Pat Cromwell

Excerpt:

“Compressed file,” Ethan double clicked the attachment and waited for the computer to scan the file for a virus the Computer announced File Complete. 

“Here we go.”  Ethan turned the laptop to the left so that Jason could view it easier.  He  clicked on the first of several pictures.

 “She’s black!” Jason said.

“More like tawny.” Ethan replied.  “Another trait Simon and the Professor share; she’s cute.” Ethan added.  And familiar, he thought.

“If you like the scrawny type; I prefer a woman with a little more weight.  She’s cute but a hard wind would blow that pretty ass away; give me a size fourteen babe any day.  Her, I’d want to feed.”

“She looks familiar.  So this is Chris Larson.”

“Yeah and she’s taken.  Next picture please.”  Ethan complied and together he and Jason viewed their new client.

“Cocky bastard,” Ethan muttered.

“Pot, my name is Ethan and I am calling you black.”  Jason laughed.

“Give me a break.  Look at that cheeky smile the guy is sporting.  He’s a cocky bastard if there ever were one.”

“You should no.”

“Excuse me but my personality leans more towards control, not egotism.”

“Whatever.  We need to get a move on.  As you’ve mentioned several times I need to address a more personal issue, namely my hygiene.  Check out the last picture.  Wonder why the professor named it NEBarnesAkaPainInAss?”

Ethan moved the wireless mouse to the one remaining jpeg.  The image filled the screen and his senses.  His fingers tighten around the mouse from the shock of seeing in living color the blemish free, honey skinned, bright brown eyed, delicately boned structured face.   

Nicole. 

He was viewing Nicole.  His dick burst from its self imposed hibernation and slammed against his denim jeans; it was almost as if his little soldier wanted to take a peek.  He shifted to alleviate the pressure; his mind soared and every instinct born of old fashion men kicked end.

Out there somewhere was a motherfucker who had the audacity to threaten his woman. 

He would kill the bastard. 

Where the fuck did that come from?  His woman, fuck me, life can not be this simple, good, and fulfilling.  Was it not less the five minutes ago that he was remembering his bargain with God for one more chance, an opportunity to put to rest old ghost … and here he was staring at her … his princess … the dream girl he wanted to lock behind the red door of their old colonial house with the Weeping Widow tree shading the front porch?   

The cynical saying Wishes were for the weak and dreams did not come true was a lie!  The cynical saying Second chances were a myth fabricated by romantics was a lie!  His mind whirled and then crash landed.  Her image proved it. The buzzing in his ear diverted his attention momentarily from the face on his computer screen; the very image that represented his greatest lost and held his greatest potential. 

 What the fuck was Jason saying? 

As far as Ethan could decipher, he was rambling incoherently, although some of the words – specifically ‘sweet, very sweet’, ‘her hair could be twelve inches longer’, ‘nice little tits’, and ‘a mouth made for sucking’ made contact in the mush that was Ethan’s brain, resulting in an overwhelming desire by Ethan to knock Jason flat on his funky ass.  Ethan slapped his wire rims from his face, slammed them to the table, balled his fist and, having a rather fair complexion, turned forty shades of red from the anger that boiled.

“Jesus, dude, are you sick?  What the hell is wrong with you?”  Jason pushed his chair away from the conference table and Ethan. “Is that a rash?”

“Just shut up for a minute.  Jesus H. Christ, what the fuck?”  Ethan’s jabbed his fingers through his blonde mane and trembled.  Jason continued flapping his jaws, asking him stupid questions like ‘are you having a stroke’ and ‘is it your diabetes, maybe your heart’.

“I’m twenty eight years old you stupid shit … shut up.” Ethan yelled between hyperventilating.

“Woe, woe, woe, there boy … I’m going to get you some aspirins.”  Jason jumped from his chair and headed for adjoining bathroom.

N. Barnes.

He repeated the name over and over in his mind.  Nicole Barnes, Nicole Barnes.  Then, just like that, the jukebox in his brain switched from the monotone drone that was his spoken word, to a new song he had not heard in years; his favorite song from the disc Nicole had dropped at his feet all those years ago, Roger’s Computer Love. 

It blared in his mind and bounced off each and every one of his highly sensitized cells.  All the way to the tip of his toes he experienced the beat.  The high pitch, funky voice that was Roger sang the words that were unequivocally appropriate for the moment:

You know I've been searching for someone
Who can share that special love with me?
And your eyes have that glow
Could it be your face I see on my computer screen?

Yes, yes, yes, mother fucker yes!
It was.  It is.  Nicole Barnes. 
His Nic.