breathless for a moment.
“Who did you see, Serena?” He asked, and when she failed to answer immediately. “Damn you woman, I asked you a question.”
“Dr. Angel Hicks-Dupree.” She said more to herself than to Pilot.
“You sound surprised.”
Serena nodded. She did not say aloud, Angel is going to suffer from something far more traumatic than even death is before her end. Something compelled Serena to toss in one more handful of sand.
The flames popped and crackled and a flicker jumped out of the fireplace and landed on the forearm of her left hand.
“Are you are alright?” Pilot said, and reached across to her to fan the budding flame. “You’re burning—“
Serena planted a firm right hand into his chest to stop his advancement. She threw her head back and the smallest smile grazed her lip as she mouthed out of gasp what could be described as a bout of intense pain…intense pleasure wrapped its arms around her.
“I saw an imminent death.” She said when she had opened her eyes again, the moment of…near orgasm passed into infinity. “That is why the flames were so intense.”
“Who did you see?”
“Our esteemed Mayor Ernestine Johnson may not survive till dawn. And when she reaches her end, and it is as terrible as she imagined it would be, she will be given to the flames.”
Thomas
He checked the clock’s time on the jaguar’s dash, spun the wheels in a perfect motion, and fit the car in the last open parking spot reserved for the media in front of Mayor Johnson’s estate in southwest Atlanta.
He bumped his head getting out of his car which added to this morning’s frustrations. He checked his Rolex, 7:50 AM; at least he had a few minutes more to spare before the 8:15 presser, although he’d earned a $300 speeding ticket for his efforts. Damn.
Thomas Pepper:
He was a big man the way sports fans considered retired hockey players big men. He always stood fully erect, totally comfortable and satisfied with his height and weight. He had a squared jaw, with a spectrum of salt, pepper, and oregano colors running through his curly hair and his day old beard that looked like a two day old beard on most other men. Although he was wearing a fresh custom-made suit it couldn’t mask the faint stench of perfume and stale sex leaking from his pores.
At 6’3”tall he fit better in his other vehicle, the Escalade, but enjoyed the speed and the thrills of driving the Jaguar more. Besides, he always caught more female attention when he drove up in this ride. Last night Sheila, at least that’s what he thought he remembered her name being, had been crazy about this car and begged Thomas for a ride around town. She was a real cutie too. She even insisted that he park the Jaguar in front of her house she and her husband, an architect who often worked well after midnight as deadlines on projects approached, where he spent a night a passion with her.
Thomas had been to the mayor’s estate countless times now. He’d grown accustomed to seeing the atrium double as the entrance to an impromptu press room. What did surprise him was the near standing room crowd of press, well known athletes, entertainers, and local business people who had been invited to whatever in the hell was going on here.
It didn’t escape Thomas that most of the attendants were People of Color.
Thomas flashed his press credentials to a chicken legged servant who knew him by face and who barely scanned the paperwork over at all. Yet, another stone faced man wearing a khaki suit and sneakers, a Peacekeeper, asked to see the identification for himself, studied it with more of a sense of urgency, smiled, and asked Thomas to take him to take his numbered seat in the gallery.
Thomas thanked the second man carefully, read his number nine aloud, and identified his chair in the front row — right next to Lucy Burgess.
“Thomas? Good morning, Darling.” She patted the tin, unpadded seat next to her when he arrived at the front row. “I saved a spot for you, do sit down.”
Lucy Burgess:
She was a mid-sized White South African, who had golden shoulder length hair and had a huge overbite.
She dropped her sharpie just as he fit himself in the space around him that was designed for man nearly half his size. Alright, he’d play the part of a gentleman and pick up her pen for her…and saw that Lucy had parted her legs just enough for him to see that she was wearing blood red panties underneath her skirt. He couldn’t help but grin—and take a small gander—before working to reseat himself and hand her the sharpie back. Lucy, he thought, you haven’t changed a bit have you?
She showed the good sense to cross her leg before any of the pack of people on the podium could notice. “I was starting to believe that you were hiding from me, Thomas.” Lucy’s eyes darted down to her lap. “We’ve missed you so much. How long has it been now?”
“I don’t honestly know, but you know me, Lucy,” Thomas replied. “I’m always so busy, you know working.”
“Working,” She drew close enough to take a deep whiff of his jacket. “I can tell. She wears Channel Number Five. This fragrance was a limited edition back in the spring catalog. At least she has good taste…or perhaps her husband does. And you, my darling Thomas, you never fail to impress me with your tenacity. She never stood a chance of you not bedding her did she? The Jaguar drove her over the edge didn’t it; your slightly wrinkled suit should have given that fact right away. And I call myself a reporter.”
Thomas felt himself redden a little, the anger catching hold. He shifted his weight in the little chair.
“How is Bill?”
Now it was his former lover’s turn to squirm, and he felt a perverse pleasure in her discomfort in spite of himself.
“My husband has taken up residence with a 26 year old. So happens she has lost all of her baby teeth and happens to be the daughter of a self-made millionaire.” Lucy said with a smile that held no humor, smoothing out her skirt as she spoke. “You see, Thomas, you are not the only man in Fulton County blessed with the finer taste in life.”
“So was our dear William forced to endure you’re patented sad face or maybe even a round or two of crocodile tears falling from your eyes? Or did you go so far as to unleash full-fledged tantrum this time and pick up something irreplaceable in the house and throw it at him?”
One of the men on the podium tapped at the microphone, an equipment check, and used the opportunity to tell one and all that proceedings were running a few minutes behind schedule. And that everyone’s patience was greatly appreciated.
Meanwhile, even Lucy’s humorless smile had vanished. And it looked as she remembered something that made her uneasy when she looked down at her flats. “We’re selling the house. Bill has chosen to keep this conquest. My services as his token wife are no longer needed. I’ve been staying at the Ambassador Hotel in Midtown for the past three weeks.” Lucy slid over closer to Thomas and then a sly, familiar smile lit up her face once more. “At least he’s footing the bill. And I didn’t throw a damned thing at him. I refuse to play the part of the unsuspecting wife that my poor, pitiful American counterparts fail so miserably at. He has had his affairs. I have had mine. In fact I told him about you.”
Thomas sat up straight in his chair. “Why in the hell would you do a thing like that?”
Lucy ran a manicured fingernail over his lips. “As you people say, do turn that frown upside down, darling.” She said. “Believe it or not, not everyone in the known universe or here in Northern Georgia knows who Thomas Pepper, journalist, blogger, and best-selling author is.”
Still, Thomas swallowed hard. “Well, I hope that everything works out, you know, with your marriage, the way you wish that it will.”
Lucy glanced away and her sly smile vanished as if it never existed. “I sincerely doubt that it will.”
Thomas followed her gaze. Two men dressed in white lab coats were being escorted to the podium with some haste. Thomas grabbed Lucy’s wrist and pointed with his other hand, to the mayor’s husband who was standing and looking miserable near the podium as
well. Lucy nodded an agreement at his silent observation. The poor bastard looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.
“Do you have any idea what this is about?”
“Well, darling, a bombing in your city where you are an elected official might prompt a press conference or two.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Thomas rubbed at his day old beard, he haired up so fast. “The Doctors…Antonio Johnson…the almost alarming presence of the Peacekeepers in the room, it all feels so very… personal.”
“Personal, darling,” Lucy said. “The end of the world as you and your American cohorts has that effect sometimes.”
“The attack on the Andrew Young Center while tragic, doesn’t qualify as the end of the world, Lucy. President Sweet’s assassination caused days of violence in the streets, but somehow order was reinstated and that peace has held the course since.”
Lucy said, “Tell me you are not that naïve.”
Thomas grunted and shifted in his hard little chair growing smaller and harder by the minute. He does know better actually. Speculation was growing that Serena Tennyson and Pandora were behind this attack at the Andrew Young Center. They had yet to officially claim responsibility, but that was just a simple matter of time. Thomas had been granted several interviews with Serena before he published his second book on race relations in America. In the hours they’d spent together, Thomas had took the red headed