Amber Sweet was used to getting what she wanted.
That was a fact of life in the Largo household: her oldest brother killed or maimed employees with an alarming frequency, the middle child tore faces off women, and Amber Sweet always got what she wanted. Amber was very much like Daddy in that regard. Her brothers didnâ??t know what it was like to have wants, they had impulses. No doubt about it, she loved them dearly (as dearly as someone in the Largo family could), but sometimes she wondered what sort of trash their father had brought home to produce his two oldest. It was no wonder he had to have a third child.
She meant that as kindly as possible.
Amber, as far as she was concerned, was the perfect heir outside of one teeny, tiny problem. She was smart, very attractive in a very modern sense (her constant regiment of surgeries insured this), charismatic, and above all, had Daddyâ??s bend toward deviousness (something she found out when, at age twelve, she had managed to get a very handsome tutorâ??s much-beloved wife put on the repossession rotation. That he had hung himself not long after was of no import: she simply couldnâ??t stand someone having something she couldnâ??t). She also knew how to read people, knew, for instance, that she was Daddyâ??s favourite, and the perfect heir.
Save for that one little problem. And really, who could blame her? It was a necessary evil. She had to look good.
She did it for him, really.
â??Stop the car,â? Amber said to her driver, leaning over one of her scantily clad varlets. Absolutely useless as men: their specialized treatments left them with no interest what-so-ever in her though kept them whole in an aesthetically pleasing sense that conventional gelding wouldnâ??t. The Largo daughter liked slumming, but she wasnâ??t stupid: not having protection out here was a quick way to get oneself killed and looted.
Long legs caught the harsh glow of street lamps as she climbed out of the car, aided by one of her eye-candy varlets. Graverobber had become harder to track down these last few days, and if she had heard her father correctly, she might be in the market for a new dealer. If that was true, she would go home and throw a fit, maybe even break things. Heâ??d be sorry, just like after heâ??d killed her favourite team of surgeons.
But, no, he was there. She could hear the low rumble of his voice, sunk underneath the higher pitched tones of primarily female junkies, before she saw him. He as surprisingly plain today without that hideous coat and she could notice the lack of Zydrate vials sparkling from his hip.
Amber was not happy. He must have heard the clicking of her heels, because that suddenly obnoxiously painted face was turning her way. She had him up against a wall before he had a chance to protest. â??Well, look who made it to the meeting,â? he breathed, stained lips twisting into a smile that earned him another shove. â??Iâ??m afraid Iâ??m already out, love,â? the dealer cooed, pushing her off.
â??What do you mean youâ??re out?!â? Her voice had the nasty habit of breaking when she was angry and she stomped her foot. He shrugged already starting to slink off when one of her men stopped him at her request. Graverobber turned, that same curl of his lips plastered on his face, and she was struck with the urge to hit him. Didnâ??t he know how patient she had been? Here she was, using the watered down swill she bribed out of staff, and he was just grinning like that wasnâ??t a problem. â??What the hell have you been doing all this time?â?
â??Chasinâ?? a bird, Sweet.â? The junkies got brave when it was just her without any cops. This one had come climbing down from a fire escape where she had been relaxing to grin at Amber over Graverobberâ??s shoulder. Fingers plucked across his shoulder as she turned dark, vacant eyes. â??Should have been here earlier. He was in stock, then.â? Graverobber shrugged her off, too, though she couldnâ??t have minded one bit.
â??Not a bird.â? This ugly whore had a long, thin neck and too much color to her hair. Somehow, in all those colors, she managed not to match a single one to her outfit, something that should have been used for floss, not clothing. â??Older fag, I saw him. Well dressed, grey-haired and all. Daddy canâ??t buy you a dick, dear?â?
â??You probably know each other. If thereâ??s nothing elseâ?¦â? Graverobber slipped by a shocked-to-speechlessness Amber, that stupid smirk still on his ugly, useless face. He was gone by the time she had her wit together and she could leave in a huff. So Daddy was right: Nathan Wallace was spending time with that annoying, good-for-nothing vulture.
She was used to getting what she wanted, and when she didnâ??t, she was just as good as making the other person regret it.
The Wallace house was a little more welcoming tonight, Graverobber thought as he stood outside the old gate. He had a few magazines rolled up under his arm, though no bugs: Ray had interrogated him for most of the day, and convincing You to part with a few of her magazines had taken up the rest. But he had got them, though she had given him a nasty look the whole time through, and only when Ray had asked her to.
Still having Rottiâ??s key, Graverobber let himself in the cast-iron gate and past what might have once been a lovely garden but was now just a depressing plot of dirt. At the door, he actually knocked, feeling rather silly. He had the key, after all, but he didnâ??t want a second concussion: heâ??d barely recovered from the massive headache. â??Shilo?â? he called, peeking in through the ornately decorated door.
Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)
