Storm still stood at that entrance like a lost child waiting for his mom over the police counter.
He was completely paralysed, pinned to the spot by a confusion so thick it felt physical. He was terrified of taking the wrong step, of making one false move and vanishing into the ether like a wisp of cigar smoke.
None of these women, these ethereal, floating creatures seemed to notice his presence.
To them, he was a ghost, a smudge of grey against their gold-leafed reality, and the lack of acknowledgement was deeply unsettling.
His knees were beginning to throb, a dull ache radiating from the bone, and it seemed increasingly likely that he was going to be forced to stand there longer than his body would allow.
"Focus!" Storm cursed under his breath, delivering a sharp, mild slap to his own cheek as his eyes betrayed him, wandering down to the enlarging bulge in his trousers.
"You can't come all the way here to save your wife just to cheat on her," he scolded himself, his tone a jagged mixture of self-irritation and the raw frustration of a man losing a battle with his own biology.
He tucked his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, trying to camouflage the fact that they were trembling.
It wasn't the residual bite of the Japanese winter causing the tremors this time; it was a pure, unadulterated nervousness that made his stomach dance in overwhelming, nauseating bubbles.
Soon, he was going to meet the ruthless 'devil's incarnate' face to face. The terror was real, a cold weight in his chest as his mind raced back to the endless rows of warnings his friends had bombarded him with.
But still, here he was—a man prepared to walk through fire for the sake of his family's comfort.As he stood there his last conversation before embarking on this suicidal journey flooded in.
"Just keep in mind you are trying to strike a deal with the devil... Storm, this man is dangerous. Not even the petty crime dangerous—he is very dangerous!!!" Scarlet, his old-time friend, had warned him with wide, frantic eyes back at the office.
"Three hundred million?!! Man, that's insane... Are you really sure you want to do this, my man?"
Scarlet had asked, the concern dripping from his voice. But that was all they ever did, show concern. They never reached into their pockets. They never offered a real hand. And Storm was sick of the pity.
"I want to do this, man!! So are you going to slide that damn address to me or not?" he had fired back, his voice cracking with desperation.
"I pray you don't choke on this..." Scarlet had replied, his face a mask of dread as he slid the tiny, lethal card over to the sweaty, desperate man.
The warnings hadn't stopped there.
Every voice in his life seemed to chime in with its own brand of hollow advice. Why not wait for stocks to fully mature? I don't think this is the right way. Your wife's pan—pan what? Pancreatic cancer? Amigo, that can wait.
"Miguel is evil, give your stock time to yield," they'd said.
And that was where they had lost him. He didn't have the luxury of time; he didn't even have the luxury of a future.
Everything he owned had been liquidated, sold off piece by piece to keep his wife alive.
He wasn't ready to let his precious gems become motherless. Storm twitched his lips bitterly. He didn't care what the underworld said about this 'Miguel'; what mattered was that the man had the power to save his wife and rewrite the tragedy of his life.
He took a long, shaky breath, his eyes sweeping over the screaming luxury of the minka. He was ready for whatever this devil demanded, even if it was his own starving, desperate soul.
"Mr Storm?"
The voice was like wax melting over hot metal, soft, smooth, and dangerously heat-conductive. Storm snapped his head up toward the mini-staircase where the siren stood.
She didn't wait for a reply. She simply turned and began to ascend, her drapes swaying like a sea of clouds around her perfectly toned waist.
That was the signal.
Suddenly, the cold was a distant memory. The air in the hut felt thick, humid, and far too hot. It was time. Time to strike a stupid deal from a hungry mouth, a deal that patience might have solved, but the mind of a poor man moves on its own frantic clock.
Storm paced up the stairs, his footsteps careful, his heart a drum in his throat.
[Five years and some months later]
"Hmmmmm!!!!"
The moan got deeper, more inviting, as the friction and tension from the deep, rhythmic stroking intensified.
Miguel.
He was sprawled across his king-sized bed, positioned just inches from the wide-open window where the pale, indifferent moon slipped into his dark, monochromatic sanctuary.
The room was heavy with the scent of salt, sweat, and an expensive, undying fragrance. The moonlight cast sharp silver lines across the foam, spreading into every shadow.
Miguel held his phone high above his face. The blue digital light illuminated the sharp, beautiful carvings of his sculpted features, which were currently folded in a grimace of surrender.
The speakers leaked the sounds of intimate collision of flesh against flesh carelessly loud, overlaying his own deep, unapologetic grunts.
His body vibrated with a raw, kinetic energy. His palms took frantic lapses up and down his rock-hard, monstrous pipe, faster, then slower, then faster again but the orgasm remained elusive. The porn wasn't hitting the spot.
It wasn't nailing the nerve.
He caught his own frustrated reflection in the mirror he'd intentionally positioned at the foot of the bed.
He liked to watch himself perform, a narcissistic habit that usually satisfied him, but tonight, he looked like a stranger.
His body was a map of glistening sweat under the lunar glow.
Miguel was used to being in charge, especially on nights like this. But tonight? Control was a ghost.
He was bored, restless, and agitated by the events of the last few weeks. He had tried masturbating to kill the stress, but every time he closed his eyes, his mind reminded him that someone had sent amateurs to end his life.
The thought made his belly churn with a cold, murderous bile.
He dragged himself up against the headrest, thumbing the phone off and tossing it carelessly to the side.
A low, tired grunt escaped him as he slicked back the wet strands of hair from his forehead, sucking his teeth in annoyance.
"Shit!" he hissed, watching his boa constrictor shrink, limping sideways against his recently shaved torso frustrated and defeated, just like its master.
"It's high time I get you some real nice food," Miguel exhaled lazily. He stole one last glance at his limp reflection, whispering in the dark, "Feeding you myself is clearly not working anymore."
He turned his gaze back to the large window, looking out over the panoramic island nightlife.
Those bastards would be caught soon. He was sure of it. He sank back into the pillows, letting the heavy silence of the room swallow him.
And then, uninvited and sudden, the image of that boy at the club, the one with the rotting mouth and the stinging slap, slipped right through his heavy heart.
To be continued...