The Sunset Prophecy (Love & Armageddon #1) (9 page)

Keelen hollered toward the bathroom where Matt was done taking his shower,
“Another bloodbath. This time involving a priest.”

“
A priest?” Matt asked loudly. “Is nothing sacred anymore?”

Authorities aren
’t aware of any motive, however, parishioners and colleagues have told Eyewitness 7 News that Father Gutierrez did help a village in Southern Mexico last year negotiate a truce with a violent cartel.

“
Well, there you have it. We now have drug cartel problems right here in Riverside,” Keelen said, sipping a glass of cheap wine. She shook her head and grimaced. “And I have an audition in Riverside next week, too.”

“
For what?” Matt asked.

“
Some golf course wants a pretty girl to say a couple nice words about their back nine.”

“
Be careful,” Matt’s voice echoed from the bathroom’s fine acoustics.

“
Why?”

“
Some of those golf courses out there are fronts for seedy activities.”

“
Eww, really?”

“
Oh, yeah.”

She studied Matt
’s sharp-boned, whisker-stubbled face as he emerged from the bathroom with nothing on but a towel.

He rubbed the back of his head with a sudden snap of anaerobic vigor. The sound of hairdryers irritated his sensitive eardrums that he developed from all the years of getting hit in the skull. He also claimed the dry air fried the tips of his marketable locks.
“Pajamas?” he asked, with a toothy grin.

“
What? What’s wrong with these?”

“
They’re all right, if we were married.”

Keelen tucked her long legs underneath her thigh and bottom, keeping her naked feet warm from the horrible cheap tile Matt had in his studio apartment.
“Well, too bad. Maybe if you spent a little more time with me, I’d probably be watching TV spectacularly in the buff,” she playfully quipped.

Matt
’s towel continued to hang on by some miracle.

Despite the nagging feeling of slight neglect, Keelen
’s eyes always trailed toward Matt’s chiseled torso and imagined the prospect of his towel succumbing to gravity. “I hate you,” she blurted.

“
Now, why is that?’ he asked, inching closer to her, his hips leading the way.

Keelen sat
up and hugged the satin pillow that had the distinctive hole in its corner, close to her chest. “Because it’s hard to let you know what I really feel. You come out of the shower all wet, your skin exfoliated, your small, cute nipples hardened, and my mind drifts away from what’s important.”

“
You think my nipples are cute?” Matt chuckled.

“
Yes, you have perfect nipples for a guy,” Keelen said, with a playful smirk.

With the skill of a sly snake, his athletic body glided a few feet, and he sat beside her. Keelen curled into the far corner of the couch.

“You compliment me, and then you turn ice cold,” he said, stroking Keelen’s thick mane down to the ends.

“
Believe me, I’m gonna rip that towel away from you in a second,” she confirmed, with the raise of her manicured eyebrow. “But this whole Olympics thing. Don’t you think you’re getting carried away just a little?”

Matt gently twirled Keelen
’s locks with his finger. It was sensual and smooth, as he knew that a tangle or two, and an undeserved knot was instant taboo. “It’s the Olympics, baby, the Olympics.”

“
Will you stop saying that?”

“
What? It is though. Sorry if I’m single-minded at the moment.”

“
It’s good to be focused, but not so focused where you forget everyone around you.”

Matt sat back on the couch and spread his legs. He deliberately scratched his thigh, pulling back his towel, attempting to tease Keelen.

Keelen grabbed the part of the towel that was riding up Matt’s thigh and tugged it toward his knee. “No, just listen.”

Matt threw his neck back and let out a deep sigh.
“What?”

“
I’m here because I had to force myself here.”

“
I planned to call you after I took my shower.”

“
No, you weren’t. I’m the one that has been calling you for the past month or so, it seems.”

Matt looked up to ceiling and reflected on Keelen
’s words. He bounced his head trying to drum up a defense. “I called you to get breakfast the other morning.”

Keelen crossed her arms and droned.
“You called me because you wanted me to bring you breakfast to the gym. Remember, I kinda forced you to meet me at the diner.”

Matt turned his eyes and paused in deep thought. He leaned forward placing his lean and cut forearms on his thighs, which jutted out on both sides, and seemed hard as stone.
“You can’t be upset at me because I have potentially great things ahead of me.”

Keelen furrowed her brow.
“You can’t say I’m upset because you have things going on. I’ve been extremely supportive.”

Matt
’s light eyes squinted as he turned to Keelen. “How have you supported me?”

“
I’ve left you alone, for starters.”

“
You’ve left me alone? That’s support?”

“
Yeah, for the most part, I’ve stayed out your way while you’ve trained.”

Matt blew a sudden breath through his nose.
“You’ve never once asked me how my sessions went. But I don’t bring it up because I know boxing doesn’t interest you.”

“
That’s not true.”

“
Of course it is.”

“
You know why I don’t ask how your sessions went?”

“
Why?”

“
Because the thought of you getting your head bashed isn’t something I like to start conversations about.”

Matt snickered.
“I don’t believe that.”

“
How come?”

“
You don’t ask me about my potential endorsements. You don’t ask me if I’m excited. You don’t ask me about any of the non-boxing related stuff,” Matt said, winding himself. He paused and continued. “Are you jealous of my success?”

Keelen pulled back immediately in a guarded posture.
“How dare you insinuate that I’m jealous? I love you, Matt. Why would I feel the need to compete with the person I love?”

“
You love me so much, that you couldn’t tell me what happened at the gallery, or how you took a job from Logan without at least asking me about my opinion.”

“
Look, I’m sorry,” she said. “But I don’t have to run every decision I make past you.”

“
You don’t? Well, maybe if you did, your life would probably be a little bit easier.”

Keelen
’s nostrils flared with sudden agitation. She raised her voice, which she rarely did at Matt. “You can be such a dick sometimes, you know that?”

“
What did you call me?” Matt said, standing up and gripping his towel tightly.

“
I’m not calling you a dick. I said you can be a dick.”

Matt
’s arms, chest, and shoulders tightened like a ball of twine. His face flushed red. He pointed at Keelen. “I’m sorry that things are going well for me and shitty for you. But I don’t throw it in your face. I get this weird mopey energy from you and it’s dragging me down at times.”

Keelen looked away, and her eyes began tearing up. The reality that both their lives were becoming incompatible dawned on her. She looked up at Matt
. “Is there someone else? I feel like you’re pushing me away.”

“
No, I don’t have time for anyone else. Like I said, I’m sorry for being distant, but it’s only temporary. How many times do I have to repeat myself?”

Keelen pursed her lips. Her eyelids grew pink with woe. She took a deep breath while standing up from the couch, and exhaled deeply, flapping her lips, trying her hardest to hold back a stream of tears. She picked up her clothes from Matt
’s small, Ikea-made dinner table and put them in a plastic bag.

Matt looked on stoically.
“You’re leaving?”

Keelen nodded as she put on her slippers.

“You’re not going to change out of your P.J.’s?” Matt asked, subconsciously trying to buy time, just in case the conversation sparked a flurry of apologies. However, there weren’t going to be any. Keelen was hurt on two fronts: Matt’s callousness and the growing schism between the directions their lives were taking.

“
I’m fine,” she said, as she opened Matt’s apartment door.

“
Who’s gonna take you home?” he asked. “Let me change so I can drive you.”

Dispassionate, she turned to Matt.
“I’ll take the bus, it’s okay.”

“
At this time of night?”

Keelen gave no answer. Her face remained still as dried concrete.

“Fine,” Matt said, dismissively. He crossed his arms and tried again. “It’s cold out there, don’t you think?”

“
Not as cold as you,” Keelen said before closing the door.

12

Claret Clarice

T
he middle-aged banker was tall and thin. His fine suit cleaned and pressed to a knife’s edge. Not a speck of lint or dust dared touch his luxurious fabric. A salt-and-pepper, half-moon tuft of hair surrounded the back of his smooth and spectacularly shiny bald head. He sat in the library of his 10,000-square-foot mansion in Bel Air; it was his home away from home, as he also owned a penthouse overlooking Central Park, one which he’d playfully named the
Lion’s Den
. It was his strategic abode where gazelles’ succulent carcasses, in the form of acquisitions, were served.

Mark
Cohen was chairman and CEO of Marcus and Samuelson, the largest and most successful investment and banking firm in the world. He was admired and revered by the powerful and connected, including those in the government who happened to serve him.

He
would retire to Southern California toward the end of the second quarter of every fiscal year. His wife, Rachel, had grown up in nearby Pacific Palisades, where they’d purchased a ranch in the dried brush hills that overlooked the ocean.

The rays of a drowning sun strewed on the polished oak shelves of the library as the banker
held his tablet in one hand, drink in the other. He purposely avoided the riff-raff of mainstream news sites and home pages that catered to the masses. Income disparity, bailouts, Occupy Wall Street,
one percenters
: all catchphrases that riled up those who lost in the game and lacked the nuance needed in understanding both sides of
the invisible hand
, he thought. Mark was affected by the media storm that fed off those who felt his kind caused the latest economic crisis; he was human, after all.

He placed his tulip
-shaped glass filled with a fine Cuvee on his table and browsed continuously, furiously, and with the same dogged determination that fed his professional vulturing—for the creator of one
Claret Clarice
, which he’d hung proudly over the mantel in his library.

As Mark unexpectedly found out, no pictures, or Wiki of Logan Drake existed. He grinned at the mystery that enveloped his favorite painting
’s creator. He knew that enigma was one of the principal drivers of value. All that mattered was that the art world was taking notice of Logan’s work and that was enough for him, especially in a world of saturation and overexposure. The art itself buffered Logan Drake, just as the politicians did the same for the moneyed elite.

Rachel
Cohen, an imposing woman in her own right, walked toward her husband. Her heels tapped the gorgeous hardwood floors that Mark had won in a high-stakes poker game with New York’s premier interior designer.

“
That floor is amazing, isn’t it?” he told Rachel with delight. “Look how that fire in the chimney reflects on the polished wood. Brett knows how to turn someone’s home into a magical realm. My goodness.”

Rachel
stood in front of Mark, unimpressed or oblivious to his remark. “Mark, you really need to think about some PR measures. I’m starting to get the cold shoulder from Oprah and Melinda.”

“
Melinda who?” asked Mark.

“
Gates.”

“
Are you sure?”

“
Yes,” she said. “I was part of this event to promote better lifestyle choices for inner city kids, and the director told Oprah that she was uncomfortable with my presence because of your firm’s handling of credit default swaps that supposedly affected some of these kids.”

Mark sat back on his black leather
chaise lounge. He put his tablet next to his cognac. “Where is this fundraiser taking place?”

“
Downtown, at the concert hall.”

“
Double the contribution,” he said.

“
No,” Rachel said, firmly.

Mark
’s eyebrows tilted upward. “No?”

“
That’s going to look like I’m trying to buy favorability. Plus, the director of the program is an extreme idealist. She turned down $50,000 from B of A.”

“
Hmm,” grunted Mark. “Does this event mean a lot to you?”

“
Well, kinda. I mean, I would like to get a head start on producing that talk show I’ve always wanted to do and Harpo is the way to go, but this has clouded everything.”

“
Sweetheart, I can look into your own production company.”

“
No, that’s going to look like the wife of the banker got her own talk show. It just looks insincere. People are so cynical nowadays,” Rachel said as she sat next to Mark.

Mark crossed his legs and folded his hands around the front of his knee.
“I don’t know what else to do, sorry.”

“
Your website has too much emphasis on international clients. No word of our middle-class, small business, or anything to remedy the controversy that looms over Marcus and Samuelson.”

Mark grinned. It was hard to faze the man. It
had taken a whole year after becoming CEO to settle into his own skin, an impenetrable skin. “I’ve told you that the world is changing. Our focus is international business now. Eric is thinking about moving the majority of our operations to Singapore. Less regulations. Less politics. All they want over there is money and respect. We have that in droves.”

“
Yes, I understand, but honey, if you turn on the television, listen to the radio and read internet message boards, the country is heated,” Rachel implored. “While we have a presence here, while you still have many friends in Washington, while the economy is in shambles, we need to release some of the pressure. People have lost their homes. They’re broken. They’re getting desperate and we are constantly being brought up in conversations. Frankly, it’s starting to scare me.”

Perturbed, Mark puffed his cheeks and exhaled.
“Sweetie, we’ve already talked about this.”

“
I just feel so guilty,” Rachel pleaded. “I don’t care how good you are at avoiding everything; this has to be affecting you, too.”

“
Capitalism is a game. In a game, there are winners and losers. People who should have better educated themselves have gambled and lost. With free will comes responsibility.”

Rachel
was unfazed, as this was not the first time she’d heard Mark’s lectures about the lessons of capitalism. She placed her hand on his lap and tried to get Mark to change his mind by appealing to emotion. “What about the kids? These kids, who have lost their homes, displaced from their schools, friends. It’s horrible.”

“
I’m not God. My responsibility lies with my family and my clients.” Mark shrugged.

Rachel
stood and moved to the door. “I’m heading to the ranch before it gets dark,” she said. She turned to Mark and leaned against the doorway before leaving the house and getting in her Benz. “Do something, Mark. There’s a powder keg out there and I think all you guys in that beautiful building in Manhattan are too comfortable.”

Mark toasted his glass and downed that last of his drink.
Rachel picked up her purse and headed out the door.

The truth was
, Marcus and Samuelson had a plan to revamp their website and their media outreach; he just didn’t want to tell Rachel, who had the tendency to reveal much more than she should to gain favor among her
friends
.

Mark poured himself another glass. He lifted it to his nose and smelled its fine aroma. He
landed his drink on a small table and took off his blazer before enjoying another concentrative sip. His eyes trailed toward the center of the library. The way
Claret Clarice’s
hues mixed with the pale sunlight that shone through the window caught his refined attention and pulled him up from the chaise lounge. He stood in front of the fireplace, admiring his most recent acquisition. His glazed eyes drank in the striking colors.

As Mark became increasingly hypnotized with Logan
’s fine piece, he felt a tickle inside his ear. He scanned the library windows; all of them were closed. The draft must have come through the main door, he thought. He continued to stare at
Clarice’s
large succulent bottom. Her bosom was accentuated by Logan’s brilliant strokes; her scarlet hair hung over her shoulders in a coquettish show of prime youth. His ear tickled again. This time, the sound seemed to come from the painting. He peered closer at the artwork.

Close the door
, Clarice said.

Mark paused, stared at his drink, and chortled.

Please, close the door
, Clarice whispered again, in a high-pitched, vernal, estrogenic voice. Mark scrunched an eye and focused it toward the coppery liquid in his glass, checking for impurities. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

“
Milt!” he called loudly.

“
Yes, Mr. Cohen.” The thin, somewhat frail, 70-year-old man approached the door of the library, wearing khakis and a pristine white polo shirt.

“
Where did this Cuvee come from?”

“
That was a gift, sir.”

“
From who?” Mark asked, swaying slightly like a broken pendulum.

“
King Abdullah of Jordan.”

“
Why?”

“
You secured the fine mineral contract for him. Remember, for Samsung Electronics?”

“
Yes, yes.” Mark flashed a sloppy grin. “That was huge. Is this King Abdullah somewhat festive?”

“
Yes, he has a reputation of being somewhat bacchanalian, sir.”

“
I’ll drink to that,” Mark slurred, lifting his glass. “Milt, do me a favor, lock the door and close it, please.”

“
Yes, sir.” Milt secured the door and walked away, wiping his mind clean of what Mark was doing in a closed library, like the true professional he was, and continued with his duties.

Mark
’s smiling eyes turned toward the painting.

Thank you, Mark
, murmured Clarice. Her body undulated in a blurred dance of seduction.

Mark always joked about his earliest memory of being inside his crib, and imagining the picture of a female genie that was in his room begin to belly dance, giving him his first recollection of arousal
. Clarice
had successfully rekindled that memory for Mark, and he was now under the spell of the hallucination.

Take off your pants
, Clarice purred.

Inebriated beyond comprehension, Mark complied like a schoolboy who
’d just wagered his purity.

Mark
’s luxurious trousers dropped to his ankles. As he placed his thumbs beneath the elastic of his boxer briefs, Claret Clarice flickered. Her reddish hues bubbled like molten lava.

“
Clarice, what’s going on?” blubbered Mark. “Your face is melting...Oh, God.”

Mark reached for his pants and fell to his side, landing on his glass of cognac. Pieces of broken glass lodged deeply into his rib. Mark was too drunk to show pain and too drunk to regain his feet.

The painting glimmered. The paint looked wet and fresh as if it was brush stroked an hour ago. Drops of blood began running downward, pooling at the edge of the frame, and finally spilling toward Mark’s admired wooden floor.

Mark backed away from the uncontrollable drizzle, kicking his legs wildly, desperately trying to gain his balance as he clumsily writhed on the floor. He was soon covered in blood. He couldn
’t tell if it was from the wound on his side or the blood that cascaded from the canvas.

The red liquid
spread out onto the floor, coagulated upward, like an Eagle Nebula, and slowly created a somewhat coherent form.

Mark was paralyzed. A translucent and smoky red hand reached out of the bloo
d-mist shadow and covered his mouth.

A slender body emerged from the grotesque, chaotic collection of plasma, with a demonic fac
e made of plaster. Logan appeared, wearing a mask of the vampiric demigoddess,
Empousa
. The feminine, fanged face was constructed to elicit the highest level of fear that was humanly possible.

“
Shhh...” said a masked Logan, placing his finger up to his exposed lips.

Mark desperately tried to mumble words through the spaces between Logan
’s fingers.

“
If I take my hand away from your mouth, will you cooperate with me?” asked Logan, as he brandished a silver dagger from his pocket with his other hand.

Mark nodded rapidly.

Logan crouched over Mark, who was sitting on his ass, vulnerable.

Mark slapped himself.

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

He slapped himself again.

“Quit making noises, please.”

Mark, wide-eyed and terrified, placed his hands on the cold floor. Logan removed his
own hand from Mark’s quivering lips. “What have you done, Mark?”