Jean Robinson

There's only 365 days in a year. This means 8,765 hours, and 31,536,000 seconds. Too little of time for what needed to be done in a year's term. 

The black Camry sat idle on the corner of Sixth and Broad. The driver was sulked down over the steering wheel, his fingers tapping impatiently against the window. He appeared in his sixties, his short, thinning hair as white as snow. 

The streetlight flickered, casting an eerie glow. The cracked pavement looked like gashes, running along the edges of the road. A lone Lorry came thundering down the street, passing the Camry with ease. The man had tensed his muscles, but soon relaxed when he noticed no danger. I wondered who he was waiting for. Someone important, from the looks of things. Through the hardening rain, I could make out the light of his iphone as he dialed a number. I assumed he was calling, unless he was just flipping through some old pictures. But for some particular reason, maybe from his two feet wide muscles or his outgoing veins, he didn't seem like the man to do that. My binoculars were fogging, and I had to look away to wipe them against the soft cloth of my coat before replacing them. Sure enough, he had the phone up against his ear, and his mouth moved as he talked. I made out a few words, but none I could put together. I imagined he was talking to whoever he was waiting on because his veins popped out more than usual and his fingers gained speed against the window. Just as the light diminished from the cellular device, another man walked out of the club and sat cautiously into the Camry. This man was of about the same dimensions as the first, except he was African American, and much younger. I twisted my jaw. Two was always harder than one. As much as these guys intimidated me, I was sure neither of them had half the intelligence I did. That would explain their position as body guards. I smiled before I sat the binoculars into the passenger seat and drove my car into the club's parking lot. The men looked at me, but I paid them no attention just as an innocent bystander would. Their eyes drifted to my calves, and I soon felt better inside the haven of the building. The feeling drifted away as every man looked at me with hunger in their eyes as I removed my rain coat. I admit, the red tube top and mini skirt was out of my comfort zone, but I would do whatever I needed to do to get the job done. 

I moved slowly towards the bar, pushing my way past the sweaty dancers on the floor. My eyes searched the bodies for awhile, looking for a tall and skinny fair haired man. I caught sight of one leaning against a wall, drinking a beer. He looked drunk, hence his nonchalant way of not falling over. I smiled a seductive smile in his direction as I sat on a bar stool across the room. He caught glimpse of me, and dizzily strode over. I searched his profile; Brown eyes, short brown hair, and mocha colored skin. He fit the description well. 

"Give us two bourbons," He slurred to the bar tender. I smiled, and smoothed the ruffles out of my skirt. He looked at me with interest. 

"Hello," I said. He smiled back, revealing a white set of teeth. If he hadn't of been my target, I might of looked at him in a bar and given him some attention. 

"Hi," He held out a firm hand, and I took it, "Damien Kelly." I nodded my head and took a sip of the hard liquor that was set in front of me. It slid down my throat burning every nerve it found. 

"And you are?" He asked when I had set my drink back down. I cleared my throat, 

"Susan Collins." He nodded his head, and finished off his drink, banging it loudly on the counter to get it refilled. The waiter rolled his eyes, but fulfilled his wish. Damien's eyes trailed up and down my body with sexual appeal. I pretended to look at him in the same way. 

"Quiet, aren't you?" He questioned, touching my bare thigh. I nervously laughed. 

"Yes." He licked his lips before leaning towards my ear.