Page 12 of Chemistry: The Chemist

It washed it all away. Helped me start anew. Embraced me in its cold, expansive arms.

Black Prada shades veiled my eyes. Paired with a fitted cap, my identity was easily and preferably concealed. My slacks and Ferragamo Oxfords in the shade Nero had been replaced with dark denim, classic Prada trainers, a black and gray letterman with hints of crimson red in patches on the right breast and back, a black hoodie, and a set of gold teeth with encrusted diamonds filling the canines.

Private entry was an option, but surveying those I’d be among quenched a thirst my proactive nature was often prone to. A step ahead was the only solution because if I wasn’t there it meant I was two steps behind. That was unacceptable.

Still bodies and lifeless eyes.

My vision had been altered.

Headshot. Cervical fracture. Chest. Face. Ear to ear. No.

I shook my head, dismissing the bloodbath I’d create, cutting from one ear to the other. Disturbing the fine threads on my body would piss me the fuck off.

Too messy.

The disorderly thoughts were in full effect. While they should’ve resulted in tightened pimple-covered skin, they made my heart pump louder and harder, and with vengeance would easily be served if necessary.

They made it clear that in the event, in an instant, I’d air the whole shit out with the extended clip on the Glock that made my pants sag slightly. The arsenal behind the bar and the one in the office I was headed to would put down anything it didn’t. The clean-up crew. Their purpose was clear when I installed them.

“Are you sur–”

“Goodbye, Aden.”

Questions. Fucking questions.

I climbed out of the backseat, daring my driver to reach for his door. The attention his presence would cause was attention I wasn’t beckoning for.

“I’ll be around back. Here when you need me!” he yelled over his shoulder before I slammed the door shut.

I strolled past the lengthy line, right up to the door. Groans and grumbles doubled as my presence was noted.

“Capacity my ass. This nigga just walked right up,” a tenor that reminded me of one of the men I shared blood with bellowed with enough emphasis to stop me in my tracks.

“Quiet, man,” Vic, one of the four bouncers, warned.

“Fuck you, dog. I thought you were at capacity. How this nigga get the green light?”

Too loud. Too entitled. Too broke. The loudest nigga wasn’t usually the poorest. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. Financially. I turned to find a tacky, tasteless clubgoer with a studded shirt and pants to match. Too dirty.

“This nigga paying you or you sucking his dick?” Boldly, he questioned.

My legs jolted in motion, propelling me forward at an unfamiliar pace. When I began to regain awareness, my hands were around Dingy’s throat. His body rested against the pavement. Mine was only a few inches off.

The corners of my lips curved upward, toward my ears. A smile contradicted my actions, my thoughts, and the reason my tool was pressed against a stranger’s teeth as he spat unrecognizable pleas.

“Hm?” I listened closely.

Tears streaked his face.

“Say what, my nigga?”

Only he and I could hear what was being expressed. It was nobody else’s business. I pressed the gun deeper into his mouth, chipping his right tooth.

Shoot him.

Too many witnesses.

Lifeless eyes lulled me, but blood-stained skin shook me out of my trance.

---