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@theuncreator
ex · com · mu · ni · ca · do
{ selective, canon divergent John Wick RP blog }
+21 only
AMISH COUNTRY, PENNSYLVANIA
Sticking out like a sore thumb was an understatement.
The mustang piloted by Clare and John gained attention like a storm gray thunderhead on a golden prairie horizon.
The car grinds over gravel accustomed to horse drawn buggies and man driven-wheel barrels. Horses in a fenced pasture whinnied nearby as the car parks in front of a steepled church. A cloud of gravel dust whirls by as John and Clare find themselves at job number one.
Mass was in session. The Amish completely vacant from the houses and stables, all uniform in design to forfeit pride and other vanities from the surrounding cities and townships they renounced.
Ejecting the passenger door, John emerges from the car and takes a look around to ensure Clare and him privacy while they prepared for their task. Nothing but the whir of a clean, fresh breeze tousles John’s hair and his tie as he smooths it down with the palm of his hand and starts for the boot of the car.
Popping the trunk with a key, John retrieves an extra coat he had packed. Lined with Kevlar, it carried some heft as he closes the boot and starts for the driver side of the Mustang to meet Clare.
Extending the coat to her, John narrows his eyes as he meets her gaze. He advises with slow, deliberate wisdom, “they build barns with bare hands.”
Maybe Clare would decline his offered for attire that was bulletproof. Still, John tries to prepare her. “I would not underestimate them.”
@midnightscxre
patiently waiting for the johnwickedit tiktok girlies to discover britney spears “criminal”
Wooden aroma of the mysterious male's cologne bites the nostrils, tingles attack the spine and stir the hardened composure. Even the cold stone surface cracks, lips parted, eyes scanning the handsome face of the living Mephistopheles, but lacks trepidation, only reflecting the growing thrill and ecstasy rushing through the blue veins.
Movement unnoticed by the common human's eye -- swift, calculated, precise. . . but John was not an ordinary person, and the scarlet haired woman felt he was aware of her doings in the second the fingers twitched.
Nevertheless, fearless beauty slowly raised her chin, while the sharp, deadly, nicely polished black blade dared to point its tip to John's chest, pressing the fine fabric of his suit.
" You know it is not wise to corner a feral beast, Jardani. . . " smokey voice unleashed once again, knife still resting in her hand while he captured her between the stone and his wall of muscles. It was surprising, to say the least, that she allowed such little distance between herself and another breathing human. Repulsed by another's presence, allergic to the physical touch, angered when her sacred personal space was invaded -- all the spiky reactions that hid the real truth, being touch starved, lonesome, covered with ice of her own creation, yet, John's presence was shockingly welcomed. . . no matter she would never admit it out loud.
" And you boss around too much. " she declared, gazing at the jiggling keys in the callused palm of the man. No wonder they would have an issue about which car they will take and who will be behind the wheel, considering they were both proud owners of quite breathtaking metal pets, similarity nearly painful between the two. No one was ever allowed to claim the leather throne in her car, well not that there were many who even were close to her to claim or share anything with her, so this little. . . ' issue ' was brand new. Interesting, amusing, conversation seemingly so simple however, to the lone wolves such as them, completely new. Ruminating for a split second in the privacy of the mind, plump lips finally moved.
" How about. . . we share the wheel till the destination, and after the mission, who gets the most heads, gets to drive for a whole week? "
Bold statement, considering who she was up against. It was like a kid challenging a professional football player to compete against. But the blazing flames in the emerald irises mirrored the dedication and belief she can go head to head with the infamous Baba Yaga.
With the blade still pressed on his chest, Clare waited for the response.
The tip of Clare’s knife unknowingly traces the handle of a scythe tattoo John concealed beneath his suit; it flirted with his rib and resided over his heart. The scythe leaned towards the dominate side of his body and should the 'Baba Yaga'—in his youth—misbehave and need reminding of his manners, his superiors would break the arm on the opposite side and render him still useful to the cause.
John blinks slow and deliberate as a reaction to Clare using his birth name.
There’s an indifference to it even John does not expect, though he firmly believed in his counterpart’s ability to administer hard lessons he grew accustomed to early in his life.
‘-you boss around too much,’ Clare then whines and gets her first real reaction out of John.
He smiles a little and lowers his car keys to his pocket, tucking them inside.
While he takes a deep breath and relaxes from retrieving his keys behind Clare, he ignores the knife tip still resting against his chest as he listens to Clare’s driving proposition.
Narrowing his eyes and considering what Clare says, John tilts his raven black head towards Clare and decides he does not like the sound of it. “A little hostile, this morning,” John slowly jests the way a husband would with his uncoordinated wife who burned breakfast or left an iron smoldering through his favorite work shirt—forgivable missteps John cannot understand what he did to deserve.
Raising a hand between them, John gently grasps Clare’s wrist and carefully lowers the knife away from his chest.
“If it eases your mind,” John submits, chivalrous to his counterpart. John lowers Clare’s knife wielding hand level to her hip before he lets go. His eyes linger on her body turned makeshift weapon as he considers how to address the pink elephant in the room, otherwise known as the tension that made Clare act unlike anything he had anticipated when he agreed to this… arrangement.
“Viggo explained… we train, not try to.. kill one another?” John raises a scarred brow in sheer confusion at Clare now.
John Wick: Chapter 3 - Parabellum (2019) + letterboxd reviews Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
@theuncreator
theuncreator:
Jardani Jovonovich
selective, canon divergent & au John Wick RP blog
+21 only Rules
BASICS
• Under 21 do not interact
• Patience is appreciated
• Communication is great (I’m not the best at it but I am working on it)
• Writing style lengths will vary (depending on the plot situation)
• Multi-verse and open to many threads (often at once)
• Content will contain extreme violence, gore, and vulgar language; maybe nsfw
• Please express personal triggers and I will gladly respect them
• No godmoding
• Have fun
TokyoMilk Dark products are such a fucking accounts payable/accountants aesthetic it’s ridiculous UNF 🖤
Expectations sank like an anchor, hitting the sandy bottom of another failed provocation. The equanimity of the man demolishing any attempt so far to witness the feral roar and fangs of irritation. Infernal bite of the flame felt euphoric to the silky smooth fingers, playing with fire a hobby, a way of life. Yet, John's raging flame was contained, left as an embers for her to chew on, taste the viciousness and deadliness in faded tones. A sardonic grin formed on the seemingly nectar flavored lips when the naked skin of the most vulnerable part of the body after the heart was exposed so fearlessly.
' . . . join me. ' Words ringing in her ears most than others lately. Subtle buzzing in the back pocket of her tight leather jeans reminding her of another offering the same thing. Another pawn in the never ending game for rulership - all in need for undefeatable solders. And this player was already a self proclaimed king, at least, that is what he called himself. Ruby haired woman ignored the message she already knew the content of. King sending another invitation to join his ranks -- after all, in the complex web of underground communications, valuable information about another ' baba yaga ' rising traveled fast. Maybe it was Veggo who had the brilliant and in the same time mad idea of creating something so deadly as a successor to the notorious killer such as John, but the others followed the blooming of that deadly rose.
' You would be as high as the high table itself, my sweet. If you join, I would give you a seat next to me, not under. Not a servant but a ruler. ' tempting words of the King, rich promises to get Clare to his side. So much betrayal laced the already corrupted and unstable world of the hitmen. What amused the woman was, that all these offers seemed as if she was the one needing the men who gave them, yet, it was them that needed her. All of them in need of a new Cerberus, a new ' boogeyman slayer ' . . . and she planned to serve no one.
" Join you, or the ones you serve? "
Devouring the remaining inches between them, nose nearly grazing the skin of his neck, a place that sent electric waves down her spine. Greedy tongue wanted to taste the spot, pearly whites eager to sink in the warm flesh -- leave a mark on him, but didn't do so, yet a melodic voice released the vibration along the exposed skin.
" Boogeyman has only one head John, while the Hydra has plenty. " Emerald eyes locked the gaze with the two black marbles of his own. " It would be a shame to take that one head off to soon. I'll rather play along for the time being. " expressing the lack of intimidation and a silent promise that one day, it probably will come down to the war between the two of the best, redhead finally moved, brushing the hourglass shape against the nicely tailored suit of the man.
" So, how many heads are going to adorn the wall of our success this time? " long legs moved towards the garage door, hand slipped in the lather jacket pulling out a set of keys to her metal pet.
" What is our first destination? " turning on her heel, she faced him again, waving the key's in her hand. " I hope you know I am driving. "
Clare in this instant reminds John of a Bowie song—something he had heard long ago at some stakeout where every footstep or voice across the room was important—it was a target or it was not. The details to the stakeout were important, but Bowie—Bowie contends, ‘she’ll come, she’ll go, she’ll lay belief on you.’
To John, Clare really bought into the moniker given to him by those who paid for their services or feared the crosshair of their particular skill set.
Bowie declared, ‘-when the clothes are strewn, don’t be afraid of the room.’
John inhales anticipating Clare’s contact as she suddenly inches even closer to him. He can feel her breath on his neck when she speaks. Listening because he is forced to, he releases the finger he used to hook down the collar of his shirt.
When the job is done, one of many afoot, he wonders if he will find anything of hers left behind in his bedroom while he allowed her his bed and he slept on the couch this short tense stay. They might as well have been sleeping together the way they drummed up tension John tried to ignore like a bird gotten into the house; he watches as it curiously flies close to him instead of seeking an out.
‘The lady from another grinning soul—she will be your living end,’ Bowie crooned hauntingly once upon a time on Accounts Payable’s turntable.
John sighs quietly with relief when the tension finally breaks and Clare moves away, but not before brushing past him with her slinky cat figure.
Out of all that Clare says, John raises his brow at one minor detail: driving.
Gathering his coat from the back of his chair, John slips it on before tucking the pistols he had cleaned in two holsters—one at his ankle and one behind his back.
“You talk a lot,” is all John stresses as he finally moves towards Clare.
John was not accustomed to guests and the space in his home reflected this fact. Tight confined rooms, John stands next to Clare at the door and looks down at her. “We’ll switch off.” He decides and decides generously, for her sake.
Leaning towards Clare, John watches her as he reaches around her to collect his own keys from a hook on the wall beside her coppery head. “I’m blocking you in," he informs her the way a husband would tell his wife of a single lane-driveway they shared.
John Wick (2014) dir. Chad Stahelski
@theuncreator
Unfazed by the daggers of her tone, immune to the provocation lacing the words, John once again displayed patience and maybe disinterest for the simple arguments. Naturally, primitive things like pulling a piece of rope with some bratty person seemed as nothing but a tiny, sharp stone in the shoe, something that pokes at you but not nearly enough to make you even duck down and remove it, so the person keeps stepping on the stone, not acknowledging it until the discomfort and irritation fades.
Coral eyebrows narrow, long elegant legs bring the hourglass shape of the body up, fearlessly devouring the distance between the Baba Yaga and the one that was supposed to be his successor. Clare was far greater than a piece of stone creating nothing but slight annoyance, ruby haired beauty was a part of a jagged mountain that will split a person in half with a single touch, something so lethal it can't be ignored.
" An hour is a lot of time John, I don't believe in wasting time. " plump cherry colored lips released a melodic but still cold tone. Tempting curves of the inked body sliding between the table and the wall of flesh of the man, inches from touching the forbidden. Magnetic field of his presence pulling Clare in with incredible speed, senses reacting as if high on opium. Was it the fatal attraction she hid and denied, the dangerous and highly foolish attempt to look the ' Father of all the hitmen ' in the eyes with defiance and challenge, the adrenaline rush coursing through the veins -- or all of it combined and exploding inside of her like a volcano?
" Being dragged here under the orders of our mutual employer crossed a line. A line of logic. " Chin raised and emerald eyes lined with his, holding an intense eye contact. For a split second she wondered how many people survived such an act, looking John Wick dead in the eye and living to tell the tale of that experience. . .if anyone has, that is.
" Putting two beasts in the same cage in order for one to learn from the other does not make sense. . . two bloodthirsty predators are bound for one thing and one thing only. . . " Sharp nail dared to scratch the cotton surface of the man's shirt, pointy tip sinking in the chest.
". . . to go for the neck, until only one is left standing. The dominant one, the stronger one, the superior one. "
Jade irises never leaving his anthracite ones. Clare wondered was this truly the case, Viggo placing them together in hopes she will soak in the advanced abilities of the man until she surpasses him, and he gains a new, obedient, most lethal weapon on the market of killers yet. Hydra, one that swallowed the ' boogeyman slayer ' himself. Invisible chain around the slender neck felt heavy on that thought.
" So how about you answer my questions now. And if the job is worrying you, I can bring you the heads of today's targets back later, you know, as a token of appreciation for such good. . . coffee. "
To be confronted, to be touched—prodded—and in his own home, the shock of it—the audacity—is almost too much for him to comprehend.
John draws a silent breath that makes Clare’s inquisitive nail dig deeper into his chest.
It did not hurt, not Clare’s nail nor her attempt at cornering him in his own domestic domain.
John watches her with a concentration normally reserved for listening to a news broadcast. It had been awhile since he had listened to ‘Accounts Payable’ announce anything of interest to him; exclusive work with the Tarasov family suited John best. So would this—training Clare to take his place, even if it were no easy task.
Looking at the table beside him, John lightly tosses his cleaning rag down with a quiet sigh.
Clare’s closeness, her haughtiness, was not something he was accustomed to dealing with but he would try.
“The only thing 'worrying me' is your ability to take direction,” spoken true and gritty and soft with Clare a breaths distance in front of him.
She smelled sweet, like vanilla and bourbon and bitter like coffee.
She tempts his fast.
She tries to belittle Viggo’s plan for her succession.
Bending his scarred arm at the elbow, John tugs down the collar of his shirt exposing his neck to her.
Irises blackened by a challenging narrow of his eyes down at her, John is not intimidated as he urges a response from Clare, “will you fight me… or will you join me?”
John Wick + “Yeah”.
John Wick (2014) John Wick Chapter 2 (2017) John Wick Chapter 3 Parabellum (2019) John Wick Chapter 4 (2023) - Final Trailer
@theuncreator [ Closed starter ]
Some are not born wicked . . . but the garden they are blooming in, force them to develop thorns and fill their petals with poison to break through weeds and ivy trying to stifle them. Clare was never the one liking the ‘ lack of air ’. . . when she had the skill to clear everything that was trying to smother her. Bitter woman was clever enough to mold this talent into a specialty many now feared and offered spoils collected through blood and darkness, just to make sure her gun is not pointed toward them.
Red curls were falling over the ivory shoulders as she pulled the headband off of them, dragging it over the wrist just in case she might need it later. But that headband was never decorating the ruby colored hair for style purposes, no. . .it was so the already blood colored strands are not stained with other crimson. The currency with which she was dealing with, the real “ America-express ” card.
More blood, more prosperity…and more intimidating reputation.
In the world many closed their eyes to, rolled in their beds at night praying the three locks on their doors and security system will protect them from the reality dwelling among the streets of their city, was the only choice Clare saw for herself. It sat well on her as silky robes on tender skin, merging with the soul and helping her achieve what she craved the most. Superiority among all, driving fear in bones of people purely by mentioning her name, making everyone run in terror from the merciless woman because they knew just how deadly the beast’s teeth were. And Clare had every intention of becoming the monster with the sharpest teeth around.
However, no matter how good she was in what she did, these hallways always echoed with murmur of despise and doubt. Golden east palace, one of the most prestige and ravishing building in the heart of New York, was also the headquarters of Tarasov family, one of the most influential mafia organizations in the area. They’ve put down their roots in almost every part of illegal business they could. Drugs, cartels, prostitution, organ market, human trafficking . . . everything was stained with their presence. Even some high ranked politicians feared that name, trying to make a proposal for a deal that would satisfy both parties, but Tarasov's refused to be entangled with politics, purely because they did not want to answer to anyone, so, killing the obstacles off was the most ‘ reasonable ’ way to deal with the disturbances in their business.
Just like today.
Clare stopped in her tracks when she reached the golden doors of Viggo Tarasov's office, being ‘ greeted ’ by a tall man, having at least 150 kg around his bone structure, unwelcoming look residing in his pale irises. Emerald eyes of the woman stared back with no fear nor hesitation, ordering him to let her pass with a mere glare.
“ Move. ”
Tone sharp and low, almost like a deadly breeze announcing the final moments of life. Eyebrows of the man knotted, lips in a thin line and stand obviously radiating with resentment.
She was never one of them . . . no matter how her actions only benefited the family, no matter how valuable of an asset she was, no matter the amount of loyalty her deeds presented. . . she was just a chess figurine that one day will fall as everything else does on this playing board of fate. That was the belief of everyone, except . . .
“уйти от двери.“ ( Move from the door.)
Viggo Tarasov. Raspy and authoritative voice came from within the ‘ golden gate ’, as the big man clearly felt a sudden rush of discomfort and penetrating fear. His wall of flesh was removed from the entrance at once, letting the red haired woman pass through. Killer gaze was not unglued from the one giving her trouble, not for a second, like she was making him a promise without words, that one day . . .he will wish he had moved sooner.
“Hydra… Мне кажется, или я чувствую, что над этими плечами парят еще более злобные головы?” (Hydra… Is it just me, or I sense more vicious heads hovering above those shoulders?)
Smoke from his cigarette shaped every word she understood without any difficulty. Silver fox of a man sat in his leather chair, grinning at the newcomer. His eyes shone with curiosity, hunger for information about the job he gave her.
Clare was a quick learner, always feeling more comfortable when her brain is as sharp as a knife and was able to translate any situation and language, making sure nothing goes behind her back. So, Russian language that was heavily used among these walls was a necessity.
She knew what he meant, once again calmly allowing him to call her by the nickname he himself had baptized her with, it was always the similar question when she had returned from a mission. Job. ‘Trip’. Obligation….whatever they called it.
Hydra. The mythological Greek creature with three heads that devoured everything on its path, and was impossible to kill, because every time some ' wanna be hero ' chopped one of its heads off, two new ones emerged from the damaged body part. Viggo found a perfect comparison for his valuable asset, seeing Clare’s tattoos of snakes, ink hugging and climbing around her thigh, and the bloodthirsty nature of the young woman. Eyes filled with rage and craving to become the death itself. Clare . . .accepted the nickname, and it spread like a disease among the private circles of hitmen and mafia organizations.
“ Minister Smith will not be sending any more proposals, sir. ”
Answer came in English, but without disrespect. She chose that variant because she could almost sniff out another person near. One that would bask in satisfaction of hearing her speak Russian, and making sure he tells her that her desperate tries of fitting in will never work.
“твоя собака как вернулась.” (Your dog has returned.)
Iosef Tarasov, spoiled son good for nothing, emerged from the dark corner of the room, bony fingers playing with a lighter. Clare did not even flinch when she heard him, or sensed his presence behind her.
“You sure you did not leave any…pair of eyes behind? Hmm? Bloodstains…?”
Iosef’s digits almost pressed against her forearm, where her leather jacked was smeared with caked blood of the Minister. But before he could reach, a sharp object appeared on the spot where her arm was just a second ago. A thin black blade just under his palm, ready to pierce it through without thinking twice about it. Eyes did not move from Viggo when she did this, and he could not help but to smirk on her swiftness.
“ты принадлежишь нам, чертова сука, не заставляй меня затягивать эту цепь на твоей шее.“ (You belong to us you damn bitch, don't make me tighten that chain around your neck.)
“Берегись, Иван, потому что собака может просто задушить тебя этой цепью.” (Watch out Iosef, because the dog just might strangle you with that chain.)
In prefect Russian, Clare answered, still not giving him the pleasure of returning his hateful glare. Infuriated by her words and disrespect, Iosef raised his hand in attempt to strike her, but before he could, a voice filled with wrath that sounded like thunder ripping through grey clouds, echoed the room.
“ ENOUGH! You shall keep your mouth shut in my presence boy. ”
Viggo growled, slamming his palm on the pricey mahogany table. The only one Iosef feared showed his authority, and the man was smaller than a bean in a second. Balling his fists, rebellious son turned and stepped closer to his fathers seat, resenting the redhead with all his being.
“ There is something else I wanted to talk to you about Hydra. "
As Viggo spoke, Clare’s gaze wondered around his face. The surface of the memory lane was stirred, making her recall just how this life had started. With this man, giving her the chance to unleash her inner demons on the world. . .and make a living off of it on the side. The treasures this job paid had nothing to do with her choice of living this kind of life. It was a mere privilege that came with the territory, nothing more. The real reasons why she chose this path of iron smell of blood, bathing in other’s misery and feasting on people’s despair…were buried deep underneath her flesh.
" It is obvious your ferocity grows with each day. Skills, abilities. . . "
Intense pause, man's face carrying a hidden agenda that he had no intention of hiding any longer. " John has been teaching you well. " Plump, cherry colored lips abused by the pearly whites on the mention of her ' tutor '. Baba Yaga. The legend. Elusive, immortal . . . Grim Reaper in flesh. Bitter woman recalled the day she met him, memory carved in the stones of the past. John's mere aura crushing the mountains of her rebellious behaving, effortlessly intimidating even Lucifer with those coal black eyes. Clare swore the skills of her own will surpass his, force Baba Yaga's knees to taste the sensation of bone hitting the ground. . . but instead, from the resistance was born respect, admiration. . . forbidden fondness she kept locked up behind the bars of secrecy.
" I think it is time to bring your lessons on a next level. " Viggo's voice snapped the woman back to the present moment, silently awaiting the point of this conversation.
" You will be moving into his residence. Becoming his shadow, soaking in every move, taking every opportunity to learn why he is what he is. "
Shock spilled around sharp facial features, breaking her usual hard composure. Full lips twitched, slightly opened to voice the protest while the heart slammed at the skeleton cage. Callused palm raised in order to stop her from replying.
" You are moving in tonight. Arrangements had already been made. John is expecting you. "
***
Hourglass shaped rolled over the silky sheets of the bed that was not her own. Jade orbs were greeted by the sun rays piercing the wide window with opened curtains. Batting the black, long eyelashes and releasing a low, irritated grunt, Clare propped herself on the slender arms, scanning the moderately but tastefully furnished guest room.
" For fuck sake. . . "
Cursing under the breath, long, inked legs slipped from the crumpled sheets, nostrils bitten with the sweet, inviting smell of espresso slipping under the white door of her room. Body remained static for a split second, ears focused to detect sounds from downstairs from where the enchanting coffee smell was coming. Nothing. Scoffing, she shook her head. Of course there was not a sound, the man moved silently as a cat. No wonder he was the ghost of death itself. Oversized t-shirt with a rock band logo ACDC barely covered the peach-shaped backside, strained material over the chest a result of the lush breasts. If she was at her own house, her sanctuary, this ' outfit ' would be enough to go grab the much needed caffeine, however . . . this was not her home --it was his. Turning her gaze back to the door, a forbidden thought flashed in front of the pine-green eyes. How would he react if she comes down dressed like this? Would the black pearls of his eyes trace every tempting curve, would the hunger be evident on the usual emotionless face? Would he care? Heart accelerated on the hypnotizing thought. Thought that should never had been formed. Clare could sense her own body reacting on that fantasy, shaking the head to push it out. Deep exhale as she pulled on the hem of the t-shirt, throwing it to the bed and heading for a cold shower to calm down and wash the lust away.
Jumping over two steps at the time, scarlet haired woman entered the kitchen in silence. Wearing her usual combination, tight leather pants which emphasized the curvy hips, black tank top revealing the thin waist where the tattoos on the ribs were exposed, and a black leather jacket, she moved elegantly towards the coffee machine -- not greeting the owner of the house which was in the same room. Taking the coffee and almost chugging down the entire mug, she finally turned and offered acknowledgment to the other soul. If they both had such a thing considering their calling. She had to admit, it was highly unusual seeing him without the sooty suit and guns in his hands, the scene was almost comically unreal.
" Why did you agree to this? "
Direct and sharp question, signature cold tone for the redheaded beauty.
" I doubt Viggo had any kind of leverage over you to place someone at your damn house. "
She wondered was it really as simple as paying the man off to agree to this, but if it was, he never seemed as someone wanting to invade his personal space. Circling the room like a lithe panther, she scanned the untouched take out food from yesterday, the day she arrived -- and refused to associate for the evening. Not because she despised the man, not because she didn't enjoy his company -- but because it was quite the opposite. The rooms filled with his scent, seductive perfume, his presence in every corner awakened things she tried to forcfuly suppress. . . she had to move away and face what came next in peace. Pulling the chair out and taking a seat, she crossed her legs, hands covering the mug that released the steam from the remaining coffee. Founding his dark eyes, she struggled and forced herself to keep a steady eye contact -- something that was never a problem with others, but him . . . it seemed nearly impossible, like moving mountains.
" What, you will give me cooking lessons? I don't see why this shit was not possible from our own homes. Doing jobs together a few more hours a day would do the trick. "
Clare was certain there was lot more to this than that, but it didn't stop her from her usual behavior. Even with John . . . well, maybe a bit less. She was stubborn but not stupid -- this man was a true killer, poking the lion with a stick for too long might just get in you in serious trouble.
She was like a stray cat come home with him.
She was disaster in a sleek and dangerous strut flirting with the fragile vases and other delicate fixtures in John’s life.
Clare. Clare. Clare. Clare. Clare . . .
John repeated her name in his head almost like learning a foreign denominations prayer. He was not a follower or devout, but the two of them would co-exist; at least, until the job—one of many—was done.
•••
“You have a guest?” Aurelio sounds surprised and even wears a grin of amusement at John’s revelation.
The sun is freshly risen on the horizon as Aurelio, John, and a tow truck occupies the driveway of John’s home at a quiet edge of the city.
Dewy morning. John, preparing for a long trip, called upon Aurelio and company to service his vehicle, a ‘69 Ford Mustang. The ash gray car is gently lowered as the two men speak.
“I have a job,” John corrects his friend.
All four wheels now on the ground, John leans into the drive side window of the tow truck and assists in unhitching his car from the truck.
•••
Having a guest in ones house was like having a book on the shelf that did not belong to you.
One did not know its story. One did not know if it was any good. One had to take it for its cover value and that would have to be enough.
Coffee was the prelude to normalcy, or at least, something like it.
Like a hare to a trap, Clare helps herself to a cup.
Cleaning a disassembled pistol, John’s hands are covered in dust and soot. His eyes notice the tattoos at Clare’s exposed waistline when she throws back a hearty sip of the coffee brewed just for her.
John is on a fast but he can appreciate Clare accepting his hospitality.
Her shot-out-the-holster question does not phase him as he returns his eyes and his hands to cleaning the pistol.
“We leave in an hour,” John notifies Clare without answering her questions.
Pistol as clean as it can get, John begins reassembling the weapon on a cloth over his kitchen table. The light overhead was ideal for the job and supposedly, so was Clare. His Hydra.
“The road is better for.. questions.” It’s advice John hopes Clare will take and not with a grain of salt.
Having been in this line of work for as long as he could remember, John recalled long stakeouts and sleepless nights dizzy on pain pills, recovering from gunshot wounds and even knife injuries so close to main arteries.
Patience was another skill key to surviving and John hoped to instill this virtue in Clare.
Rising from the table now, John wipes his hands on a clean cloth and looks to Clare for any follow-up instructions she may need. Convincing, maybe . . .