Eye for an Eye by Dwayne S. Joseph Page A

gave him a smirk. “Maybe.”
    â€œJust like the possibly?”
    â€œPossibly turned into a no,” I said. “This time I’m saying maybe.”
    He nodded. “I’ll accept that.”
    I looked at him for a moment and then without saying anything, turned and left.
    Game.
    He had it.
    But his skills were no match for mine.

19
    She was late.
    The meeting was supposed to have been for three o’clock, at her home, but the meeting place was changed last minute to Starbucks. It was now twenty minutes to four. Aida took an angry sip of her iced caramel Frappuccino and set the cup down hard. It was hot and humid outside. Ninety degrees, but with the humidity it felt like ninety-five. It was the kind of mid-July weather Aida loved. Hot sun, high temperatures accompanied by humidity that clung to the skin like a sleepy child demanding to be held. Most people hid when the weather was like this. They stayed indoors bathing in air conditioning or locked in their cars doing the same, burning gas. They didn’t want to sweat or mess up their hair.
    But Aida didn’t mind at all.
    She liked the heat. She liked the cotton-thick humidity. Her hair was long, hung down to the middle of her back, but she never cared about it getting messy. She had no problem with sweat. Truth be told, there was something sexy about it to her. On the days when the heat index was high, Aida wore as little as possible. Short shorts. Tank, tube or bikini tops. Flip-flops, never sneakers. She wanted as much of her skin as legally and morally, possible to be exposed to the heat. She liked when sweat ran down her body. She felt it added to her sex appeal.
    She wanted to be out in the heat now, enjoying the day, enjoying the ogling that she always got. Her occupation afforded her a lifestyle in which she didn’t have to be stuck slaving away in an office as a peon or standing on her feet eight hours a day working retail somewhere. Her occupation gave her freedom from having to deal with bullshit.
    Today she should have been out, sweating, getting tan, but instead she was sitting at a square table that wobbled, wearing a chic red blouse, a pair of stretch jeans, and black pumps, sipping on a Frappuccino, waiting for another desperate housewife in need, who couldn’t show up for her fucking appointment on time.
    Aida took another swallow of her drink, slammed the cup down again, and then pushed her chair back.
    â€œFuck this shit.”
    Patience had never been a friend of hers. She’d waited long enough. Vivian Steele would just have to deal with the bullshit until she was ready for help–if ever.
    â€œAida?”
    Aida was just about to rise out of her chair. She looked up to see a pair of apologetic, almond-shaped, brown eyes staring down at her. Aida looked her over. Attractive with thin lips, a slender but pronounced nose, shoulder-length brown hair with blond highlights, and bronze-colored skin from overtanning. Her upper torso was thick, but curvaceous. She was a B cup, with wide hips and short, thick legs. She looked Greek or Italian. Aida couldn’t tell which.
    Aida said, “Yes?”
    The woman put her hand to her chest. A gaudy wedding ring encrusted with diamonds glinted in the café’s light. “I’m Vivian Steele. We have an appointment.”
    â€œYes . . . for three o’clock,” Aida said, refusing to conceal her annoyance.
    Vivian nodded. “Please forgive me for being late. My husband had a last-minute trip and needed to have some shirts ironed. It took longer than I thought it would.”
    Aida scowled slightly. She’d set up a meeting to have her unfaithful husband trapped, yet she was bending over backwards to iron his goddamned shirts.
    Idiot , Aida thought.
    She said, “No problem.”
    Vivian Steele sat down. “Have you been here long?”
    â€œSince three o’clock.”
    Vivian looked at her watch. It too was riddled with diamonds.