Submission {UNFIN}

Chapter Six.

1:47 a.m., Brooklyn, New York.

I eased out of the Rolls Royce and onto the sidewalk where Trent awaited, his eyes so desperately flitting around to ensure we hadn't any onlookers. The hours prior to our meeting passed so painfully lethargic that the sight of him in his neanderthal-looking pants that hung below his underwear caused me to sigh of alleviation. The light overhead that inadequately lit up the block casted harsh shadows over his face as I eased my way to him.

"Do you have the money?" I watched in expectancy, hoping to soon feel a wad of bills slapped into my hands. Trent bit his lip briefly before looking around, clearly stalling the answer I awaited. Just by the simple time lapse between my question and his answer, I knew that he hadn't been able to attain the money I needed, which infuriated me. That cash was so that I could pay off some of the more impatient investors, which would allow me to buy time that I knew I didn't particularly have. Not only that, but Trent was aware of my high expectations for him. When I told him to do something, he was to do it, to accomplish it. 

"Look, man, the stocks are affecting people out here too. You can't expect them to have money that them rich people up 'dere in the city ain't got, you feel? And as much as the paycheck is from you, I ain't gon' throw anymore of these people under the bus more than I already done, 'aight? These folks raised me, man. I done already stole from 'em. They waitin' on money that they ain't ever 'gon get back. They already broke. Shake down some of them Donald Trump crackers up there in the city."

I'd gotten so accustomed to his dialect that his poor grammar failed to affect me, but the meaning of his words had startled me. Trent had always been along for any and every plan I orchestrated. The fact that he was drawing a line seemed unlikely, and I didn't fear it for that reason, though it was clear I underestimated him. He was resisting.

"Trent, get your goddamned head on straight."

"Don't think that just because yo' name sound all fancy and shit that I'm just 'gon do whatever you say."

"I don't think you understand me. I will have you and everyone around you killed. Get me that money, Trent, and by next Thursday." A week seemed to be a fair amount of time. I brushed down my suit and turned to leave.

"Come back to this light post in a week and ain't 'gon be nobody here for you."

"Just remember who I am," I called as the door to my Rolls Royce was opened by my chauffeur.

"Man, I don't care about that bullshit. Leonardo DiCaprio; Sounds like a soft mothafucka's name if you ask me. Get in ya damn play car and roll off," he spat.

"A Rolls Royce is far from a play car, Trent." My door was then shut, and I watched with empathetic eyes as he spewed more heartless remarks. He was pathetic.

******

4:48 a.m., New York City, New York.

I quaffed the water, feeling the glass sweat with cold droplets running down, tickling me. My throat raged with the inferno of carnal reveries that left my body so awake that I was forced to get up from my bed and move around in attempt to soothe my unholy notions.

Since hanging up the phone earlier that day, I hadn't been able to stray my thoughts from one splendid sensation that was on its way in the coming hours of the day; Sex.

Despite it only having been three days since my last session with the spontaneously pleasuring activity, I found myself reaching for my vibrators and dildos in the wee hours of the past mornings. The cravings of my body were much to strenuous to oblige every time they came calling, but when they did come, I catered to them each chance I was able. I needed it, and irrationally badly.