Gutter - Part 1: The Rise Page 5

  “Is this the part where you ask your estranged son to foot the bill for this? I don’t care.” He tossed up his hands, controlling the waves of rage that swelled within him. “I’ll pay for the shit because I pay for strangers’ shit too, and this is no different. The money doesn’t mean shit to me. Just ask for it then, so I can pretend I’m not being used and we can keep this awkward little dance going.”

  “I don’t want you to pay for nothin’, Zakey…” She used to call him that when he was a little boy. “Don’t want your money. Don’t need it.” She hung her head and drew quiet. He stared at the top of her head. Last time he’d seen her, she had thick blond waves, the envy of many. Now, she has bald spots. Must’ve been the chemo.

  He turned away and sniffed the air. What a strange smell. And then, he realized she was asleep.

  He crept past her, noticing several canvases lying against a wall. He crouched down and flipped through them. Paintings of sunsets and beaches, people mingling in the city, abstract pieces that drew the eye, centerpieces of fruit, a couple making love. One in particular made him stop in his tracks. With a slow hand, he ran his finger across a self-portrait of her. It must’ve been when she was in her twenties, perhaps early thirties. It was so good, it looked almost like a photograph. I didn’t know Jenny was an artist. Dad never mentioned this, either. This is good. Like real good. Professional shit good.

  He stood back up and walked over to the couch. Sitting down beside her, he grabbed his phone and sent his father a text message:

  Dad, I will see you tomorrow. I don’t know what time yet, but I’ll let you know.

  He figured his father was fast asleep for it was almost two A.M. The woman snored lightly. Taking a folded blanket from the arm of the couch, he spread it across both of them, and closed his eyes. Peace eluded him, shades of black, white, and gray creeping into his dreams. Cold sweat covered him as rapid-fire nightmares assailed him. In each one, the dungeons he found himself in smelled of musky cologne and oil paints. The walls were closing in, the things made of cracked glass jars covered in splattered, dried paint. Blond hair tresses were scattered on the floor. Around him, the blood and gore of demons spilled from ferocious twenty ft. tall monsters in battle, and some chased him with swords drawn. Then, they stopped brusquely, their axes high in the air and a look of devastation on their grizzly faces. “We can’t kill him, he’s already dead.”

  That was when he realized he smelled like cancer…

  She killed the morning, cool as a frozen cucumber sliding down a hill in the North Pole. She’d helped fill urns that morning as well as assisted in an urn release, gathered information to include in the death certificates, consulted with several families, and called the hospitals to confirm the patients they had to retrieve. One after the other, Promise impressed her own damn self at how much she was able to juggle with competence. Now, things were quiet. On this sunny day, she sat in her boss’s lavish office, simply decorated with elegant mahogany furniture: a desk and chair, a vanilla and cream brocade chaise, and tasteful art hanging on the burgundy walls.

  She stared out the window behind the desk as she munched on her chicken salad sandwich. The croissant was a bit soggy, but the flavor was on point. Feet kicked up, she bit into the buttery bread. The sweet relish hit her palate, followed by a surprise burst of pepper catching in the back of her throat.

  “Damn. Jalapenos?” She’d gotten this same exact sandwich from her favorite shop on Hollis Avenue. “Bruce is putting peppers in the chicken salad now?” She swallowed, and suddenly her mouth felt like it was on fire. Mos Def’s, ‘Umi Says’ played softly from the speakers as she coughed and scratched her throat.

  In desperation, she slammed the sandwich down on the desk and reached for her diet coke, chugging it. All it did was make the spices swirl around, but after a few moments, she was fine. She chuckled. Shaking her head, she looked down at the vase of white roses sitting on the glossy desk, letting their beauty fill her senses and relishing the last few moments of her break. After patting her face with a tissue, she sighed and booted up her laptop to check next week’s schedule. Just then, the desk phone buzzed.

  “You’ve reached Rebecca Hoffman’s office. This is Promise Bradford speaking.”

  “Promise, this is Cheryl.”

  “Oh, hey, Cheryl. How are you?” The woman was the main liaison tasked with maintaining the main chapel and cleaning and updating the furniture and decor.

  “I’m great, just waiting on the carpet cleaners to get here. Um, there’s a couple people here in the front lobby. A tall guy with a bunch of tattoos and piercings, and an older woman. Said her name was Jennifer Cassidy. She said she spoke to you on the phone about a—”

  “Oh yes, yes. She’s early, but that’s okay. She wants to plan her service in advance. Send her back, please.”

  “Okay. I’ll take care of it.” Before Promise could thank her, the call had ended. Standing, she cleared the desk of the sandwich remains, sprayed a bit of lavender Febreze, lit two ginger and cinnamon candles, then put on some classical music, going for ‘Concerto Grosso No 1,’ by Corelli. As she swiped a dust cloth along the chaise arms, there was a tap at the door. She walked over and opened it, and her eyes immediately drifted up and landed on a mountain of a man.

  Damn. He is fine. Hold up… He looks familiar…

  Oh my God.

  That’s… that’s that singer… Gutter!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Urn Your Trust

  Promise looked into the some of the richest, most soulful dark brown eyes she’d ever seen. They belonged to a man she recognized. A man whose music she’d been listening to for years. His lower lip donned a piercing, his lobes were stretched, and silver hoop earrings dangled from them. Thick dark brows gave him the appearance of being irate, even though he wasn’t frowning, and he had a lush black beard, as well as hair in a buzz cut. He was casual in a black hoodie, jeans and white Jordan sneakers. His fingers were adorned with a few diamond rings and the little skin he had visible was covered in tattoos. All but his face. He also smelled like expensive cologne, aftershave, and fresh soap.

  Beside him stood a small woman with an Asian style scarf tied around her head, a white and red kimono top, black leggings, red Mary Jane shoes, tired dark eyes, and a heartwarming smile framed in mauve lipstick. I bet she was pretty when she was healthy. She’s still pretty, actually. I can see beyond the sickness on her face. She must have cancer. Looks like cancer…

  “Come in, come in,” she greeted. “Thank you, Cheryl.” She waved as her coworker retreated.

  “You’re welcome.” The woman made her way down the long hall flanked with white statues, and paintings of clouds and sunlight.

  Promise gestured for the two to get seated at her desk. She returned to her chair, leaned forward, and clasped her hands together.

  “Ms. Cassidy, you told me on the phone that you have an incurable illness, and several medical practitioners working on your case have stated that your life expectancy is less than a year.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” The woman nodded and crossed her long, thin legs. Clasping her hands over her bony knee, she glanced around the office. “It’s nice in here. Smells good, too. Febreze?”

  “Yes. Lavender.”

  “I love Febreze. I have ’em all. My favorite scent is peony… Nice, right?”

  “Pink bottle?” Promise smiled.

  “That’s the one. Aww, geesh, I’m so rude. This is my son.” The lady casually pointed at the tall, attractive man.

  Gutter kept his head down, messing with his phone now. So strange how removed he seemed to be. Perhaps the thought of his mother dying was too much for him? I don’t know this man, only what he does online and on stage… in a music studio. I know grief. I know death. I know love.

  “My son here thinks my house stinks.” The lady chuckled, her pale cheeks warming to a darker hue. “He didn’t say this expressly, but I can tell.”

  The man offered no reaction, as though he was
deaf, or sitting alone, in another room. Promise moved a few pens around on her desk and smiled.

  “He started lighting incense this morning, cleaning up my house. I’ve got stuff everywhere right now, ’cause I’m an artist.”

  “An artist? A painter?”

  “Yeah. My artwork stinks, too, but enough people think otherwise to pay me enough to have a fancy funeral.” They both laughed at that.

  Gutter kept quiet as his mother did all of the talking. He seemed so … raw. Something murky and abysmal drew her to him, and also worried her. His entire vibe and energy were intimidating. Unfuckwithable. With closed eyes, he massaged the back of his neck. She turned back towards his mother who seemed to drift in a daydream, staring off into the distance outside the window behind her. Typically, her boss met clients in a meeting room that looked like an opulent living room. Yet, the thought of the three of them in a big room with rows of books, a marble fireplace and black furniture didn’t seem quite the right place for this particular discussion. Every now and again, she’d invite a family into her office. Promise never knew Rebecca’s reasoning for this, and never bothered to ask about it. Nevertheless, this felt right.

  “You’re the funeral director?” Ms. Cassidy snapped the silence like a twig with her distinct voice. It was a little deep, a bit sultry and tainted with what could’ve been years of cigarette-smoking.

  “No, I’m her assistant. Rebecca is out right now, so I’ve stepped in to help.”

  “Oh, okay.” A few seconds passed. “I don’t mean to stare, but it’s just the artist in me. You’re pretty.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Must be somethin’ wrong with you to like standing around the dead.” The lady winked and smiled.

  Promise chuckled, then shrugged. “I’ve heard as much.”

  “Isn’t she gorgeous, Zake?”

  Zake! That’s right. That’s his real name.

  The big guy lifted his head and her chest practically caved in. He looked at her as if it were his first time noticing her presence, and now he wanted what he saw. His lips curled in a slightly seedy, hedonistic smile.

  He leaned forward. “She’s beautiful.” His smile broadened and then, just like that, he looked away again, back down at his phone.

  “Ms. Cassidy, we spoke on the phone a bit, but tell me again what type of service you’re looking to have?”

  The woman dug excitedly in her purse and began to pull out pictures from magazines. She rambled on about colors, wardrobes, music and such. She was ahead of herself, taking in circles, not finishing one thought before she arrived at another, but came to life at the most miniscule of details. Promise pulled out some brochures and paperwork as the woman chatted on, trying to help guide her in a more productive direction. Getting to her feet, she went around the desk and leaned against it, giving the lady the information. When able to get a word in, Promise clarified some things for Ms. Cassidy, making suggestions here and there, and was pleased that the woman seemed to have put quite a bit of thought into it all.

  “…And so, that’s how I see it, ya know? Because I don’t believe in death. It’s just the end of one chapter.”

  “That’s a good way to look at it.”

  “Is this funeral home religious based?” The woman looked about as if in search of a cross or two on the walls. “It didn’t seem to be on the website ’cause see, I was raised Catholic, but I’m not religious.” She pointed at herself. “Still, I believe in a higher power, things like that.”

  “We’re not faith-based. That’s been done in order to encourage all who desire our services to feel comfortable and have faith that their wishes will be carried out as they want, regardless of their personal spiritual or religious beliefs. Everyone is welcome here.”

  “I thought I read an article stating the owner is Jewish though.”

  “She is.” Promise crossed her arms and ankles. It was then that she noticed Gutter staring hard at her legs. She reached for her gold heart pendant of her necklace and squeezed it. “But her father, who was the one who started this funeral home didn’t impose his family’s religious beliefs.”

  “Hmmm, you don’t hear that happenin’ too much.”

  “I’d have to agree with you there, but from what I understand, he wasn’t a practicing Jewish man from the standpoint of going to the synagogue and reading the Torah every day.”

  “Ahhh, I see.”

  “If you decide to have your homecoming service here, Ms. Cassidy, I will make sure you meet Rebecca soon. So, would you like to see our selection of caskets and urns now?” Promise stood straight, still feeling the man’s gaze upon her.

  “Yes, I would.” Her tone was almost cheerful.

  Moments later, they were making the trek to the coffer display. It honestly, was one of Promise’s favorite rooms in the entire establishment. A sizeable chamber that was decorated with real plants, a few expensive couches, and soft instrumental music playing from the four corners via speakers, to help put people at ease. The urn display was set up in a way to look like a shrine. It was gorgeous, if she said so herself.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Ms. Cassidy squealed as she brought her curled fingers to her lips like a child witnessing a miracle. “Everything is so appealing.”

  Promise nodded in agreement.

  “Take your time, look around. I can answer any question you have about the treasuries here, and in the rare case that you stump me, I can find out the answer you need from someone else.”

  “Okay, thank you.” Ms. Cassidy wandered about, pointing and whispering to her son as they moved about the room. She glanced down at her phone to check the time—a family was coming in soon for a viewing. When she looked back up, Gutter was watching her. Her skin tingled all over from his heated gaze. His dark, thick brows rutted and his intense stare drilled straight through to her soul.

  And then… he strode to her, with purpose and clear intent.

  Bending down, he whispered into her ear, “Call me about any financial shit my mother does, the bill she racks up. I saw the prices in the brochure. She can’t afford this.” He stood straight and chewed on his gum as he crossed his big arms. The scent of cinnamon drifted from his mouth.

  “Well, we have payment plans and—”

  “No. That’s not what we’re doing. Listen closely.” He held up his big hands. “We’ll keep this between me and you. Whatever she says she wants, agree to it. Then call me and I’ll take care of it right away.”

  “Well, that’s kind of you, but I prefer to be honest with our customers because at the end of the day, Gutter, I mean, Mr. Zake, Mr. Rayden, sorry, my business is with her directly, and it’s my job to ensure she is at ease and pleased—as well as fully aware of what is taking place. If you wish to pay on her behalf, that’s wonderful, but she’ll have to know about it in advance.”

  He looked over his shoulder at his mother, who was still perusing the selections. “I was bankin’ on you people being money piranhas. I would have to run into an ethical funeral director. That’s like a needle in a fuckin’ haystack. Lo and behold, I found it, and the prickly thing’s name is Promise.”

  “Assistant. I’m the Funeral Assistant, actually.” He smacked his gums and rolled his eyes. “I’m usually helping to transfer the deceased or—”

  “I can’t talk about this anymore right now. Take my number and call me. You got your phone on ya?” His cologne scent wafted in the air as he shifted his weight.

  “Yes.” Damn, he smells so good! When she unlocked her phone, the man snatched it out of her hands and typed in his contact info. Then, he grinned at her screensaver before handing it back to her.

  “You like Charlie Puth, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s got some great chops. Cool guy, too.” All she could do was stare at him. Her voice was caught somewhere in her gut and the bottom of her throat. “You’re not speaking to me now?” He smirked. “Don’t act like you don’t know who I am, I already heard you call me Gutter, and I can cl
early see that you listen to all types of music ’cause not many Black women are out here with Charlie Puth on their fuckin’ phones, according to popular opinion.”

  “And not many big White guys can sing like you. I didn’t realize you were conducting a poll about race, gender and musical inclinations.”

  “I’m not your screensaver, though. I’m kinda insulted. I demand you take my picture before I go and use it as your screensaver. I’m not humble enough to even admit I’m only half-joking right now.”

  She burst out laughing then turned away, shaking her head.

  “I do, I mean, yes, I did recognize you as soon as I saw you. It’s not that, though.”

  “What is it then?”

  Her insides melted when his deep voice vibrated through her entire body. Everything about the man was smooth, controlled, methodical, cool. The way he cocked his head to the side, towering over her in his black hoodie, sinking his teeth into his plush lower lip. And that damn sexy beard with the slight sheen, glistening under the overhead lights as if it were filled with broken stars and whole diamonds.

  “It’s just I didn’t expect this. We’ve had celebrities here, but usually we’re prepared and have a heads up. Your mother didn’t mention you. Not that she had to, but you get what I’m saying.” He nodded in understanding. “She did explain just now though that her breast cancer returned and has spread through several organs of her body. I’m truly sorry about this. I can assure you that we here at Horizons Funeral Home, Mortuary and Chapel are going to—”

  “I don’t need the whole spiel. The voice you throw on ’nd shit. Just be real with me. You seem competent. I don’t bruise easily. I know what’s next. She’s dyin’. You have a job to do. I want to negotiate. You’re a play-it-by-the-rules kind of woman. It’s cool.”