots who followed his every
move. Three wonderful, blissful months free of Them and Their annoyances. It
would be different this time. This time—this life he led—would be his chance to
really enjoy himself for the first time in many years.

For now, he would keep his head low and play nice.
He would no longer be “Cain, Adam’s First Son.” “Cain, The World’s First
Murderer.” Now he would take upon himself a new name. Because he was immortal
and never aged, he had to become a new person every decade or so. For the past
couple of years he’d been in an ironic mood; a mood that made him hold his true
self close at the same time that he pushed it away. This time—this life—he was
to go by an anagram: “Inac.” “Inac Adamson” would be his identity for the next
few years.

He knew that They knew this name because he’d used
it twenty years ago when he’d shattered all their hopes and dreams by killing
the child but, in all his years, he had never before recycled a name, so They
would not be looking for him with it.

When he’d first used that name over two decades ago,
he had purchased real estate all over Los Angeles. Then, over the past few
years, using the same name, he’d purchased even more, including this lot. Upon
doing so, he had immediately demolished the previous building and had this
grand new complex built while he gallivanted throughout Europe with a different
alias as They all watched. That way, They would not know that he was already
making himself a life to slip into when he finally managed to escape Their
prying eyes.

When reports came stating the entire building minus
the top floor had been finished—he had wanted to do all the work himself on his
apartment so he could put in a secret vault that wouldn’t be on any plans, as
well as so his place would be exactly the way he wanted it—he had come out
here, making a trek so erratic that They had lost him and wouldn’t know where
he had gone.

It wasn’t that he feared Them. He just needed a
vacation. A life that would be full of only decadence and enjoyment. And now
that the work of building his penthouse apartment was finished, he could begin
that life.

As if on cue, his phone rang from inside his pocket.

“Yes?” he asked without taking his eyes off his
view.

“Sir,” his man, Santoni, said, his deep bass
pleased. “I was able to set up the meeting you wanted. He tried to put it off a
couple of days, but I talked him into tonight like you wanted.”

He had already planned on the meeting whether or not
the club owner had said yes. He was used to people working around
his
schedule, as well as giving him everything
he
wanted.

“And you told him my name was Inac Adamson?” he
asked, really hoping Santoni hadn’t become inept after their years together. So
far, he had always been able to count on his man. Of course, when a person is
properly motivated with their death should they fail, they
always
succeed.

“Yes, sir. Inac Adamson.”

With a smile, he turned and walked into his kitchen
and began rinsing the empty glass.

“Good.” Then, without another word, he hung up the
phone. Now, as “Inac Adamson,” he would go throw money at some club owner who
had a very successful club/grill, but was going bankrupt because he didn’t know
how to manage his funds. “Inac Adamson” would purchase that club and add it to
his collection.

Ready to get this started, “Inac” threw on a simple
black T-shirt and some jeans and walked toward the metal elevator that doubled
as his front door. He had a meeting to get to. The moment he left this house,
his quiet new life would officially begin….

***

“Hara! I need you to get back up front. And before
you make some ‘witty’ comment, I don’t care that you haven’t gotten a break.
It’s crazy out there!” her jerk of a boss Vinnie yelled as he tucked his white
button-up shirt into the black slacks belted around his enormous stomach. As if
that wasn’t bad enough, he topped it with a tacky leather jacket until he
appeared, as her co-workers liked to say, like a bad imitation of a mafia hit man
in movies. But she’d have to take their word for it since she’d never seen a
mafia movie in her life.

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” she replied, rolling her
eyes at her best friend Tracker—he was one of the cooks at the club—as she
plopped another fry into her mouth.

“You know, I could always fire you. I have a million
more of you girls
begging
to get a job here,” Vinnie said once he seemed
to think that he looked presentable again. But really, his stomach only looked
larger as it attempted to escape the meager buttons holding his shirt in place.

Not wanting to lose a job that paid as well as this
one did, she made sure that her work uniform—a miniscule black spaghetti-strap
mini-dress—was in place before walking out of the kitchen and into the loud and
body-laden bar area, now unable to hear whatever other snide remark her boss
would undoubtedly come up with. Putting on the rest of her “uniform,” she fluffed
up her long cascade of thick blonde waves and flashed her pearly whites.

Tonight had been so busy that she hadn’t even had a
chance to use the little girl’s room. But at least she’d be going home with
such a large wad of cash that she would be able to pay all of her budgeted
expenses
and
get tons more shoes this week.

“What can I get you?” she asked the first face she
saw the moment she was back in her place behind the bar.

“I want a Fuzzy Navel, a Sex on the Beach….”

Either this guy was extremely gay or with a lot of
lightweight girls who followed every trend no matter how ridiculous they were.
It was funny how you could usually tell exactly what kind of a person someone
was by the kind of drinks they consumed…or so she was told. She herself was
partial to Shirley Temples. Okay, so maybe that was the only drink she’d tasted
other than club soda, but it was
way
better than the latter. She really
liked the cherry flavoring.

It wasn’t until past midnight that she noticed a man
walking into the packed club, Vinnie sucking up to him major, basically
following in the guy’s self-assured stride like a servant following his
emperor, begging to do whatever he could for his master. The guy, dressed in a
tight black tee and fashionably distressed jeans, looked like a rock star. And,
since they came to the club all the time, it meant that he probably was one.
From what she could see of him, he was at least a
good-looking
rock
star; not one who only got girls because of fame, but because he was
hot
!
Not the type of guy she was taught to like in the orphanage, but the type she
liked. The bad boy type; the
dangerous
type.

“Wha’ kinda name is Haira?” some new drunk asked
her, pointing at the little silver nameplate pinned around a strap of her
dress, forcing her to lose the beefy, buzzed-head, and tattooed body she didn’t
want to take her eyes off of.

She smiled as nicely as she could, used to this
question.

“It’s not Haira. It’s
Ha
-ruh,” she explained,
throwing him a genuine smile. “Like
ha
. A soft A.”

“So? Wha’ kinda name is
Ha
-ruh then?” he
asked, oozing sarcasm.

She shrugged as she handed him the drinks she’d
begun mixing for him just as the rock star had caught her eye—an AMF, two
Jagerbombs, a couple of the club’s signature drinks named after various
celebrities she’d never heard of, two double shots of whiskey, and a few fruity
little cocktails complete with umbrellas and chunks of fruit. She wondered
which one was his. Maybe the AMF? That was for people who really liked the
effects of hard alcohol but hated the taste of it, as well as were trying to
show off. The Jagerbombs were totally trendy for frat boys, and the whiskey
might be trying too hard to show how “manly and adult” they were. The signature
drinks showed that the people were willing to try something new, or knew
nothing about alcohol and only drank it because they were huge fans of the
actors. And of course everyone knew what umbrella drinks meant…or so Crystal
said, but really, Hara felt bad for judging any of these people and their
drinks. She should really go to confession after school tomorrow….

Trying to clear the mean thoughts from her mind like
a duck brushes off water, she said as normally as possible, as though she
hadn’t been thinking such slanderous things, “My parents made it up.”

“Oh,” he said, slurring quite heavily while sweat
dripped down his mottled face. Then, with a smile that told her that he thought
he’d now broken the ice with her after his non-existent pick-up line, he asked,
“So do you wanna come out with us and par-
tay
after you get off?”

“That’s sweet of you, but I have school in the
morning,” she said with another smile, using an excuse that wasn’t a lie
because she knew this guy and his type. He was the type who was looking for a
one-night-stand.
Not
something she was interested in. Plus, anyone who
said “par-tay” was probably pretty immature, and she didn’t want to feel like
she was babysitting a grown adult. Los Angeles seemed to be full of such boys.
She liked to joke that it was God’s way of making sure she never fell in love
so she could marry herself to the Church after getting her degree.

Without another word, the guy walked off—some
friends coming to his rescue to grab their drinks—and started flirting with
another girl, moving on in his search for a girl to take home that night.

“Hara! Boss needs you upstairs!” her friend, and
roommate, Crystal yelled, bringing Hara from her thoughts.

“What? Why? I
hate
doing the VIP area,” she
whined. “Those guys always try to get grabby and throw tons of money down my
throat like I’m gonna cough something up for them. Plus, if I go out from
behind the bar, then I have to put my heels back on,” she finished with a pout.
Part of the uniform was that the girls had to wear heels between four and six
inches high. But, because that made her at the lowest six foot three, she wore
ballet flats as long as she was behind the bar and Vinnie wouldn’t notice—she
hated
being taller than all the guys….

“He has some guy up there and wants to make a good
impression. Apparently, the guy goes for blondes. Plus, you’re the prettiest
girl here and you know it,” Crystal replied.

For the first time in her life, Hara was jealous of
her friend’s jet black hair. Maybe if Hara dyed hers the same color then she
wouldn’t have to go up to the VIP section where they always seemed to prefer
blondes….

“I hate feeling like I’m being sold to the highest
bidder,” she grumbled as she slipped into her heels. She understood that their
“uniform” brought in all the hippest people in Los Angeles, and it wasn’t as
trashy as it would sound like if she described it to someone who couldn’t see
it—it was more like the special slip-like spandex underwear Crystal wore to
“smooth out all her fatty bumps,” though she didn’t have any. Or like an extra-long
camisole turned into a mini-dress. But that didn’t make it any more
comfortable.

“You’ve never even kissed a guy before in your life
so it’s not like you’re being whored out or anything,” she said, laughing at
Hara’s discomfort.

“I have too kissed a guy…” she defended, doing her
best to ignore the fact that Crystal had just cussed by saying the “W” word—she
had to ignore
a lot
of cussing here at work.

“I don’t consider innocent little kisses on the
cheek that don’t go anywhere to be kissing.”

Hara just stuck out her tongue in a childish manner
that would probably solidify Crystal’s opinion on the matter before making her
way upstairs, walking straight over to where Vinnie was basically worshipping
the hot rock star guy as though he was Jesus Himself.

Vinnie was sitting next to him on one of the large
black velour chaise lounge-style couches set against the bright red backdrop.
But where the hot rock star guy was relaxed and casual, not really paying
attention to Vinnie, her boss was leaning toward the floor as though about to
jump down there to eagerly wash the younger guy’s feet; as though it would be
an
honor
to do so.