Page 52 of Lust

Giovani sighs. “I need the money in hand, Ben, and I can make all of this,” Giovani gestures toward me, “disappear.”

“So what are you, some kind of hitman?” I cross my arms heavily over my chest. Get them talking, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? No, wait, you’re supposed to talk to them. Make them think of you as a human being.

“What if I don’t have the money now, but I’ll give it to you once the deal goes through?”

Giovani shakes his head. “No dice, my friend.”

“So you’re a hitman for the Fioravantes?” I wrack my brain for something personal to tell him, something to humanize myself. Nothing comes to mind. “I don’t recognize you. Are you new?”

“Stop talking.” He glares at me with oddly flat blue eyes. Something about them creates a chill deep in my gut.

“Take her out and give me the deal, and then I’ll cut you in at half.” Red blotches form on Brent’s neck. He’s getting desperate. Great.

“What deal?” I ask him. He doesn’t even look at me. “What fucking deal, Brent?”

The other man finally looks over, exasperation broadcast all over his face.

“Your husband is selling you out to the Fioravantes in exchange for them freeing up your music catalogue and giving him full rights.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Brent whirls on Giovani, pointing his gun at the guy’s face.

For a second, the guy looks surprised. Then he steps toward Brent.

“You have a problem, man? You’re the one who showed up here without the money. I can’t take the job without half of the cash up front.”

“Not gonna be a job anymore if you keep running your mouth,” Brent spits.

Suddenly, a familiar voice sounds from the doorway.

“What the fuck is going on? Where’s Delilah?”

“Delilah? What are you talking about?” Brent swings the gun toward the door.

“Gary?” My mind can’t compute his presence here. All I know is that this is my chance.

I grab Brent’s right arm with all my strength.

He jerks back.

The gun goes off.

Gary yelps in surprise, then falls over sideways.

“You crazy motherfucker!” Giovani lunges toward Brent. Time crawls at a snail’s pace and everything moves in comically slow motion. Brent swings back toward Giovani, who raises his arms, lifting his chest toward the gun. I swear I see the bullet leave the barrel and whiz straight into Giovani’s flannel jacket, where it punctures the blue plaid, provoking an explosion of red.

Crimson blood spews out, splashing the gun, spattering Brent’s surprised face and painting the floor with its spray. Giovani flies backward, hitting the wall behind him, then slumps toward the floor.

All of this happens in a matter of about two seconds, and then Brent’s arm starts to swing back toward me. This time, I reach for his hand, striking his wrist so hard that the force of my blow knocks the gun to the ground.

“What the fuck, Ruby!” Brent leaps for the gun.

“Fuck you, Brent.” I swing at him, striking his shoulder, and he stumbles backward, falling to the ground.

“I’ll kill you, crazy bitch!” He scrambles up.

“Will you?” I pounce on my gun. The weapon’s smooth shape reassures my fingers. Slowly, deliberately, I point it at Brent.

He freezes.

---