Weapon Page 15

  “What exactly happened?” Christian asked, almost as an afterthought.

  “Um, she was sort of shot…in the head…a couple of times. And maybe in the heart, too.”

  For all the ways he could have responded, Christian chose total and absolute silence. Then, just as Brayden was about to say something, the man said, “You need to have her home to me by the time I return. Seriously. Make sure she’s there by morning.”

  “I will.”

  And then the line was dead.

  3

  Brayden didn’t tell the girls about his conversation with Christian Swann, or that the man was in New York and booking a flight home a.s.a.p. And he certainly didn’t tell them they had to be back in Palo Alto in the morning lest they test the billionaire’s wrath, which could very well be significant. Nope, it was no use ruining the night with that kind of news. Instead, he said, “Netty, Abby, we’re going clothes shopping for tonight’s festivities and I’m buying.” He didn’t know what he was in for, but he did know Abby couldn’t feel like herself wearing other people’s clothes. Namely Netty’s.

  It was a generous plan that later had him bored to freaking death. He killed time by gaming on just about anything that walked. Cashiers, sales girls, customers, even a young couple who looked like they were either fighting or on the verge of separating.

  One half of the couple—the guy part of the equation—he was one of those thirty-something dick eaters with steroid arms and low-priced tattoos and Palmade-slicked hair, and she couldn’t be more than twenty-five with a look on her beautiful face that said she wasn’t amused by anything. The girl was hot AF and fit with sporty tits and yoga-toned legs. The guy though? He was way too tan. Women like her, they started out dickmatized (hypnotized by the dick) and in love. Within months, however, it was over. Maybe this guy was a narcissistic butthole, or his protein farts made her cry, or his ‘roid rage was over the top. Whatever the case, women like her got irked by guys like him real quick. If he had to guess, he would put them at five months dating.

  When the douchebag was in the dressing room trying on whatever, Brayden approached her. In an unobtrusive, yet silly tone that sounded purposely gay, he said, “That juicy squeeze of meat on your arm, is he yours or is he just eye candy for other chicks and chicks with dicks?”

  Up close, the girl was a real heart stopper. She oozed sadness. Looking him over, trying on his sincerity, she said, “Ask him, he’s still not sure.”

  The weight of her despair was enough to bow her spine. The way Brayden made it sound, it was like he might be interested in her man if she wasn’t. After all, this was San Francisco.

  “In fact, you can have him if you want,” she said with a wounded laugh.

  A tear skimmed her cheek and in his regular voice, now making eyes that were very heterosexual and mildly interested, he said, “I was actually wondering about you. You look really sad to me.”

  She wiped her eyes. “Wait, so are you gay or not?”

  “Not by a mile, sweetheart. But I’m not running game on you either. I’ve got no agenda other than you caught my eye and, I’m sorry to say, but I couldn’t look away.”

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  The look she was giving him, the interest she was showing, he knew she wouldn’t put up walls between them. Now if she told him to beat it after finding out he wasn’t a dick-lover, that would be an entirely different situation. But it wasn’t. So he continued.

  “Not to be rude, but my name doesn’t really matter. Basically, I have six months to live, and this has me seeing both things and people in a much different light.”

  He made the I’m-dying-and-I-shouldn’t-tell-you-but-I-will-anyway face. It’s easy to confess all your guarded secrets to strangers who are dying because they don’t care enough about you to judge you. Or punish you.

  “Really?” she said, stricken. Instantly she made the face people make when someone they know says they’re rotting to death inside, or whatever.

  “No,” he admitted with a mischievous grin. “I’m not dying.”

  She slapped his shoulder pretty hard. “You ass,” she said with laughter in her voice. Wiping her damp eyes, she said, “And here I was feeling bad for you.”

  “Look, in all seriousness, I’m just a guy looking at a girl who wants more from her love life than what she’s getting. That’s all. Not that I’m judging. Seriously, I’m not. See, I’m crushing on this girl right now—she’s my high school non-sweetheart—and swear to God, it’s like I’m chasing a comet. I’ll never catch her, but even if I do, it’ll never be what I want because if you get too close to this one, you’ll flat out burn. That’s my sad story. Not that it matters.”

  “It does,” she said. “And it is sad.”

  “I guess what I’m saying is you and I, we have something in common.”

  “What’s your name?” she said. “Honestly.” She squared her shoulders to his, a clear non-verbal indicator of interest, of trust. Her eyes were green, not like emeralds, but something deeper, with flecks of gold in them. With her raven colored hair and flawless skin, he put her at twenty-two, maybe twenty-three. Sadness was sexy on her. Happiness just might be euphoric.

  “Brayden,” he said with his most practiced smile, the one the Polish beauty, Aniela, said made him irresistible. Gaming her like he was, he almost missed the Vegas scene. And he definitely missed Aniela.

  She extended a slender hand and said, “I’m Chastity.”

  He took her hand, held onto it a little longer than she expected and said, “Your name implies virtue.”

  “Sweetie,” she replied with the most suggestive of grins, and not a tear in her eye, “I’m anything but virtuous.”

  He laughed, let go of her hand, then said, “Keep talking like that and I’m bound to fall in love.”

  She seemed to consider something, but only for a moment. She stole a quick glance over her shoulder, where her future ex-boyfriend was still in the changing room squeezing his oversized pectorals into…whatever, and was satisfied he wasn’t any closer to coming out.

  Turning back to Brayden, she said, “Give me your cell phone.” He fished it from his pocket and handed it to her. She entered her number, stored it under CHASTITY and said, “In two days call me. And not a day sooner.” Then, nodding toward the dressing room where the over-tanned moose was, she said, “I just decided I’m putting that dying cow out to pasture.”

  Chastity’s was one of three numbers he pulled while waiting for the girls to buy their outfits for the evening’s activities. The other two numbers he got on social proof alone.

  The thing Romeo once said was this: “See a guy with two dimes (tens) and instantly you’ve got a guy with serious credentials.” I.e. social proof.

  Titan quickly chimed into that conversation, saying, “First thing these girls start wondering is if you suck cock.”

  Titan said, “They can’t help it. That’s how they think.”

  “But then they’ll check your hair, your style, how you walk,” Romeo said. “It’s only when they see how you are with your girls that they’ll determine you’re not gay.”

  “The next question that pops into their heads is this,” Titan said. “If you aren’t blowing other dudes, are you available? Because whatever it is you have, they want it.”

  Romeo was right; Titan was right. The thing about having social proof, it was no great mystery, it was social science. As in provable.

  And after dropping five hundo on the right skirts, the right blouses and the right shoes, Brayden really considered calling Chastity. Rebound love was the best love because it usually ended quick. As he was mulling this over in his mind, Abby—with her new clothes in hand—thanked him in the kind of bubbly voice he’d never heard her use before. She then kissed him long and hard on the cheek and said, “You’re the best, Brayden,” and he knew right away he’d most definitely call Chastity. Why? Because the Abby before never said stuff like that. She never made that stupid bubbly voice.

 
For heaven’s sake, they both despised girls like that.

  4

  The ultra chic nightclub, Vessel SF, was in San Francisco’s Union Square. One look at the smattering of women in the place and Brayden knew the guys in Vegas who told him about Vessel weren’t full of crap. And who knew Moguai was playing that night? Motherfreaking Moguai! Talk about the gods of beat house music smiling down upon them!

  “If you don’t know who this guy is,” Brayden said to Netty, “I’m not sure we can be friends.”

  The girls’ response was like they were realizing their periods were over. Totally lackluster. And Brayden? He wore excited eyeballs that shook with near hysteria. At some point his excitement for this guy would become contagious. Sadly, they admitted to not knowing him.

  What a shame.

  “He practically made beat house music what it is today. He’s genius. Especially when it comes to throwing together big room tracks. Basically, when this guy gets started, he owns you. He owns the crowd.”

  They were inside the club now and it was packed.

  He said: “Jesus, just look around.”

  The LED lights throbbed to Moguai’s beat, which was massive and hit you in your heart, deep in your bones, and practically everyone was ultra-high energy, submissive to the moment, moving boneless and hypnotic and in mob unison.

  Dancing bodies were crushed against each other. No one cared. A hundred hands reached into the air. They reached for the bodies next to them. Hands on arms and lower backs, hands on the curves of asses. Everywhere you looked, it was in your face: guys and girls with that look in their eyes, the we-just-met-but-I’m-sooo-into-you look. God, he craved the promise of that look! Dudes were moving and grooving and grinding against girls dressed to fuck, girls who went against their better judgment and just went with it.

  It was overwhelming, but in a righteous way.

  Drinks were full, then they were empty. They were sloshed around and swallowed. They were spilled on wasted chicks who just laughed and maybe threw a punch or two, but all in good fun. Inside, Brayden was becoming his better self. He was dying to mingle, to be seen, to leave his mark all over the scene.

  His body moved automatic, surrendering itself to the club’s energy. He was no longer Brayden. That guy was gone. In this place, right now, he was Enigma.

  The air tasted damp, like perfume and sweat and alcohol. Laughter ran like fingers walking the length of his back, made him think you’d have to be the biggest butt-plug ever to not have a good time.

  He was going to have a good time.

  Simple as that.

  The place was an industrial wonderland. We’re talking massive concrete blocks, brick walls that survived the last two major earthquakes, bare steel pipes running here and there along the length of the ceiling. Throw in a sexy as hell pair of go-go dancers and a killer laser show and what you had was the feeling that you were everywhere else. Which was exactly where you wanted to be.

  Experiencing Moguai’s musical genius made him believe if God could be anywhere, He would be right here. In this club. Goose bumps gave him arm-hair hard-ons. Made his heart feel pumped to the brim with Nitrous Oxide. Which it was.

  The bass was intense, hammering the air relentless. Moguai’s beat found a home in your soul. It made you dance. And if you couldn’t move for shit? You didn’t care. You found a way to move, that’s how talented this guy was.

  Some girl he didn’t know, an Asian girl with fast tits and short shorts, she locked eyes, walked up to him and tried to hand him a pill. Ecstasy. X. He smiled, shook his head no, told her, “It’s already in me, sweetheart, but thanks.” She trailed her hand along his body, did the whole sexy-sad thing, while eye-raping him as she walked off.

  Already it was happening. He was in the fold. It was always funny how dudes with blazing hot chicks always got the best play. The minute he breezed in with Netty and Abby, everyone’s glazed little eyes found their way to him. Hello, ladies. What’s up chumps? Suddenly the three of them became the gorgeous little center of everyone’s attention. He sprung an emotional erection. But Abby? She didn’t have a clue. She had no idea what was about to hit her.

  The club girls with their exercised asses, their barely-anything halter tops and their high, high heels…their eyes rode Abby up and down. The haters stood out. They had the kind of nasty looks that could start wars. Then these underdressed, slutified cock gobblers of the house music scene zeroed in on Brayden with the “what in Jesus’ name is he doing with them?” looks on their beautiful faces.

  Perfect.

  He grinned that grin, thinking: That’s right, they’re with me and you mean exactly nothing to me. Nothing. The way everything ceased to matter, how he was consumed with utter indifference, it was going to eat these girls alive. He had the look down. In Vegas, Aniela made him practice for days. All the sudden, you could see these girls, how they started wondering about him—wondering if he was big time, if he had a porn star hog, if he was a trust fund baby with connections.

  Yes, yes, and hell to the yes.

  He owned that shit. Every last inch of it.

  And Abby? Guys couldn’t peel their eyes off her. You could feel their boner-heat warming the room, like the entire club swelled five degrees in seconds. Paralyzed lust was never so obvious. Dudes looked at Abby and saw their future. They undressed her with their mind, saw the flesh they wanted to see—the exact flesh they needed to see—then they went weak-kneed with lust because these guys were dreaming the kinds of dreams that would never come true. She would never blow them. She wouldn’t take a ring and do happily-ever-after. And she certainly wouldn’t have their two point three kids. Ever. Chances were, by the time the night expired, she wouldn’t even look at them, much less take the time to tell them to kick rocks with their weak ass game. Still, the want hung heavy in their eyes, all syrupy and wet, all restless and needy.

  Brayden looked at Abby and she looked like she was feeling her social worth for the first time in maybe forever. Earlier, while doing her makeup, she said, “I love this new body of mine, and this face.” But there, in Vessel, she was seeing how much everyone else loved her face and body, too. She drew a breath, exhaled all shaky and uncertain. Like she was meeting Angelina Jolie, or Gandhi.

  Habit had Brayden skimming the LED-blurred crowd looking for eight’s, nine’s and ten’s. He probably had the only ten in the room, Abby, but there were plenty of eight’s and nine’s to be had.

  “Oh my God,” Netty said over the music. “I love this place!”

  Brayden smiled at her, thought she looked a bit yummy. Her eyes were everywhere, taking it in. She had a beautiful smile. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen it, but it was the first time it really got down in him and stuck.

  When Abby was fat Savannah, she wouldn’t be caught dead in a club. Her social anxiety would have her blowing chunks at the idea of being around all these gorgeous people looking like a freaking bridge troll. Brayden wondered if she was feeling helpless and ugly all over again. She wasn’t exactly herself. Not even close.

  He took her hand and she let him. The glazed looked of awe on her beautiful face made Brayden wonder if she knew their hands were entwined. He turned into her and followed her eyes with his. They absorbed everything. Her expression changed, deepened; it softened. She went a bit pale. Was this her anxiety returning? Was she afraid? He felt exactly the same way when he went sarging (picking up on women) with Romeo and Titan the first time. Perhaps that was all this was to Abby: a new first time.

  He squeezed her hand, leaned in and said, “This was never your scene, but you are no longer the girl you used to be. This is so much better than anything you’ve ever known before.”

  Somewhere deep inside, in the darker more selfish parts of himself, he didn’t want to help her. If she was helpless, he could have her. Be with her. But she wouldn’t thrive, and she wouldn’t be his, and this would eat him alive. He knew this. Before anything, Brayden was a friend, and a friend would help her realize her true self
even if the result was counterproductive to his obsession.

  “I don’t know who I am,” she said. “Or who I was.” That emotion he saw in her eyes, all over her face, it was in her voice, too. That total lack of confidence. She had no awareness of who she was, so she didn’t know how to be.

  “You’re Abby motherfucking Swann,” he said over the music, grinning with conviction, like it mattered more than she knew, which it did. “Now own it.”

  “How do I do that?” she asked.

  “Start by smiling.”

  She did, and it looked like the most unnatural smile in the world.

  “Not like that,” he said, laughing. He turned her body to hers, facing her with squared shoulders. “Abby, darling, smile like you have the best secret ever. Then loosen your shoulders, point those perfect tits out, but not too much.” She did it and the improvement was magnetic. Her smile was contagious.

  “Like this?”

  He nodded. “Now if you want to be the shit, don’t look at people. Look through them. Around them. Like they don’t matter to you, which they don’t. You matter to them.”

  Her posture softened even further, and for some reason her eyes seemed brighter.

  Netty leaned across Brayden and said to Abby, “Everything okay?”

  Abby gave her two thumbs up, which totally wasn’t her, but it was light and fun and so Brayden and Netty went with it.

  “Let’s mingle,” he said.

  The three of them weaved through the crowd, smelling perfumes and body lotions, smelling the airy scents of flavored alcohol and physical exertion. His head moved to the beat of the music, and his bones had a good two songs packed in them. He so desperately wanted to get in the mix, to make new friends, but he played his hand. Right now, he was cultivating mystery, building up social proof. Being seen with Abby and Netty, it was him skyrocketing the mystery of his persona.

  He took Netty’s hand, who was also at his side, and he saw her with different eyes. She was no two A.M. beauty queen. She was legit. A solid eight. It wasn’t that he’d almost forgotten about her, he was preoccupied with so many other things. Namely how he felt about Abby. He would do anything to be with her. Would that ever happen, though? He feared it wouldn’t. Even Netty said that deep down, in the coding of her, things were changed. Different.