Emotionally Compromised (#1) (Available On Amazon) [Preview]

Chapter 8 - Good Morning

MARCUS GIBBS

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            I begin to splash cold water on my face from my bathroom sink, trying to wash away the layer of self-loathing that feels caked over my skin.

            As I make eye contact with my own reflection I am momentarily frustrated.

            Wiping away the white powder remnants that still linger around my nostrils, I realize that I hate that it reminds me of that French creep Luc Olivier. Then get a new habit, Gibbs.

            Rubbing my eyes I wonder how long its been since I have had a solid nights sleep.

            I shrug bitterly at the thought, grabbing a towel to wipe my face as I walk through my room to the balcony wearing only my boxers.

            I take a seat on the lone folding chair and light a cigarette. Going from one fix to the next are we?

           It is 9:00AM on a crisp Sunday morning, and I still have not gotten a reply from Alex. All I want is a drink with her, and some friendly conversation. She liked me, didn't she? She wouldn't have given me her number if she didn't, right?

            My cellphone rings as if on cue from the kitchen.

            Its incessant high pitched ringing causes my face to reflexively contort as if in pain. With my current early morning high my senses are uncomfortably heightened. This ringing, even though welcomed by its possibilities, screeches through to my eardruMiss I claw at my ears, bobbing a cigarette between my fingertips as I run to the kitchen. My only goal is to make it stop, so I answer without looking praying for it to be the sweet girls voice.

            "Hello. Gibbs speaking."

            "Mr. Gibbs, good morning."

            Shit. Didn't I just say that the thought of that greasy French fuck annoys me? His accent slinks through the phone and I think I prefer the ringing.

            "Mornin' Luc."

            He is all about formalities: ‘Mister This, Mister that, Please, and thank you’ –bullshit. I didn't want to give this fuck the benefit of the doubt. Let him blame it on my culture. Americans can be rude, right? I ain't calling that bastard mister or anything.

            Quit being such a child, my subconscious sneers. I roll my eyes at my annoying inner monologue, and wonder if coke can make you schizo?

            "Mr. Gibbs, I have a shipment change."

            My skin tingles at the statement in fear. I take a drag of my cigarette, and before exhaling I sputter, "E-Excuse me?"

            "My contact want's a change to the amount we discussed."

            "More?"

            "Yes. More."

            "How much more?"

            "Double. The liaison will be in town in a week or so to follow up."

            "Follow up? You told me just a day ago I had weeks? It will take me just a little over a week to replicate a whole other batch Luke!"

            "I said to follow up, not to pick up, asshole."

            His tone and his name-calling causes my breath to hitch. It is a way of him telling me to watch myself, or there would be consequences. I gulp down a breath and continue.