Mine

Zeus. Hades.

Darkness covered most of the room. The sun had set. The moon slipped through the blinds, placing lit bars all over walls. It made the hotel suite look like a jail cell.

I lay there.

Imprisoned in my own head.

Aries. Artemis. Athena.

Eight hours before, I’d helped Baptiste kill twelve men, throwing them into a pit of fire surrounded by chicken bones, cemetery dirt, holy water and some other crazy shit my friend needed there. For one minute, I thought Baptiste might’ve been trying to resurrect Nakita. Later, he explained that the stuff was to protect the dying men from returning as evil spirits that would haunt us for the rest of our lives.

Due to that, I went with it.

One could never be sure of life’s mysteries even if it all sounded ridiculous.

The dead men had been the top members of the Carrillo Cartel. After thirty days, we wiped out the organization, hunting and finding every person that had a part in the casino bombing. Blood and death. Torture and dread. I watched lives leave eyes. I witnessed last breaths. I heard the final pleadings of too many dying men. While the deaths would never bring back Nakita, I hoped the piles of corpses comforted Baptiste.

The moment Baptiste cut the last man and blood dripped down his face, he looked at me. “Now, it’s my turn.”

I wiped my rainbow knife on my pants, cleaning away the blood. “I’m not going to kill you.”

I left him there.

What now?

We were in Jamaica. We’d flown to Montego Bay—the place where Baptiste and Nakita got married. He’d taken the time on the flight the right out his funeral instructions and handed them to me when we landed. And when we buried the love of his life, again he turned to me with the same question.

“Have you read the instructions?” Baptiste asked.

I left a rose on Nakita’s grave. “No. I haven’t read them, and I’m not killing you.”

That was how Baptiste was doing.

I thought I would deal with Nakita’s death in a reasonable manner. But tonight, sorrow came. Maybe it was Montego Bay, toying with my senses. Baptiste had said that Jamaica was ruled by African ancestral spirits—Ogun, the God of War and Oshun, the Goddess of Love.

I have to get my head together.

Naked, I sat up and pushed back sweat-soaked sheets.

Focus on the pleasures of life, and then think about what to do next.

There’d been a lot of things I’d planned on doing after our revenge. I’d made a list in my head as I buried bodies and cleaned up fingerprints. For these next weeks, I would take a vacation from my security company.

First, I had to take a moonlit swim. Since coming to Jamaica, my body ached to move through the cool waves, late at night, and naked. Next, I planned to feast. No meal would cost too much. All rich flavors would be savored. Third, I would wash the delicious food down with a nice glass of whiskey. I’d packed a special bottle. Bought from a private collector’s auction for $60,000, it was Shalmon Scotch. 1922. Only twelve bottles had been made.

But then a woman would need to warm my bed before the top was twisted. One didn’t sip a bottle of that amount by themselves. And not just any woman would do. I loved legs—long ones. A sweet smell grabbed my attention. A beautiful smile kept it. The conversation had to lure me in. And her frame had to possess seductive curves.

My cock jerked.

Swim first. Find someone to fuck later.

I rose from the bed, grabbed a towel, and felt no need to take a robe since the resort was clothing optional. It was the only way I enjoyed traveling. Sometimes, nudity freed me.

My phone lay right next to my rainbow knife. The blade was gold. Every color striped the handle. A memory from when I was young played out in my mind.

“Look, Mommy.” I pointed out the window. “That’s a rainbow.”

She frowned. “Who cares?”

“There could be gold there. We could use it.”

“There’s no gold at the bottom of a rainbow, just death.”

I paused in the dark suite and breathed. Anytime I thought of Mom, it meant I’d mentally gone too far. Revenge for Nakita’s death had been too personal and hit too hard.

Swim.

I considered checking on Baptiste. He was next door. While he wasn’t a fan of the resort’s clothing optional stance, he enjoyed the luxury and peace. I had a vacation home in Jamaica that was further away, tucked in a private bay. But the home brought back too many memories for him, so we planted ourselves here.

No. I’ll let him sleep.

The suite opened up right on the beach. On this side, it was only Baptiste and me.

Naked, I placed a towel on my shoulder and left my room. The dark night sky glittered above. Off in the distance, waves crashed off. When I reached the point where water and sand met, I dropped my towel, raced forward, and dove in. My muscles flexed with the movement. Cold liquid swallowed me up. The ocean held me in this liquid embrace.