Who knows? Perhaps I had something on the Prince. But that wasn't for Penny to know or consider.
“You's a sick motherfucker, man,” he said with renewed swagger, resuming his gum chewing.
“One other thing.”
“Damn, dude! Ain't you got somewhere to be? I wanna get up outta here.”
“Natalia. Tell her I'm sorry about the blackmail job.”
“Oh. We don't talk much since I signed with North, but I can do that,” he said, switching to meekness. “It's going to be better now . . . for both of us.” With that, he adjusted his fitted Miami Hurricanes baseball capâodd combination with the Mediterranean linen he sportedâand shuffled off to attend to North.
Downstairs, I slipped through the lobby once again, shrugging off pangs of melancholy as I exited through the front doors.
Free.
My antique Roadster spun around to pick me up, barely missing my foot. Its dreadful operator, unaccustomed to its right-sided steering wheel, was my contact inside Jason's camp.
Sophia.
Hey, someone with her skills was too valuable, no matter how enraged I was at the time. I unloaded my gun into the floor that fateful day of reckoning back in California, missing her entirely, as I decided to be merciful for some reason and spare her life. In some twisted way, it turned her on.
A loud gasp erupted from the passing crowd as Jason's body plummeted from the other end of the building. It landed with a sick thud on the cobblestones, causing screams to ring out once the paparazzi realized it wasn't some music week prank. That was followed by a super nova of flashbulbs, replacing whatever must-have shot was important moments earlier. The valet attendants and door guards scrambled toward Jason's body, trying to maintain order and gain control of the situation. I didn't bother looking up, for no one would be in the window by now. Penny wasn't stupid.
All that would be left was the writing of obituaries and tributes to a man who changed the industry, yet deserved none of it.
“Where to, guvnah?” Sophia asked in a shaky cockney accent that seemed to amuse only her. It wasn't like we were in London.
This week.
“Wherever you want to go. It's a new day. Let's just enjoy it,” I said as I jumped in the passenger seat.
With that simple instruction, my apprentice sped me away, down the coast and into obscurity.
Or maybe in search of more mayhem . . . if we chose.
We were myths, after all.
About the Author
Eric Pete is an
Essence
bestselling novelist. His works include:
Someone's In the Kitchen, Gets No Love, Don't Get It Twisted, Lady Sings the Cruels, Blow Your Mind, Sticks and Stones
, and
Reality Check
. He has also contributed to the anthologies
After Hours, Twilight Moods, and On the Line
. He currently resides in Texas where he is working on his next novel. His website is
ericpete.com
.
Urban Books, LLC
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Deer Park, NY 11729
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Crushed Ice ©copyright 2010 Eric Pete
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-6228-6125-5
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This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living, or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.
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