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5
Maddox
Whatever twisted guidance led me to see Isabella Romani pleasure herself; it only intensifies my want for her. The cracks are forming in my twisted desperation. Tonight, I have my date with Emma Blake, but all day I’ve been lost in daydreams of Isabella’s hands between her legs and her mouth around my cock.
Which cruel mistress dictates my fate? Why is she playing these fickle games with me?
Snap out of it. Get your job done! Bruno’s relying on you. I have to remind myself every few minutes. Why do I even want to be with her? My opinion hasn’t changed. Loving her is out of the question. The aching in my nether tells me it’s lust. A high-end escort could get rid of those desires; but the thought of paying for sex is off-putting. How the hell have I let it get this far?
I’m sitting in the restaurant waiting for Emma to arrive. I should be at my most ready, but Isabella continuously plagues my mind. If I can get through tonight, I can deal with the Isabella problem, tomorrow.
The restaurant’s a pretty snazzy place. A live band is playing jazz music, with a beautiful singer crooning away. The tables all around me are full of people, most of them lovers spending a night on the town. Good, it’s the perfect environment for a first date. That’s the way to do it, to distract my thoughts of Isabella by taking in my surroundings.
Jeremiah Woodson, that’s my name for tonight. A fabrication for any that might try to link me to the murder of Emma Blake. The restaurant knows it, so does Emma. Maddox Braddock is a non-entity. The only thing I have to do now is to release my mind and let Jeremiah take hold – that’s when it will go well.
No thoughts of Isabella. No thoughts about murder. Just a nice night with a nice girl. I release an annoyed sigh. By the time Emma steps through the doors into the music hall, my mental battle has come to an end – more or less. Emma’s led towards me by our server, a young man dressed in a white shirt and tie, whose name I’ve already forgotten.
Emma’s wearing a stunning red dress, with a golden necklace and earrings. Her outfit matches the décor of the jazz lounge almost perfectly. If I didn’t know any better, I might’ve thought she would be next to get on stage and sing a few songs.
“My God, you look amazing.” I get out of my chair, hugging Emma in greeting. I pull out her chair and tuck her in when she sits. Charming, graceful, suave, let’s bring this home.
“You don’t look too bad yourself, Mister Woodson” Emma shoots me a smile. When she’s not dressed in her work outfit, and tired after a long day of pushing papers, she’s gorgeous. Maybe I’m just trying to look for someone new to distract me from Isabella and a dressed pig would suffice.
Who knows?
“This is quite the place,” she adds, skeptically, eyeing the crowd around us.
The Jazz Club is owned by Quincy Harrison, no doubt on her radar, as Bruno is. I’m surprised I’m not on any of her lists. The biggest threat tonight would be for someone who knows me to come up and say hello. But, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.
“I’ve heard really good things about it. Ten out of ten for food, and who doesn’t love dinner with a show?” I reply, getting back to my seat.
“I hear it’s run by mobsters and looters. But, I guess everywhere in Hannibal’s a little tainted when you’re in my line of work,” Emma shrugs.
The waiter brings us the bottle of champagne I ordered before her arrival. He cracks it open and pours us a glass each.
“So, what is it you do then?” I reply. I know so much about this woman that pretending I don’t proves challenging. Still, I try my best.
“Legal work. But let’s not get bogged down in business. We’re here to have a good night, right?”
Good. At least I don’t have to pretend I’m invested in her dealings with low-level thugs, because they can’t make a break on the big dogs.
“Exactly, and well, I’m still going to do my darndest to make up for the spilled milk. I’ve been crying over it all week.”
Emma laughs, waving a hand at me.
“Don’t you know they say you shouldn’t cry over spilled milk?” she winks.
“Is that right? Well, I guess they forgot to give me the memo.” I force a chuckle. Even I can tell how poor of an imitation it is. Emma seems too dazed in the splendor of the evening to care. She lifts her glass of champagne and I do the same.
“Well, here’s to a happy accident in a parking lot and to a great evening,” she says in toast.
We clink glasses.
The rest of the night goes exactly as planned. We talk, laugh, and drink away our worries. There’s enough banter, flirtatious or otherwise, for me to know Emma’s hooked on this dream. She wants me to take her home. For dinner, we share a seafood platter, but discard most of the meal for drink and conversation.
Having Emma here is enough to distract me from Isabella. Pining is easier done alone than in the company of strangers. After our meal, we get the check and make our way outside. It’s colder than I expected it to be. The harsh wind bites at my heels, and I can only imagine how Emma feels in a dress that barely covers her knees. I pull off my jacket and wrap it around her shoulders.
“So, which one’s yours?” I ask, reaching out and taking her hand. We’re walking through the parking lot, and she forgoes on my hand, burying herself against my side instead.
