Luck Be A Lady (Prompt 18, Vecchio)
Luck Be A Lady
Vecchio, PG-13, 320 words
A bottle of Clos du Mesnil for after dinner. Custom tailored Armani suits, hanging one after another in a perfect row in the closet. Six cars (two Mercedes, two Jags, a Rolls, and a Ferrari). A butler and a maid and a cook. A house he gets lost in, a couple of heart-pounding times, when he first gets there.
Girls, they tell him - if he wants girls they'll bring them. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, black, white, whatever. Whatever you want, Bookman. Boys, if you're in the mood. Clearly, that's what he wanted. Him. They come, one night after another, smelling like too-strong perfume and they're too young. He fucks them, because he can't afford to get a reputation.
Cool, smooth metal in his hand. Glock 17 semi. Loading the gun, testing the weight, taking off the safety. Head bent in prayer, kneeling in supplication, and he lets his hand rest there, feeling the fear. The trigger under his finger. It's easier to do than he thought, and he only hears the whispered pleas, the sound of the body hitting the ground, before he turns away and lets someone else clean up the mess.
At night, he doesn't dream, but sometimes wakes up covered in sweat, his heart racing, and he can't remember why. Every day is a gamble, every moment maybe the last, so he's gotta live it. He's gotta own it, or they'll be sending him back to his ma and Frannie and Maria, and, Christ, to Benny, in a fucking box, if he's lucky.
He keeps his head up, foot on the gas of the Ferrari, a girl in his bed, slips his feet into his butter-soft Italian leather loafers, and keeps his hand on his gun. He smiles and they bring him dinner and a Dalmore 62, neat. The Bookman asks, and he gets, and he hopes that Ray might come out on the other side.
My prompt table
Vecchio, PG-13, 320 words
A bottle of Clos du Mesnil for after dinner. Custom tailored Armani suits, hanging one after another in a perfect row in the closet. Six cars (two Mercedes, two Jags, a Rolls, and a Ferrari). A butler and a maid and a cook. A house he gets lost in, a couple of heart-pounding times, when he first gets there.
Girls, they tell him - if he wants girls they'll bring them. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, black, white, whatever. Whatever you want, Bookman. Boys, if you're in the mood. Clearly, that's what he wanted. Him. They come, one night after another, smelling like too-strong perfume and they're too young. He fucks them, because he can't afford to get a reputation.
Cool, smooth metal in his hand. Glock 17 semi. Loading the gun, testing the weight, taking off the safety. Head bent in prayer, kneeling in supplication, and he lets his hand rest there, feeling the fear. The trigger under his finger. It's easier to do than he thought, and he only hears the whispered pleas, the sound of the body hitting the ground, before he turns away and lets someone else clean up the mess.
At night, he doesn't dream, but sometimes wakes up covered in sweat, his heart racing, and he can't remember why. Every day is a gamble, every moment maybe the last, so he's gotta live it. He's gotta own it, or they'll be sending him back to his ma and Frannie and Maria, and, Christ, to Benny, in a fucking box, if he's lucky.
He keeps his head up, foot on the gas of the Ferrari, a girl in his bed, slips his feet into his butter-soft Italian leather loafers, and keeps his hand on his gun. He smiles and they bring him dinner and a Dalmore 62, neat. The Bookman asks, and he gets, and he hopes that Ray might come out on the other side.
My prompt table