Within Temptation (7-chapter excerpt)

Chapter 7: In The Lion's Den

CHAPTER SEVEN

In The Lion’s Den

--SHANNON--

Nothing could have prepared me for Darien’s fax. A week had already passed, and I was still at a loss for words.

The day I’d gotten it, I scoured the first page and barely stomached the second. Reading the rest was sheer torture. After obsessing for days, I finally found the courage to show it to Trace. I just prayed I’d find him in a reasonable mood.

The sky had turned a wicked shade of gray once I got to Temptation. I purposely parked two blocks from Fontana Exxon. Last thing I needed was for someone to see my car outside Trace’s job. Darien’s words hadn’t fallen on deaf ears. He was right. Tongues were still flapping. I’d be darned before I’d give anyone more ammunition.

I threw my hood on, tugging it over my brow. I had to do something, what, with my own face towering over me a block away. No matter how many times I saw those billboards, I’d never get used to them.

The car alarm’s chirp bounced off the ugly fleet of concrete buildings that dotted this busy road. Even the halfhearted Christmas ornaments decorating some of the storefronts couldn’t lift the gloom. Temptation needed a serious face-lift.

I covered the two blocks in record speed, and like a diamond on a gnarled finger, the newly renovated gas station stood out in relief against the dreary backdrop. Twin mounds of black snow walled both sides of the pavement, which lay smothered in dirty slush. Flicking a wary glance over my shoulder, I gathered my coat and trudged up the crudely shoveled footpath to the entrance.

Frost and Christmas garland bordered the building’s storefront window, and inside, behind a long, slate-colored counter, Cholly Fontana sat with two other men, their backs to me. They all wore matching gray shirts with Fontana Exxon written in bold script on the back.

Their attention was riveted on a TV they’d set atop a file cabinet. The wadded tin foil crowning its makeshift antenna didn’t help the basketball game’s grainy picture.

Christmas lights framed the two-way mirror that centered the cinder block wall to their right. Photos and certificates lined the other walls. A cracked flat screen TV peeked out from a box in the corner.

Cologne, burned coffee, and prehistoric BO were just a few of the odors that assaulted my nose upon entering. I stomped the sleet from my boots, but the noise, along with the clang of the jingle bells against the glass door, didn’t rouse the men. They were too busy yelling at the TV.

I tugged off my hood and cleared my throat. Nothing. Who could hear with all that racket? Rap music, a blasphemous tune featuring a chorus of ‘Hail Mary’ complete with an assorted collection of swear words, blared from the sound system.

Face burning, I stepped up to the counter and tapped my keys on the Formica, but the chaotic din drowned me out.

This time I raised my voice. “Excuse me.”

Three sets of eyes swung my way. The blonde, stringy-haired man on Cholly’s left gave me a lecherous smile that revealed a yellow corncob of misshapen or otherwise, missing teeth. The one seated next to him with the red Mohawk and skin that resembled a sausage pizza, let out a wet-sounding belch.

It took all my strength to keep my lunch down.

My eyes widened when Trace’s best friend uncoiled from his chair. At six-foot-six, Cholly Fontana looked like a formidable giant. His short afro was cut into a fade on both sides of his head. Butterscotch-colored arms that had scored many a three-pointer were covered in tattoos. He was quite handsome, despite his trademark scowl. He’d played for the Washington Wizards until a tragic knee injury ended his career a few years back.