The Girl in the Gucci Dress
Troy Dennison
Cover image T. Dennison
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Troy Dennison
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Have you ever wanted something so much that you could almost touch it?
Almost TASTE it?
I have.
It was a girl.
It's always a girl when you get right down to it.
Money, power, riches, respect...nothing comes close to a woman.
Better than fine wine or the high you get off good drugs.
Better than anything in life when you think about it.
I keep asking myself if she was worth it.
Worth the blood and death that followed?
Worth the heartache and humiliation of the trial?
Worth spending the rest of my natural life rotting in a prison cell?
I ask myself, but I really don't need to because I know the answer already; it’s engraved in my heart and soul in letters that BURN.
Of course she was!
It was a Friday night in June, the city was as hot as a lap dancer’s dollar stuffed g-string and I was attempting to make a half-hearted effort to wash away the stress of another bloody week in the corporate hell of the legal trade by drowning my sorrows in Tequila and imported beer. There are worse ways to unwind at the end of the week, but this was mine and I liked it.
I was slumped at the bar; jacket off, collar open, head in hands as I contemplated the salt shaker searching for something profound, as if the questions of the universe would be answered in something as wondrous and mundane as a grain of salt. I licked the back of my left thumb with a tongue that was half numb and anesthetised from the four shots I’d already had and sprinkled salt onto my hand. The tiny crystalline grains fell onto my skin, spilling like lost seconds falling from my life, never to be reclaimed.
God I needed to drink more if all I could think of was shit like that!
I licked the salt, slammed the shot with a wince and was reaching for the plate of lime slices when she sat down next to me.
A slim hand (no jewellery) guided the limes closer to me.
I took a slice and bit a chunk from the bitter fruit, its citrus tang colliding with the tequila and salt as I turned towards the source of the overwhelming floral perfume that was filling my senses.
She had blue eyes.
Deep and penetrating like crystal pools.
They were framed by a heart-shaped face and delicate features with a cascade of chestnut brown hair that settled around the coffee coloured skin of her bare shoulders.
Her body was to die for (I found out later just how true that particular thought would turn out to be). Long toned legs that seemed to go on forever and an amazing set of curves that had been poured into the little black Gucci dress that she was almost wearing. The dress and shoes matched her tiny handbag sitting on the bar next to the debris of my 'happy hour' drinking session.
She smiled and the room lit up. It was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud to bathe the Earth in radiant heat.
From that moment on my life was over.
I just didn’t realise it yet.
She asked me my name, and as I signalled the bartender over we took each other in. She was in her twenties.
Worked as an interior designer.
Just signed a huge contract with a major motion picture studio to renovate and furnish the new office spaces they were moving to.
She was talented, smart, beautiful and talking to me.
God this was weird.
I learned a long time ago not to question the opportunities that fate throws in your path.
So I ordered her a Jack and Coke.
And I smiled.
And I talked.
It seemed that I did most of the talking that night. I had a gorgeous, attentive audience of one that hung on my every word and laughed at my feeble attempts at humour.
It was almost perfect.
The only thing marring the evening was the knowledge that the night would end after the bartender signalled for last orders.
It would end and she would be gone and I would never see her again.
Typical!
The call came, and I ordered two more drinks and we sat there, drinking slowly, as if the moment would end when our glasses were empty.
The night stretched on, as if we were extending it by sheer willpower alone.
And then the drinks were gone, and the bar started to empty and the bartender glanced at his watch in a hint of impatience.
We stepped out into the cool night air, and as I braced myself to say goodnight and never see her again she leaned towards me and whispered in my ear the suggestion that we should call a cab and go back to her place.
I’m not a complete idiot, so said yes.
It turned that I was a far bigger fool than I ever realised.
She stood facing the mirror.
Weight on her left leg, hip jutting to accentuate the gentle curves of her waist and thigh.
The soft, rounded swell of her ass peeking out from below the faded white t-shirt she had thrown on when we crawled out of bed.
My eyes devoured her, eating up every inch of her bare bronze flesh.
I glanced up at the reflection of her perfect face and saw her smiling at me.
Caught in the act!
I grinned like a fool at her.
Let’s face it; I WAS a fool for her. I was hers mind, body and soul, lock, stock and barrel.
Smitten.
Head over heels.
Its amazing how sex with a beautiful woman can turn a man into a complete idiot isn’t it?
That day was a blur.
I remember orange juice and French toast.
There was Kenyan coffee, warm, rich and dark.
There was sex.
There was a LOT of sex.
In the shower.
In the kitchen (after the orange juice and before the coffee).
In bed and on the floor, and late in the afternoon as the sun was settling down over the haze of the city we sat on her apartment balcony, wrapped in a silk sheet and a faint patina of sweat.
That was when she told me about her husband and the beatings.
She said he was richer than God and laughed at the thought. And then she told me about how he used his money to buy her silence and her companionship, she told me about his jealous, petty, petulant nature.
The years of mental duress and callous cruelty.
Sunglasses on rainy days to hide black eyes, and long sleeved blouses on hot days to cover the bruises.
And the money.
It was a lot of money.
He was rich. Filthy rich.
And if only he would die then she would be free.
Free to be who she wanted, to be with whoever she wanted.
She smiled again, tears in her eyes and in that moment my heart melted and I sold my soul.
Have you ever wanted something that wasn’t yours?
Ever thought that you would appreciate it so much more than the person who possessed it now?
Seethed in the anger and frustration that you deserve it more than they do?
Felt the need to scream, lash out, break something, anything, because it would relieve you of some of the pain and hurt and anguish that you felt at the injustice of the Universe.
How much worse is it then when the object of your yearning is a person?
How far would you go to make them yours?
What would you do?
What would you REALLY be capable of doing to finally possess that single thing that would make your existence complete?
The office was huge.
Oak panelled walls, interspersed with book cases and incredibly expensive (yet tasteful) pieces of artwork.
There was baseball memorabilia.
Signed caps and balls and framed first edition collector’s cards.
There was a massive desk sitting square before a huge window looking out onto a sea of lights from the vista of skyscrapers beyond. On the desk, taking pride of place, was a Louisville Slugger with the unintelligible scrawl of the signature of someone famous resting on a hand-crafted wooden stand.
I reached for the Louisville Slugger, fingers curling around the wood as I lifted it from the cradle on the desk.
He stepped into the room, silhouetted against the backlight from the corridor. His fingers reaching for the light switch as the door began so slowly shut behind him. The lights came on and he saw me.
Surprise registered in his eyes as he took in the scene.
Then they widened as I slammed the baseball bat into his stomach.
He let out a grunt of surprise as the air was pushed from his lungs. His body crumpled slightly and I drove the bat upwards into his face.
Delicate designer framed spectacles cracked and fell to the floor as a fountain of blood erupted from his nose.
I think he tried to speak then.
Tried to plead, beg me to stop.
Confused and bewildered he raised his hand to ward off the blows, his fingers shaking as I slammed the bat again and again into the back of his skull.
I braced myself, legs apart to keep my balance as I rained blow after blow into his torso.
There was a red veil over my eyes and the world faded away for a while.
Bones cracked, splintered, broke.
Blood matted his hair, flowing from the ruin of his skull.
At some point he stopped moving.
I didn’t notice.
I think I was screaming.
I’m not sure.
It may just have been in my head.
Showers of blood and brain, fragments of bones sprayed from the bat, covering the office in a dressing of gore. It ran over my face and soaked into my clothes as I stared down at the broken wreck of something that had once been a human being.
From far away I could hear the sound of someone laughing insanely.
It took me a long time to recognise the sound of my own voice.
I think I saw her once towards the end of the trial.
She was standing in a sea of journalists and photographers as beautiful and graceful as ever.
She smiled at me.
Just once, and then she was gone; vanishing in a blur of flashbulbs and television cameras.
I like to think that she was saying thank you to me that day.
That the smile was one of gratitude for granting her sweet release from that terrible marriage, for giving her the freedom she craved so much and deserved so dearly.
Sometimes as I lie awake at night in my bunk listening to the hollow sobs and moans of the damned in the dark I picture her living her life, free at last to do whatever she wants.
Sometimes I dream of her walking across golden sun kissed sand, sweet music drifting on a gentle breeze that stirs the palm trees as the waves sigh against the shore.
I take her hand and we gaze at the burning sky and as the sun slowly drowns itself in the ocean we begin to dance.
She kisses my cheek, whispers in my ear and I sink into the moment, lost for ever in the arms of the girl in the Gucci dress.
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About the author
I am a professional make-up artist, writer, actor and X-Box junkie.
I have three children and live in Staffordshire with my crazy dog Theo.