Deacon

 

 

Miss Matthews. Well, aren’t you a pleasant surprise?

  Her long, dark hair and tight, round ass made a perfect distraction from the grim newspaper headlines I’d been reading all morning. I don’t do distractions, but I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off her.

  Her driver dropped her bags on the floor across the room while she took care of the logistics of her stay. Her perfection took my breath away. My imagination ran wild with thoughts of wrapping the threads of a gently used rope around her delicate body in the most intricate patterns of Shibari. I could almost feel the twine slipping between my fingers as I pictured her suspended from the heavy beam of my farmhouse. Her hair would swing low while the rope turned her body into a flawless work of art. Her body would be my canvas, and the rope my brush. She would be beautiful.

  She spoke, and there was a gentle firmness in her tone when she insisted on carrying her own luggage. Maybe she’s not submissive. Maybe it’s just been too long since I’ve knotted someone, and my mind was running away from me. But, even in her independence, there was something about her that fascinates me.

  She said hello, and her smile was like the sunrise. I couldn’t ignore the warmth it brought into the room. When she took her bags and left the lobby, the headlines shouted at me from the front page, reminding me why I’m here. David.

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

    After I met Johan in his room, we left the lodge to follow up on reports of gang violence outside the city, which led us to where I am now. Thirty-three people died last month alone, including one 7-year old boy who was shot while playing soccer on his neighborhood streets. The people are growing restless with the failure of police protection, and many of them are beginning to lash out. One radical group, in particular, decided the best way to get authorities to listen was to take one of my men and use him as a mouthpiece for their disdain.

  Uniformed officers scoured the sidewalks in an effort to stabilize the violent crimes. Just as Johan and I started to approach a group of three of them, hoping to get some inside information on the group that has David, a band of armed men ran out from the perimeter and opened fire, capping one of the officers right in the neck.

As bullets sped past, and the sounds of rebellion surrounded us, we scattered. In an open field, behind an abandoned warehouse, I found this hole. Spaced about fifteen feet apart are at least a dozen other holes just like this one. Four feet wide and six feet deep. Graves. Graves for innocent people being killed every day. A grave I refuse to let capture me. A grave I promised David’s wife and son he wouldn’t see. Not on my watch, anyway.

 The day is gone now. Eleven hours. According to the time on my wrist, that’s how long I’ve been in this hole. It finally stopped raining about ten minutes ago. My feet are heavily buried in the thick mud around my boots. The pungent scent of marijuana seeps through the night air as deep voices carry across the openness.

 

My wet clothes cling to my skin, making it harder to lift my arms to stretch. My eyelids are heavy from hours of waiting, watching, listening. The gunshots silenced earlier but only for as long as the rain fell. I should have taken that time to climb out of my refuge, but every time I tried, my feet slipped on the muddy walls. I pull my bottom lip inside my mouth to stop the quiver. The sun’s gone down, bringing a chill to the air.

The voices quiet and the stench fades. They’re gone. They didn’t find me. But I’m not surprised. I’ve lived my life being invisible, doing what it takes not to disturb the world around me. I’m an expert at disappearing into the background, fading into the distance. Some people might call that a curse. I call it power. I rest my head against the wet dirt behind me and close my eyes.

 

   ***

 

 Eleven hours after the ambush, I’m back on the streets of the city. We have a protocol for situations like this, and Johan knows exactly what to do.

When I make it back to the Greenleaf Lodge, the petite blonde in reception hands me a large gold envelope. I fold back the metal clasps and remove the contents. “Someone dropped this off? I need to know who.”

She shuffles her cinnamon scented gum between her teeth and twirls the end of her long blonde hair. “A courier. Just some guy in a uniform.”

“Yellow or blue?”

“Yellow.”

 DHL. “Thanks.”

 I stuff the photos back in the envelope and start to walk away. The heavy echo of my boots clunks against the delicate wood floors of the lobby, reminding me I’d spent the past twenty-four hours in a muddy grave. I don’t need a mirror to know I look like hell, but by the way the blonde’s eyes darken and her lips part when I speak, I’m assuming she doesn’t care.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I’m good.” I’m not interested in her flirting.

“Nothing? At all?”

“Thanks. But, I’m good.”

I’m ready to escape to a hot shower and cold drink.

Sometimes I wonder what the fuck I’m doing. Then I remember what the fuck I’m doing.

 

 

***