Crimson Footprints Part 20

Lucas paused. "You're Lizzie, right? Lizzie Hammond?"

She nodded.

Lucas and Walt exchanged another look.

"O.k. I'm game. How's this? There's a party tonight at my place, my parents are gone all night so it'll be great. Come and uh...be my date."

"Wow. Okay, sure. I'd love to," Lizzie gushed.

"She'd love to," Lucas said to Walt, who grinned. He turned back to Lizzie. "Excellent. I can't wait."

Lucas Strong's house was by far the nicest Lizzie had ever seen. It had two stories, a white picket fence and a pool in the backyard. All of that was on top of the lake it faced. Sabal Lake was what it was called, and Lizzie had never heard of it before that night. Even before she saw the house, she knew Lucas was well off. His mother was an elected representative that made him go to public school for PR purposes, he told everyone. One look at his house let Lizzie know he had no business at such a s.h.i.+tty public school.

Lucas, tall and nearly filling the frame, greeted Lizzie at his front door and instinctively, Lizzie warmed. He grinned at her, a clutter of boys at his back, before waving her in.

"Where is everyone?" Lizzie said, glancing at the dozen guys present.

Lucas shrugged. "I invited people. Hopefully they'll come. Someone else may be having something though."

Lizzie frowned. She couldn't imagine any other party she'd rather be at.

"You drink?" Lucas asked, leading her through the living room and into the kitchen. Briefly, his gaze lingered on Lizzie's dress, a backless and thigh high electric dress she was suddenly grateful she wore.

"Yeah, of course," she called. She'd never actually had a drink, but didn't want him to know that.

"Good," Lucas said, turning to shoot her smile. "Let's set you up then."

Lizzie followed him, thrilled when he took her hand, smiling at the stares she was earning. They wanted to be with her, all of them. But they couldn't have her. She was with Lucas.

The kitchen surprised her. She'd never seen one like it, in person, at least. s.h.i.+ny marble floors, wallpaper, and a high ceiling. She even saw one of those rigs where pots and pans could hang from overhead, like in a restaurant.

Lucas grinned at her wide-eyed stare as he mixed a quick drink. When he handed to her, she took a sip and winced.

"I thought you said you were a drinker."

Lizzie nodded. "I am."

"Good." He brought fingers to the bottom of her gla.s.s and eased it upwards. "Drink up. Then we'll dance."

With the bitter alcohol down, Lucas laced fingers through hers and guided her to the center of the living room. No one was dancing to the music, as there were no girls to dance with. Lizzie felt sorry for all of them. They watched, some with beers, others with soda, as she gave Lucas her undivided attention. Lizzie smiled. She would show them how lucky Lucas was to have her, how much of a prize Lizzie Hammond could be.

Lucas pulled Lizzie close and immediately they began to grind. The music was loud and insistent, a frenzied thump of ba.s.s, cymbals and nasty lyrics, shredding for a high-octane booty mix. She placed her arms at his neck as he gripped her waist, their bodies moving in tight, concentric circles. Her t.i.ts swayed with the beat, loose in her strapless, braless outfit. She was s.e.xy, so s.e.xy and could feel it.

When his hands found her b.u.t.t, she let them, cause he was cute and she liked him. Lucas grinned and squeezed a.s.s with both hands, d.i.c.k pressed at her abdomen. He began to kiss her, hard, open-mouthed and sloppy. Ironically, Lizzie didn't have much experience kissing on the mouth and worked to keep up with him as he smothered. Lucas kneaded her a.s.s, pressing her flat, grinding less like a dance as he pulled her dress. Behind Lizzie a cheer erupted as a blast of air conditioning hit her thong-clad a.s.s.

Lucas backed her to the wall, never slowing as she stumbled, pinned her there and fumbled at the crotch of her panties. With one hand, he unzipped and thrust into Lizzie.

He f.u.c.ked her there, on the wall, at his party. With a leg around his waist, she stared at her audience, blank-faced and numb as harsh hurried stabs pounded her. When he pulled down the front of her dress, she didn't stop him. When he lifted her other leg, on the instructions of another boy, she didn't stop him. And when he grunted in her ear that she was "one s.l.u.tty b.i.t.c.h," she didn't tell him he was wrong. Lucas sweat and moaned as he clamped down on her a.s.s, leaving Lizzie to stare at the onlookers. Somehow, Lizzie had believed she could keep the truth from Lucas and her audience. But looking at them told her they knew. They knew who, or rather what, she was and wasn't. And in the end, she'd only kept the truth from herself.

He came in her that night before stepping aside for Walt. Tall and strong, Walt dropped his pants and carried her to the couch, where he shared her mouth with another short and sweaty guy that Lizzie didn't know.

There were five in total. Five boys that did whatever came to mind for however long they could stand it. They came in her, all five, and never once did she protest. But afterwards, Lizzie made a decision, her best one yet. Never, would she be f.u.c.ked for nothing again. Ever.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

Back at her desk, Deena withdrew pen and paper. She printed 'Skylife' at the top of a legal pad in large, neat letters and stared at it.

What did she know about the project? She numbered the lines of the page and began to list facts as they came to her. A multi-use facility-residential and commercial. Marked for wealthy residents. Advantageous ocean access. Impressive views of the bay.

Deena sighed. She was young, 25, and had graduated just four years ago. How could she create a design so impressive that people would fork over millions of dollars for a sliver of her vision? How could she create a standard of luxury that made a unique contribution to the world, when she had spent most of her life in poverty?

She groaned. This line of thought was counterproductive.

She turned to the function of the building. It was a multi-use structure with commercial and residential units under the same roof. It was a community. Deena began to scribble everything that came to mind about communities. A group interacting in a shared environment. Shared resources, preferences, needs, risks.

What else could her building do for this community, aside from the obvious task of providing shelter? Many architects tried to impose a sense of community cohesion through common s.p.a.ce. It was a good notion, but she wanted to take it further. Could she, through her designs, create this same sense of cohesion not just with the residents of her building, but with those in the surrounding area, too? Could Skylife, in essence, draw the outward in?

Deena chewed on her pen in thought. She envisioned outdoor common s.p.a.ces, a gym and sauna open to the community and an outdoor cafe for the business tyc.o.o.ns who worked steps away. Skylife would not be a world unto itself, but rather, a seamless part of a larger existence.

Deena frowned. The idea was good, but it was just a start. People would not pay millions to inhabit squares, no matter how many coffee shops were nearby.

s.p.a.cious lofts came to mind, with 180 views of water and floor-to-ceiling windows like the ones in Daichi's office. Still, she needed more.

She wanted people to rush home, breathless in antic.i.p.ation, to fawn over their million dollar lofts, das.h.i.+ng from one corner to the other as they proclaimed their love not just for the panoramic views but for every square inch. Each apartment should be alluring, enchanting, intoxicating. Each apartment should be loved.

Deena tore off a fresh sheet of paper.

Love.

It was the very thing that had eluded her for so long. And yet, even she'd uncovered it. Love. How could she look at it pragmatically?

She thought of Tak, jotting down words as they came to her. Beauty. Pleasure. Bonding. Familiarity. Intimacy. Reciprocity. Could she recreate these same attributes in her design, and by proxy, manufacture love?

It sounded outrageous. But outrageous, so far as she knew, was not the same as impossible.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

Kenji Tanaka lay on his back, the door before him closed. He was in his weekend bedroom at his older brother Tak's house and on his nightstand was a stack of graphic novels. On the television, The Sopranos, turned low. Briefly, he considered a romp with one of the half-dozen adrenaline-rus.h.i.+ng video games he owned, but a glance at the clock on his nightstand made him decide against it. He had a baseball game the next day and it was nearly ten all ready. Late nights playing pseudo NFL games wouldn't get him a starting position at UCLA. So he flipped off the TV and the lamp, pulled the Marlins comforter up and snuggled in.

Even before Kenji heard the faint squeaking of bedrails and the occasional l.u.s.ty moan from his brother's room, not long back his vacation, he knew things had changed for Tak and Deena. It was no one thing that had convinced him, but instead, a bunch of little ones. They suddenly had this endless need to touch for starters, subtle but ever present. A question with a hand on the arm, a suggestion with a hand on the back, it never seemed to stop. And what was with the double talk? Everything Tak said made her blush, as if it all had a second, more seductive meaning.

Kenji sat up. His headboard and Tak's faced each other, and the pounding coming through the walls was not conducive to sleep. With a frown, he flipped on his lamp, and s.n.a.t.c.hed one of the graphic novels off his nightstand.

They were not comic books, as the ill-informed tried to call them. There were distinct differences between the two. Important differences. For starters, they were novels not serials that required you to return to them again and again for short fixes. Secondly, and more importantly, they were gritty, mature, and more reflective of the real world.

Take the one in his hand, for example. It was from Guy Robin's Groove Town series. In it were pimps, prost.i.tutes, drug dealers, mobsters and a corrupt police force, all realistically conveyed in the film-noir style. What could be better than moral ambiguity and s.e.x? He grinned each time he imagined the timid Peter Parker tangling with Guy Robin's 5th Street Girls, a clan of prost.i.tutes steeped deep in vigilante justice. Those Spidey webs would do no good in Groove Town.

He was guessing, of course, about whether Guy Robin's take on criminal life was realistic. Despite being raised in Miami, a city with a murder rate higher than New York and Los Angeles combined; Kenji had never so much as seen a purse s.n.a.t.c.hed let alone anything reasonably dangerous. He lived in a house so posh it had been on the cover of designing magazines, and even then was called an 'estate.' It was surrounded on three sides by the bay and had two pools, a tennis court, fitness center, movie theater and a private dock for the two boats his father kept. There wasn't even a semblance of normalcy at the public school he attended. Shuffled there by zip code, it was home only to the extremely well off, and to Kenji, had all the trappings for an episode of nauseating teen drama.

There was a knock at his door and Kenji set aside Guy Robin.

When Tak stepped into the room, he wore only a pair of white cotton pajama pants and an awkward expression. He cleared his throat before speaking.

"Hey little bro. Got a minute?"

Kenji nodded, and reached for the Rawlins baseball he kept near his stack of graphic novels. "Yeah, sure, come on. I'm not going anywhere."

Tak took a seat on the edge of the bed, as Kenji stretched out and began a one-man game of catch.

"We should talk. There's something I need to tell you."

Kenji glanced at him, never slowing in his game of catch. "No need. Already know."

Tak hesitated. "And...you're okay? I mean, I know you like Deena, and I know she hangs out with us a lot already, but I don't want you to feel like this thing is going to come between us or anything."

"Nope. It's cool."

"She'll be over here some weekends though," Tak said hesitantly.

"Yeah, I figured," Kenji countered dryly.

Tak took a deep breath.

"Well, I know this is probably a surprise but-"

"It's not."

Tak grinned. "O.k. then. It's not a surprise and you are o.k. with it?" Kenji nodded. "Alright then," Tak continued. "Enough with the awkwardness. Tell me what I missed while gone."

Kenji shrugged mid-toss. "A lot. I mean, it was twenty-four days."

Tak lowered his gaze. "Yeah. About that, I won't do that to you again, okay."

Kenji looked away, features twisted with masked annoyance.

"You're a grown man. You want to leave for a month, who am I to say something?"

"Yeah, just the same. I won't do it again. Not for that long at least." He paused. "So, how was it?"

Kenji shot him a look.

"You know how it was. Dad was in Asia or Africa or some other continent we're not in and mom was in a bottle."

"And you? What were you doing?"

"Reading, practicing music, baseball. Made the six o'clock news one night."

"You what?" Tak sat up straighter.

"I made the six o'clock news last. Triple play, bottom of the ninth."

"And you didn't call me?" Tak demanded incredulously.

Kenji grinned. "Figured you were busy."

Tak laughed. "Then you had more faith in me then I did."

"Come on, Tak. You've never met a girl you couldn't have."

Tak reached over and messed his hair. "Spoken like a true little brother."

He stood to exit and looked down at the younger version of himself. Tak smiled with quiet admiration. "Bases loaded and you're sending 'em home, huh? Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned."

After an afternoon at the game rooting Kenji on to victory, Tak stood over Deena in the place where he'd left her four hours earlier. She was in his living room, frowning over a legal pad that had become her constant companion. She scribbled, scratched, and scribbled again, before lifting one of the half dozen or so thick books from the coffee table. Next to them were stacks of loose-leaf paper, newspaper clippings, magazine clippings and post-it notes, many stapled together in thick, helter-skelter wads. Tak picked up one such stack and examined it. He lifted the glossy magazine clipping of a fuzzy-faced man to read the Deena-created fact sheet beneath.

Aamir Mahmoud.

Electrical Engineer Age 52.

Native of Beirut, Lebanon Current Residency Los Angeles, CA Ph.D. Harvard University M.S. & B.S. from M.I.T.

Major Projects: Waldorf Astoria, United Arab Emirates Bank of Tokyo, Tokyo, j.a.pan Capitol Building, Sacramento, CA Leaguer Fields Stadium, Nashville, Tennessee Pluses: Renowned for meticulousness. Recently published a book on risks in architectural design Minuses: No major residential projects to date.

Tak set aside Mahmoud's profile and picked up another. This one had a pa.s.sport size photo of a fat-faced Asian woman alongside a stack of notes. He turned to the fact sheet.

Margaret Lee.

Electrical Enginee Age 63 Native of New York, NY, Current Residency West Palm Beach, FL Ph. D. Northwestern University M.S. Columbia University. B.S. NYU Major Projects: Miami School of Design, Miami, FL West Palm Beach School of Arts W. Palm Beach, FL Bennett Regional Hospital, Children's Wing, Fort Lauderdale, FL Tak frowned at Maggie Lee's fact sheet and he thought back to Mahmoud. He had a state capitol and an NFL football field while Ms. Lee here had a wing in a hospital, admirable, but certainly not equal.

"What's up with the drastic departure, Dee?"

She looked up. "What?"