Author's Notes: I don't mean to be a stickler but I NEED SOME DAMN REVIEWS! I think it's somewhat unfair for you to have read the story this far without so much as "nice job" or "you should work on your grammar". But whatever, I'm still gonna finish this story. (PS) I'm trying to make this story with a little more detail so bear with me if I overdo it.
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Chapter 7: Everbody's Working For The Weekend
After just coming back from the mall, the pharmacy store, the corner store and "Cuffs and Collars" to get me some sophisticated clothes, we were now on our way back...home? We're listening to the radio while speeding through traffic.
"Everybody's working for the weekend..." sings the 80s popstar. I listen closely to hear Mr. Vercetti humming along with the radio. I turn to him.
"Are you...humming?" I ask. He glances at me once then back at the road.
"What, kid? It's a classic!" he smiles.
"Well, I'm changing the station..." I say and reach for the knob on the radio.
"Hey, hey, heyyyyyyyy!" Mr. Vercetti yells in protest but I ignore him.
"This is Oliver 'Ladykiller' Biscuit and you are listening to...The FEVER." says the DJ in a Barry White like voice. Then one of my favorite songs comes on. ''Behind the Groove" by Teena Marie.
"Shake your body, shake your body, shake your body, shake!" I sing along with Teena.
"Ehhh I don't think so..." Mr. Vercetti changes the station to a talk radio station.
"Give us ten percent of your income. That's all we ask..." says a man with a patronizing radio voice.
"Oh, these guys are hilarious. They try to guilt you into donating money to their crappy station." Mr. Vercetti says
"Ten percent is a really small amount..." says a female. I sigh loudly in boredom.
"I remember when I was volunteering in Central America; to make myself appear less shallow, the native peoples would give you ten percent of their land for a pair of mirrored sunglasses, and they would run around me saying, 'chicle! chicle!', which is Espanol for 'pretty woman'..."
I chuckled to myself, slumped in my seat.
"Whats so funny, kid?" Vercetti glances at me again.
" 'Chicle' is actually Spanish for 'chewing gum'." he starts chuckling too and soon enough we're in an uproar of laughter in the car. It suddenly stops in front of a massive stoop.
"We're here, kid." he says. I step out and in front of me are not only many groups each with 5 or so men wearing very ugly shirts, there is a very huge Spanish-style mansion.
"Wow..." I say then pointing my thumb to one of the groups of ugly-shirt guys. "Who are they and why are they wearing those hideous shirts? Didn't those go out of style when I was like...six?"
"For your information, kid...Every powerful crimelord needs his or her own assortment of goons who'll do your grunt work and they just happen to be mine"
he pauses "And whaddaya mean by 'ugly'? I used to have one just like it but Ken managed to steal it from my closet and burn it." He's talking but I'm just laughing.
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We enter the house and inside, all of the walls follow a tranquil and peaceful color scheme of light blue and sea green. There are elegant tapestries on the walls and mod-like stage lights in the 35 foot cieling that give it a humble look. The carpet is navy blue and is plush even under my crappy tennis shoes. We head up the stairs, through a long pizza box-strewn corridor and into another room.
"Wow, cute room!" I exclaim.
This room is large and a perfect symmetrical square and is adorned with a long 6-drawer dresser, a tall 4-drawer dresser, a short 2-shelf bookcase holding a VCR with a small 20 inch television sitting on top, a queen-sized iron canopy bed and a nice, simple nightstand next to it. All of the furniture is simplistic and has a distinguished white finish. The walls are lavender and have a simple violet border on the tops of the walls. The carpet is also violet. I look in the corner to see a huge walk-in closet with two clothes racks on both sides full of plastic hangers. And in the other corner is a small, basic bathroom with a tub with a lavender shower curtain, a small violet rug, shower, toilet, sink and a mirror-cabinet.
"I'm glad ya like it, kid because this is your room. As much as I HATE these colors, I gotta admit, it suits you kid." He says. "I got it done for ya while we were out all day. I have a friend in real-estate whose wife happens to be an interior desi--" I interrupt him by squeezing him in another grateful bear-hug, one of my swinging shopping bags using it's momentum to hit him in the back of his head.. Mr. Vercetti struggles but fails to escape my grip. Finally, I loosen up and he puts his hands on my shoulders.
"Okay, I get it, you're welcome. Now get ready, kid. We have a date at the Malibu Club." he says. "There are plenty of towels in the bathroom, make sure your perfume is modest and try to look presentable, kid." he walks out, shutting the door behind him.
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The first thing I did before taking a shower was putting away and at the same time admiring all of the clothes I could only dream to own while my parents were supporting me on their incomes. I had genuine polo and classic tshirts and jeans from the Gash, comfy velour sweatsuits, tons of costume jewelry, leg warmers, all of the best. I bought a few designer clothes but only those few so I wouldn't spend all of my money in extravagance. Lucky there were shelves above the clothing racks in my closet because I had also bought plenty of trendy shoes. Low-heeled loafers, wedge pumps, Adidas shelltoes, Chuck Taylor Converses in an assortment of colors and more stilletos than I'd ever wear.
After hanging up all of my clothes and putting away all of the pajamas, socks and underwear into the drawers, I also unpacked the more...unmentionable essentials into my just-enough-space bathroom. I had bought various smell-good lotions, shower gels, cosmetics, hair products, soaps and of course not forgetting the "muff plugs" as Mr. Vercetti called them. I took one of the fluffy towels resting on the back of the cushioned toilet along with a matching wash rag and turned on the shower.
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(later: 9:30pm)
"C'mon, kid!" I hear Mr. Vercetti yell from the lobby of the mansion. "In a minute!" I shouted back, politely of course. I pranced around listening to my Michael Jackson tape and singing. I took a final look at myself in the full length mirror provided in that endless cave of a closet and exited my room.
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TOMMY'S P.O.V. "Hurry up!" I shout. Damn, I didn't think women started taking forever getting ready to go out until they were at least in their twenties. I was looking alright, I guess. I wanted to throw on a plain shirt and jeans and call it a day. I mean, c'mon, who was I trying to impress? A bunch of pricks who kiss my ass on a regular basis? Yeah, right. But of course, Paul being...him, persuaded me to wear that Soiree suit custom-made for me from Raphael's.
I checked my watch in annoyance waiting on the kid when I see her standing at the top of the stairs. I couldn't see what she was wearing being that the stairs were so steep. She walked down the stairs and somehow, time just seemed to...slow down. After what seemed like fifteen minutes of slo-mo, her feet had finally reached the floor. "Okay, how do I look?" she asked. She had on a strapless classic cheetah-printed dress that came at almost mid-thigh, black sheer stockings which had added length to her legs, and pointy black heel-toe stilleto shoes that had made her exactly my height if not taller. She was also wearing a flat, thin gold chain around the base of her neck and had simple gold hoop earrings on. Her jet-black hair was still down but it was wavy and stylishly messy. She had a small amount of black eyeliner and mascara on which had accentuated her already huge and dark eyes.. She wore no lipstick, however, she did have on some clear lip gloss.
"Um..." she said as I was just staring at her. I wanted to say that she did indeed look presentable. However, I also wanted to calmly tell her that she looked very...mature. Too mature in fact, was she trying to get raped tonight or something?
"I said look 'presentable' kid, not fucking twice your age!" I shouted. She flinched in shock.
"But I AM presentable. Maybe it's just my height that makes me look older..." she looked over herself.
"Or maybe it's just that cat wrapped around your body, those damn pin-pointy shoes and all the hairspray that makes you look old enough to be my wife!"
"Ohhh no, I could never look THAT old!" she shouted back and started pointing her finger and rolling her neck "I didn't wanna dress like a little 'kid' as you always say I am! If I would've thrown on a torn tshirt and a headband would you have yelled at me like you are now!" I stood there, amazed. That girl indeed had moxy and she also had a point. it would be better for her to look like a woman than a girl in this situation. And did she just call me "old"? I'm only thirty-six, dammit!
"Whatever, let's go!" I said and waved my arm.
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Outside, we climbed down the stairs. Hoo boy, I'm gettin' to old for this shit. What the hell did Diaz have all of these stairs built for anyway! That fat fuck probably had one of his stupid minions carry his ass up the stairs. I chuckled to myself when I had gotten a mental picture. The kid's standing by the Infernus still steamed and waiting for me to open the door. "We're not taking that car tonight, kid. We're going in style to make a bit of an entrance." I said and pointed to the stretch limo nearby. And check this, the kid's face suddenly lights up like a wreath on Christmas Eve. She squeals and claps her hands and shuffles to the back door of the limo. I see another group of my gang nearby just standing there. Lazy bastards...
"YOU DID WHAT!" one of them says
"Mario, I never liked your sister!" another one says. I point to him.
"You. Drive. Malibu. Now." I say and walk away to the limo.
Me and the kid open the doors and climb in waiting for whoever it was I had pointed at to start the car and drive. Meanwhile, the kid's just so excited, she sprawls out on the backseat and inhales the scent of the 'new' car.
"Hey kid." I say to her. She flashes me a grumpy 'What do you want now, dammit' look.
"Listen, I ain't mean to yell like that...again. You actually look nice tonight." she hangs her head down and huffs a bit.
"In fact, you look so nice, I finally thought up a name for you, kid." her head rises and she shows a half a grin.
"I'm going to call you...Moda." I said. Her smile vanishes.
"Moe-duh? What kind of name is that!" she exclaims
"Calm down! 'Moda' is an excellent name! It actually means 'style' and let's just say, I like yours kid." I smile.
"I guess that's okay then." she folds her arms, crosses one 2-yard leg over the other then stares out the tinted window. The gang member finally comes in and starts the car.
End Chapter
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