possessive as hunger rips through us. His other hand grabs at the back of my head, taking handfuls of my black hair, anchoring my lips to his.
"I want you right now," I manage before I continue licking his bottom lip.
Marcus Gibbs who? Biological weapon what?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Good Morning
MARCUS GIBBS
I splashed cold water from my bathroom sink on my face, trying to wash away the layer of self-loathing that cake s my skin.
I make eye contact with my reflection, and wipe away the white powder that still lingers around my nostrils. I hate that it reminds me of that French creep, Luc Olivier.
I rub my eyes and wonder how long its been since I have had a solid night's sleep.
Shrugging, I grab a towel as I walk through my room to the balcony , wearing only my boxers.
I take a seat on the lone folding chair and light a cigarette. Going from one fix to the next, are we?
It is nine on a crisp Sunday morning, and I still haven’t gotten a reply from Alex. All I want is a drink with her, and some friendly conversation. She liked me, didn't she? She wouldn't have given me her number if she didn't, right?
My cell phone rings as if on cue.
Its incessant, high-pitched ringing hurts my ears. The ringing, even if it brings a welcome call, screeches through to my drug-enhanced eardrums. I claw at my ears, bobbing a cigarette between my fingertips as I run to the kitchen. My only goal is to make it stop, so I answer without looking, praying for it to be that sweet girl's voice.
"Hello. Gibbs speaking."
"Mr. Gibbs, good morning."
Shit. The mere thought of that greasy French fuck annoys me. His accent slinks through the phone, and I think I prefer the ringing.
"Mornin' , Luc."
He wants all the formalities: mister this, mister that, please and thank you. Bullshit. I don't want to give him the time of day. Let him blame it on my culture. Americans are known to be rude, right? I am not calling that bastard mister anything.
Quit being such a child . I wonder if coke can make you schizo.
"Mr. Gibbs, I have a shipment change."
My skin tingles in fear. I take a drag of my cigarette, and before exhaling, I sputter, "E-excuse me?"
"My contact wants a change to the amount we discussed."
"More?"
"Yes. More."
"How much more?"
"Double. The liaison will be in town in a week or so to follow up."
"Follow up? You told me a day ago I had weeks. It will take me a little over a week to replicate a second batch, Luc!"
"I said to follow up, not to pick up, asshole."
My breath catches in my throat at his tone. His foul language is an indirect way to tell me to watch myself or there would be consequences.
I gulp down the breath and continue. "OK, OK. So, to check up on me, then?"
"So to speak. My client needs to put this on rush order. We thought we had a month, but now we have two weeks."
My face grows hot. The least he could do is apologize, but I know that is a long shot. I hate these men.
Doubling the batch means more work on company time, and it takes twice as long to create the cure.
My plan is to sell the disease, wipe out a few small towns , and then it's Marcus Gibbs, scientist and biological genius to the rescue. I smirk at the bittersweet plan. I am duping this fuck . Screw the Nobel Prize committee. I want credit, and this time it'll be mine. I will be the hero. Finally.
This idiot doesn't know what's coming, and I am in no mood to argue, because, let's face it , it doesn't matter, does it? He can have his double batch, and I will have my glory.
I take another drag, feigning indifference. "Understood."
He chuckles. Slimy fuck.
"Well , Mr. Gibbs, that was easier than I thought. We will be in touch, then."
"Yea h, yeah, yeah, we will be in touch." I hang up.
It might be the coke talking , but I need to get to the lab, today, if possible, and get those culture samples going for the new batch.
I wish I had more coke. It would at least keep my engine running longer.
I need a way to work off steam before I do
"I want you right now," I manage before I continue licking his bottom lip.
Marcus Gibbs who? Biological weapon what?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Good Morning
MARCUS GIBBS
I splashed cold water from my bathroom sink on my face, trying to wash away the layer of self-loathing that cake s my skin.
I make eye contact with my reflection, and wipe away the white powder that still lingers around my nostrils. I hate that it reminds me of that French creep, Luc Olivier.
I rub my eyes and wonder how long its been since I have had a solid night's sleep.
Shrugging, I grab a towel as I walk through my room to the balcony , wearing only my boxers.
I take a seat on the lone folding chair and light a cigarette. Going from one fix to the next, are we?
It is nine on a crisp Sunday morning, and I still haven’t gotten a reply from Alex. All I want is a drink with her, and some friendly conversation. She liked me, didn't she? She wouldn't have given me her number if she didn't, right?
My cell phone rings as if on cue.
Its incessant, high-pitched ringing hurts my ears. The ringing, even if it brings a welcome call, screeches through to my drug-enhanced eardrums. I claw at my ears, bobbing a cigarette between my fingertips as I run to the kitchen. My only goal is to make it stop, so I answer without looking, praying for it to be that sweet girl's voice.
"Hello. Gibbs speaking."
"Mr. Gibbs, good morning."
Shit. The mere thought of that greasy French fuck annoys me. His accent slinks through the phone, and I think I prefer the ringing.
"Mornin' , Luc."
He wants all the formalities: mister this, mister that, please and thank you. Bullshit. I don't want to give him the time of day. Let him blame it on my culture. Americans are known to be rude, right? I am not calling that bastard mister anything.
Quit being such a child . I wonder if coke can make you schizo.
"Mr. Gibbs, I have a shipment change."
My skin tingles in fear. I take a drag of my cigarette, and before exhaling, I sputter, "E-excuse me?"
"My contact wants a change to the amount we discussed."
"More?"
"Yes. More."
"How much more?"
"Double. The liaison will be in town in a week or so to follow up."
"Follow up? You told me a day ago I had weeks. It will take me a little over a week to replicate a second batch, Luc!"
"I said to follow up, not to pick up, asshole."
My breath catches in my throat at his tone. His foul language is an indirect way to tell me to watch myself or there would be consequences.
I gulp down the breath and continue. "OK, OK. So, to check up on me, then?"
"So to speak. My client needs to put this on rush order. We thought we had a month, but now we have two weeks."
My face grows hot. The least he could do is apologize, but I know that is a long shot. I hate these men.
Doubling the batch means more work on company time, and it takes twice as long to create the cure.
My plan is to sell the disease, wipe out a few small towns , and then it's Marcus Gibbs, scientist and biological genius to the rescue. I smirk at the bittersweet plan. I am duping this fuck . Screw the Nobel Prize committee. I want credit, and this time it'll be mine. I will be the hero. Finally.
This idiot doesn't know what's coming, and I am in no mood to argue, because, let's face it , it doesn't matter, does it? He can have his double batch, and I will have my glory.
I take another drag, feigning indifference. "Understood."
He chuckles. Slimy fuck.
"Well , Mr. Gibbs, that was easier than I thought. We will be in touch, then."
"Yea h, yeah, yeah, we will be in touch." I hang up.
It might be the coke talking , but I need to get to the lab, today, if possible, and get those culture samples going for the new batch.
I wish I had more coke. It would at least keep my engine running longer.
I need a way to work off steam before I do
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