Alec POV
I was the coldest I had ever been in my entire life. My possessions consisted of an old duffel bag with some clothes, a blanket, and a toothbrush. I was huddled under that blanket with as many clothes I could fit on my body, and yet I felt so cold. The freezing air clung hard to any available skin, which was my neck and head. Once they were cold, the blanket and the clothes seemed pointless. The shivering at that point had gotten so bad, I was practically having convulsions. Worse still, was the movie on repeat in my head. The arguing, the look, the crash, the screaming. Then getting tossed out like last week's trash. I could still feel my cheek lying on the cold pavement as my mother screamed in agony.
I was begging for death to come. I wasn't asking, I was begging, pleading, if there was a God, Angel, Holy being, they would take my life from me. That was when I heard the sound of high heeled shoes coming towards me. From my former life, I knew the sound of expensive high heels marching their way up to me to tell me. Of course, I was never interested, so my immediate emotion was dread. Then came the fear. So I pulled my shivering body into a somewhat upright position, only to see a platinum bottle blonde marching her long, model legs over to me.
She took a long pause over my quaking body. Probably took in the designer watch but nearly blue skin and red, bloodshot eyes. She was wearing black slacks with a blood red blouse, and Jimmy Choo black fuck-me heels. She bent down so that she was eye level with me, and I noticed her eyes. While most green eyes I had seen reminded me of green trees, freshly mowed grass, hers reminded me of the poison. She looked almost…predatory.
"Hmm. You are much too beautiful to be homeless." She stated, as if it were common knowledge. "You're lucky you met me. I need new prime real estate for my little business.' She spoke with a particular enunciation, drawing out every syllable. It was entrancing. Part of me wanted to slap her for sounding like she already owned me, but I needed a reason. I needed some motivation to live, and I knew this was it. She handed me a card from the inside of her jacket.
"Camile Belcourt. Just know that I don't offer take backs, so you're either in this or you're not. Think carefully." And with that, her heels clacked away.
I barely had to think at all. The next day I was in her office in the city, looking like the kind of person my family would cringe at. I was wearing old, faded jeans that I hadn't worn in years, my only hoodie that I owned, complemented by my five o'clock shadow. I winced at how I looked but these were the warmest clothes I had and it was freezing outside. It was so strange to think about. Never in my life had I worried about such an inconsequential thing as weather. There were always heated limos, expensive designer down jackets, and warm beds with silk sheets. Now I just wanted a nice blanket so I wouldn't freeze to death.
"So darling, before I do this I have to ask one more time and if you don't mind, I'll be very blunt." She said, her hard emerald eyes settling on mine. I tried to gaze back at her with an unconcerned expression, but my fear was leaking through. "Don't look so terrified. But I am going to tell you that this is your last chance to back out. You can leave this office, and go back to your little warehouse where you'll shiver in the cold. But if I tell you my proposition, I can promise you the world. Money, freedom, anonymity, all yours." Her venom eyes twinkled as she saw me perk up at 0the benefit of anonymity.
"Oh yes. I can create a whole new identity for you, where no one will ever find you. Whatever you've done, whoever you were, will be gone as if you never existed. I can do that for you." She had me, and she knew it. But I had to think, because there was a catch to all of this.
"Okay, tell me what happens if you tell me this proposition and I want to walk away?" I ask, tentatively, although I already knew the answer. It was written all over her clothes and her demon eyes. She was not a woman that was going to let you fuck her over.
"I'll put a bullet in your skull, and throw you into the East River." She said nonchalantly, looking at her nails. The thought gave me chills, but it didn't scare me. Not really. There was nothing else I could fucked up, no one to disappoint, nothing to lose. But maybe this would give me something to gain.
So I felt my lips utter, "Okay, whatever it is I'm in."
She explained to me her operation. She wanted to run a large business, which was riskier than other drug businesses. She had a supplier who dealt in large shipments, so she would store them in a warehouse under a fake name, and then we would sell them. The large shipments were key because she planned to sell to big buyers. But big buyers meant good dealers, so she needed a couple lackeys who had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Like me. That night would be the "test," where if I would be selling a small amount of our stuff. If I could deliver, she would hand me the key to the world. If I didn't, I was getting a bullet in the back of my head.
"So do us both a favor tonight, and use those baby blues to your advantage." Camile said, dropping a wink. I had no idea what she meant. I had no idea what I was in for that night. I had no idea, but I was a throw away, and I didn't care. Anything was better than waiting for the hurt to go away.
Magnus POV
I can't stop looking at this fucking ceiling. It's as if I hope it'll start talking to me, give me a freakin' clue on how I'm supposed to catch this guy. I know I look undeniably crazy, but looking at this white, speckled, ceiling usually helps me think. However, it doesn't seem to be helping me today. I've been sitting here for almost two hours, trying to figure out a way I can find him. I can't exactly put up wanted posters, he'd just flee.
No traces of him were found on that roof, and the bartender at the club had never even seen him before. He's a ghost, but his face is plastered in my mind. Ice cold blue eyes, pale face, and lips twisted up into a crooked smirk. His face is all I can think of and it's driving me crazy.
His face, his voice, his body, is everywhere in my mind, and I can't decide if I want to kill him or jump him. At the bar he seemed like the sort of unique person that one may stumble upon once every couple of years, if they're lucky. He's entrancing, but not just because he's beautiful. There are scorns of beautiful people covering the face of this Earth. I'll freely admit it; I think I'm one of them. But he's someone my mother would call an afflicted. It was her term for good people who have had more shitty things happen to them than most. She would know the best; she was one of them.
But then, voice in my head creeps back in and says, He was playing you Magnus and I want to punch something again. I give up and start to leave when I see Ragnor, practically flying down the hall at me. The biggest shit eating grin is plastered on his face and he's waving around a piece of paper like a maniac.
"Bane, you are going to want jump me so bad because I got him!" Ragnor practically squeals. Ragnor Fell does not squeal. This must be good.
"Believe me darling, I have offered." I reply, accompanied by a smirk and a wink. At the mention of the first time we met, Ragnor's eyes reach the back of his skull.
Sweat dripped down my body as I danced, but I didn't care. I knew I looked even better when I was a little hot and sweaty. My shirt barely had any substance to it, so I was cool enough. But I had come to Joe's to get laid, and thus far it had been slim pickings. It had been quite a few days and I was aching for a good fuck. I danced my way to the dark corners of the club where I liked to think. The walls were pleasantly cold as I leaned against them and caught my breath. My eyes darted from guy to guy with no luck. I was bored with all the ripped muscles and subpar conversation. I wanted a challenge
But then the universe seemed to give me one. My eyes had wandered up to the bar, where one of the prettiest guys I had ever seen was sitting. He was wearing a deep green t-shirt, with blue jeans. If I wasn't drunk, horny, and insanely attracted to him, I might have laughed at his fashion choices. No one wears such casual clothes to any club. Putting on my best smirk, I crossed the dance floor over to his stool.
"You have to stop that, you know." I drop my voice down to a half whisper and lean my slender torso against the bar. Raising my hand, Joe sees me and starts making my usual.
He raised his head in surprise. He had ink black eyes, while his hair balanced his face out by being nearly white. He, much like me, was slender faced with high cheek bones. His face was angel-like, but those eyes looked devilish. He was an intoxicatingly good looking contradiction.
"I'm sorry?..." He had a rich London accent heavy enough to melt me. He looked adorably confused. Modest. That was new.
"I'm just saying, sweetness. Keep looking so unbelievably pretty and you have no one to blame but yourself if I simply must have my way with you." My words glided out smoothly like I've been doing this forever. The words seemed to have registered in his brain because his mouth pops open in an "Oh" shape. I wanted that mouth on my body.
"Sorry about this, but I'm afraid I don't partake in the same bedroom activities as you do." He said with a smile. Londoners. Polite bastards. I sighed, and sat down.
"In that case, you're buying me another drink." I stated, waving to Joe.
"Presumptuous little prick, aren't you?" He replied with a smirk.
"Magnus Bane, presumptuous little prick." I shot back, extending my hand.
Ragnor Fell, heterosexual little prick." Laughing, I clinked my dirty martini to his beer glass and our friendship was born.
That was 4 years ago. Ragnor lost the accent, I lost my man whore status (well, mostly) but we're still the same friends we were back in that bar. I learned that soon after that, by some random occurrence, that Ragnor was going to be my new partner. I smile, because that day changed my life. I hear Ragnor speak again, reminding me of the present news at hand.
"Just look at the damn picture, you horny son of a bitch." He hands me a blown up version of a Hispanic looking man talking on a cell phone. My mouth practically hits the floor.
"JESUS FUCK, THAT'S GUILLERMO ALVARADO!" I scream. Ragnor nods spastically.
"AND this picture was taken this afternoon, AND the word on the street is that he's meeting your guy at Hotel Dumort." Ragnor jumps up and down excitedly.
"Tonight? What time?" I ask. I glance at the clock, 11:34pm. If it was happening, it was probably going down soon. Drug dealers liked the cover of night to protect them.
"In just a few hours." He says, holding up his keys. "I'm driving."
Alec POV
I've never been a fan of guns. They're awkward, heavy, and I have this fear of forgetting to put on the safety and accidentally shooting myself in the ass or something. But Guillermo Alvarado is the most powerful man in Mexico, who is trying to do a very illegal thing with someone he's never met before. It almost borders on stupidity, if he wasn't a multimillionaire and has killed more people than years he's been alive. Hence, why the tiny gun tucked into an ankle holster is necessary.
I shiver from bite of the cold breeze coming in but mostly from the anticipation. Alvarado wanted to meet at the abandoned Hotel Dumort. I'm standing in what I'm guessing was the ball room, from the dusty tables and the huge glass chandelier that's been smashed on the floor. A figure shifts out of the darkness. Guillermo Alvarado stands in the door way, smiling at me predatorily. He makes his way over to where I'm standing. He looks... kind. He looks like a grandfather. With deep chocolate eyes, an overly tan wrinkled face, and a devastatingly charming smile, it's hard to believe this guy has killed over 70 people.
He pulls out a cigar, lights it, and hands it to me. "Cuban. Whenever there is business to be done, a cigar needs to be had." His rich accent is pleasantly smooth. If I didn't know how fast he could shoot me, I might be charmed. I take the damn cigar anyways. He claps his tan wrinkled hands. "So. I have cigar for you. What do you have for me?" The case of drugs in my hands suddenly feels heavier. I lift it, set it on a broken ballroom table, and show the insides to Alvarado. Five rows of white powder in clear bags line the inside of my bag.
"This, of course is just a small taste. You can sample it if you'd like, as well. But let's talk price. For the amount you want, Camile was hoping for 5.5 million." I always over shoot what we should get for our coke. If they agree with me, they're an idiot. If they don't, they're a serious client and hopefully they'll ask for what we were actually looking for. "I'll give you 4.5." Alvarado says, as if he's doing us a favor. Drug negotiation is like a dance. A tango, with each partner feeling each other out, trying to get a feel for the rhythm. Just with money and possible death on the line. "5.2." I say firmly, but while returning his smile.
He chuckles and says, "Hell, let's just call it 5 million and get the fuck out of this place." We shake hands, and just when I'm about to leave I hear slow clacks coming towards us. Our heads turn to Camile who has suddenly appeared. Wearing a blood red dress, obscenely high heels and grasping onto a black leather Chanel clutch, she looks her usual stripper business casual.
"Great job, darling."