A Flame Divine ♕

VII. S E L F - D E S T R U C T

m e r r i k

C H I C A G O

Merrik tapped his foot on the tile, the sole of his Oxfords making a clicking noise echo through the lobby. Tap, tap, tap. If his buyer didn't show up in the next sixty seconds, Merrik would not be a happy man. Finally, the revolving doors of the building spun, revealing an older man with short, stocky legs. He briskly approached Merrik, holding out his hand with a smile. Merrik shook it but offered no such facial expression. He had made it with fifteen seconds to spare.

"Seventy-five hundred grams," Merrik said, holding up a silver briefcase. He cocked his head toward the office suite, beckoning him to follow. "I trust you have payment."

"Of course," the older man said, holding up a black briefcase, much like the one in Merrik's own hand. "I'm always good for it, Mr.–"

Merrik held up a large palm. "Enough with the pleasantries; come inside," he said, holding the door open for the squatty man to walk ahead. He followed the man in and shut the door with a click. He stood behind the mahogany desk, set the briefcase on top, and clicked open the latch, revealing a large amount of white powder. "The payment?" he asked, snapping the case shut.

The short man–Merrik was pretty sure his name was Harold–lifted his arm and mimicked Merrik's motions, revealing stacks and stacks of cash. "$375,000. Unmarked and untraceable."

Merrik nodded. "Very good," he said, closing the case and taking the handle into his hand. He left the silver case on the table behind him. "Pleasure doing business with you," he told Harold. Or maybe it was Henry?

His shoes clicked once again on the floor as he exited the building. He would deposit seventy percent of that into his foreign bank account, and pay the remaining thirty into the business' account. He would be that much richer.

Making his way back to his sleek black BMW, he looked up at the Chicago skyline. The sun had just set, and the baddies would come out to play. It was the perfect night for a drink.

He drove to his favorite lounge, a nice place on Michigan Avenue. He parked along the street and entered.

"Good evening, Merrik," the host greeted him as he swung the door open and stepped over the threshold.

"Good evening, George," he responded with a curt nod in his direction. "Everything quiet tonight?"

George nodded. "So far. Now that you're here though, things might start hopping," he said with a grin.

Shaking his head in amusement, Merrik made his way to the bar and perched on a stool. "Whiskey neat," he said to the bartender, who immediately turned around to make his drink. That was one of the reasons this was his favorite place; they treated him like royalty here.

He sipped his whiskey and tapped his fingers on the wooden bar, eyes scanning the room. He was always aware of his surroundings; you never knew who was around or what would happen at any given point.

On his second glance around the room, he met the eyes of a brunette with a pixie cut who had slid onto the stool next to him, whose eyes trailed up and down his lean frame.

"What will it be?" he asked the woman. Choice of alcohol always said something about a person. He was curious as to what she would choose.

She smirked at him and said without hesitation, "A Mojito, please."

Merrik raised an eyebrow and tapped the bar.

"Extra mint," she added.

Shortly after, the bartender placed a tall mojito in front of the lady. She took a sip, her mauve lipstick leaving prints.

"Sweet enough for you?" Merrik asked.

She licked her lips and met his eyes, not blinking or shying away. "Yeah..." She took another sip and set the glass down, running her fingertip around the rim of the glass. "You want a taste?" she murmured, running her tongue along her top lip.

His eyes followed the movement of her tongue, and he frowned. Usually, Merrik would spare no more words and drive them both to his penthouse suite. But this time, he paused.

What was he doing? He was a twenty-four-year-old billionaire with an illegal business. What did his life really amount to?

The thought put a stone in his stomach. Who was he becoming?

"I think I'll pass," Merrik told the woman. He downed his drink and slid off the barstool, walking out of the lounge without looking back.

°°°

Merrik stepped off the elevator into his apartment, running his fingers through his perfectly sculpted hair.

Walking into his kitchen, he pulled a bottle of Jack Daniels from the liquor cabinet. He started to pull a glass out of the cabinet, but he scoffed and just took a swig out of the bottle.

He should be happy. He'd made his first million at nineteen, and ever since, he had everything he could have ever dreamed of: the penthouse, the BMW, designer suits–and even after all that, more money than he knew what to do with.

And for the past few years, a girl in his bed almost every night.

He had never turned a beautiful girl down–yes, something was changing within him, and if he was being honest, it scared the shit out of him.

Was he destined to be like his father? Spending his life never settling down, hopping from one thrill to the next before dying a useless rich man? That was not the life Merrik wanted.

But how was he supposed to be anything other than that? He had responsibilities as a boss, responsibilities that he couldn't shirk in order to have a relationship... and was that even what was missing in his life?

Even if it were... what woman would want to commit herself to a man like him?

He kicked off his shoes, placing them neatly side-by-side before unbuttoning his shirt. He walked the bottle of whiskey to the balcony, peering out over the skyline where thousands of lights glowed. Each one told a story, a secret—one that Merrik would never be in on.

It was a perfect night for a drink, he thought, and knocked the bottle back once more.