Page 2

Story: King of Hearts

Jason

6 years later…

“Jason, line one for you.”

Maya’s voice floats through the air as I look up from my computer at the woman leaning in my office doorway. Tall and slender, impeccably dressed, she adjusts her glasses, sliding them up the bridge of her nose as a piece of her black hair falls from her otherwise coiffed updo. It cascades down her cheek and comes to rest against a jawline that could cut glass.

“Thank you, Maya, I’ve got it,” I reply, watching her turn and walk away. As the clicking of her heels on the tile slowly fades, I can’t help but to smile to myself. Being that polished, comes so effortlessly to Maya, and I know for a fact she doesn’t even have to try. Working at Everlast mortuary isn't a glamorous job, but this kind of business needs someone put-together to be the face that the families see when they first walk in: somebody who has the grace to ease others through their grief as they plan the funerals for their loved ones.

I’ve known Maya for nearly 7 years, ever since I was recruited by the King and trained as his apprentice, and it was only a short while ago that he had disappeared After a period of time, he was assumed dead and his lawyers executed his will: he had left Everlast to Maya, and his wish was for me to run it alongside her.

You’d think that after taking me under his wing–teaching me everything he knows–that he would’ve stuck around, or at least have given me a proper goodbye. Hell, he knew Maya for nearly fifteen years, and did he bother to say anything to her?

Nope.

Instead I came into work one day to find Maya silently reorganizing the main office, organizing the papers on the desk as she broke the news to me. I was completely taken aback, the sudden abandonment hitting me like a punch to the gut. I remember looking at Maya as she attempted to tell me what was going to happen moving forward, watching her mouth form the words, yet all I heard was the blood rushing behind my ears.

He left no note, no voicemail, no indication of where he was going: just a single playing card face-up in the middle of the desk. The King of Hearts.

It wasn’t until much later that I learned the truth. That he was running for his life, fleeing from a death sentence. After all, I was younger, eager, and already accepted by Suits…and as they never forgot to remind me, there is no ‘out,’ there is no escape. And there can only be one King of Hearts.

The blinking light of the call on hold shakes me from my thoughts. I clear my throat, the heavy sigh that follows doing precious little to expel the dread in my body as I lift the phone off of the receiver and bring it to my ear. The cold plastic against my face echoes with the grief-laden voice of a woman who is doing as much as she can to hold it all together.

“Hello? Is this Everlast Mortuary?”

Soft. Smokey. For a second I freeze, my jaw dropping slightly as I replay the sound of her words in my head.

I’ve heard the voices of hundreds of women in my life, all in varying degrees of depression and dismay. Yet never have I heard a sound quite like this. Her cadence is smooth, her tone rich, and despite the obvious sadness that colored her words, she sounds straight-up sexy as hell.

“Yes it is. How may I help you?” My chair squeaks slightly as I lean back and put my feet up on the desk.

“My name is Eve, Eve O’Hara,” the woman replies. “My father passed away a few days ago, and he wanted to be cremated. I…is that something you can help with?”

Her voice trails off: there’s not a lot of sadness in her voice, merely a sense of distance, as if she’s planning the service for someone else.

“Yes ma’am, we can help you. My name is Jason Grant, and I’m the manager of Everlast. Would you like to come in this week and we can talk about the best way to honor your father?”

Quiet on the other end of the line.

“Yeah, sure,” she mutters. “That would probably be best. I’m so sorry: I thought I could do this over the phone, but it’s just…he and I were so close, you know? I can’t believe he’s gone.”

Swinging my legs off of the desk, I lean forward and rub my temples as hard as I can. I never understand people getting so worked up: I’ve been close to people before, and have never shed a tear when they died or left me. Granted, I lack the empathy needed to feel such a connection to the people in my life, but it’s not for lack of trying. Maybe one day I’ll let somebody in. Maybe someday I’ll let somebody see all of me.

One day.

“I understand that, Mrs. O’Hara. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Oh no, it’s ‘Ms.,’ she says, correcting me with a tone that sounded…what was that? Excitement?

Hmmm.

“I apologize, Ms. O’Hara,” I reply with emphasis. “How about we plan for tomorrow, say around 5pm before closing?”

“Tomorrow is what, a Thursday? Sure, tomorrow should be fine, thank you. Mr.…Jason?”

She chuckles slightly, laughing at herself.

Strange. Why would she be making jokes right now? She just told me her father died.

Maybe it’s her way of coping, Jason.

“Mr. Grant will do. And I’ll plan on seeing you tomorrow at 5pm.”

“Ok Mr. Grant, thank you for your help. See you then.”

Her words are replaced by the dial tone–a far cry from the pleasing sound of her voice–and as I hang up the receiver, I hear the faint clicking in the hallway of Maya walking towards my office.

I have to see what this woman looks like. Pivoting to my computer, I pull up the search engine and type in O’HARA DEATH to see what comes up. Before I can load the results, I see Maya in my peripheral vision, walking into the office to stand at the corner of my desk.

“So, another client?”

“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Her name is Eve, I have an appointment set for tomorrow at 5pm. I’d like for you to be here, help her through the process and inform her of her options.”

I feel Maya’s hesitation before she even speaks.

“I assume tomorrow won’t be a problem,” I continue. “Thursdays are notoriously slow.”

“Jason,” her voice softens slightly. “I have a prior engagement at the club tomorrow night, and I have some things I need to prepare.”

Glancing up at Maya, I meet her gaze and see a knowing glint in her eyes.

“Aaaaahh,” I sigh, the realization dawning on me. “That’s why there wasn’t anything in the books? You were trying to keep the date free?”

Maya nods.

“Maya, I never want to come between you and your extracurriculars. You are an amazing tutor and friend: I am grateful for your knowledge, patience and willingness to work together despite everything that’s happened. I’ll take care of Ms. O’Hara.”

Maya smiles slightly, if you can call it a smile. More like the corners of her mouth turned upwards with such pointed ends that she could give the Cheshire Cat a run for his money.

“Awesome, Jason, you’re the best.”

She walks over and kisses the top of my head as a mother would do a child, tousles my hair and walks away, the clicking heels bringing a smile to my face as she recedes back into the bowels of the mortuary. Maya is like a mix between the big sister I never had, and the teacher that everybody wants to fuck…only I know better than to make a pass at her. She would kill me.

Literally.

I let out a heavy sigh and glance back at my computer to assess the search results sitting on my screen. As I scroll down, I find a hyperlink to a social media post entitled “Historian and professor Michael O’Hara, 58, dead.”

CLICK.

The screen is filled with the image of an older man in a fedora, a smile on his face as he holds up some archaic trinket like he just found gold. Below is the title text, “Renown historian and educator Michael O’Hara was found dead in his home on Sunday night.”

There are no photos of an “Eve” in the article, so I pull up a separate tab and plug her name into the engine. Quite a few different women pop up, and while many of them are pretty, none of them are speaking to me: none of them are indicating that it’s the same Eve.

That is, until I see a photo of Michael O’Hara, standing next to a stunning redhead with his arm around her slender shoulders. They’re both smiling, her head tilted slightly towards him with a sense of endearment.

Enlarging the photo, I sit back in my chair and stare, fixated at my screen. Those emerald eyes, that pale, freckled skin. That wavy, copper hair falling around her face. Those full, puckered lips, begging to be kissed…to be bitten…

Jesus, calm the hell down, Jason.

I shake my head and shift in my seat. It has to be her, I can feel it.

And goddamn, she is a fucking fox.

Clicking on the link below the photo brings me to a website entitled “O’Hara Historical Library.” Images and references to various history books are followed by pages upon pages of archaeological finds, and it isn’t until I almost give up scrolling that I see the word “BLOG” on the drop-down menu.

Ok O’Hara, let’s see what you’ve been up to.

Clicking on the blog, I skim over the entries: it’s not hard to see that they’re all made by Eve, as they make references to “my father and I” quite a few times. Apparently she catalogs their findings and exploits: how quaint.

Each article is nearly the same, filled with talk of some historic person or event that is the focus of the week. No sooner am I about to close out of the website than the title of a particular blog entry jumps out at me from the screen.

SACRIFICE, BURIAL, AND THE HUMAN HEART.

I’m intrigued. I’m already well aware of the importance of the heart in certain cultures, and ‘heart burial’ used to be a real thing. Folks used to believe that the heart represented the seat and core of a person, and it wasn’t uncommon for certain faiths and cultures to partake in sacrificial rituals. Meanwhile, cultures like that of the Egyptians were the kind to believe that the heart HAD to remain with the body, to keep the soul intact.

Working at a mortuary means dealing with dead bodies all the time, and over the years I’ve taken quite an interest in the various ways a human body can be dissected, disposed of, and preserved.

Quite an interest indeed.

I make quick work of the article, skimming through until I reach the ending segment on human sacrifice in ancient Aztec/Mayan culture. The brutality, the amount of self-flagellation and mutilation, it draws me in: soon I find myself leaning even closer, elbows on the desk in front of the computer with my head propped up, soaking in the detailed verbal portraits of disembowelment, bloodletting and evisceration.

Why am I enjoying this?

I don’t need to answer that: for a brief moment the image of my old mentor flashes into my head, echoing back to the first night we met, his words etched in my brain.

“You do this because you like it.”

He wasn’t wrong. After he took me in, he trained me in how to handle the dead, how to dispose of a body, and so much more.

So. Much. More.

“Jason? I’m out of here.”

Maya’s voice startles me so much I jump in my seat. I was so deep into the blog I didn’t even hear her walk back to the office and lean onto the doorframe.

“JESUS Maya, when the fuck did you walk back in?” Adjusting my tie does very little to hide the look of surprise on my face, a look which has Maya smiling so wide it might break her face in two.

“I was just coming to say I’m leaving for the day: what did I catch you doing, looking at porn? You really can’t wait till you get home?”

She laughs as I blush, hard. I’m not about to tell her I spent the last however-many minutes stalking our potential customer.

“Nah I was just touching base with Ace: he wants me at Clover tomorrow night. I know it’s a Thursday, and you’ll be there, but apparently there’s another client that needs attention.”

It’s not a lie, at least not truly. I might not have actually been talking to Ace, the owner of Clover, but he did let me know yesterday of another VIP that he wants me to take care of. Someone who only I can handle.

It was enough to convince Maya, who nodded solemnly and shifted her weight as she turned in the doorway.

“Well I guess I’ll see you there tomorrow, then.”

“You know it,” I say, rising from my seat as I fumble with the buttons on my suit jacket.

Maya winks and pivots on her heels, closing the door behind her as she disappears for the day.

Without warning, I feel my pocket vibrate as my phone alerts me to an incoming call. Reaching into my pocket, I take a quick look at the screen to see who the hell is trying to reach me at closing time.

Ace.

I swear to God this man has ears everywhere.

Swiping my thumb across my screen, I barely get the phone to my ear before I hear the deep bass of Ace’s voice on the other end.

“Jason, my man…you ready for tomorrow?”

I chuckle.

“Ace, that’s too funny. I was just talking about you to Maya: do you have my office bugged or something?”

I laugh again, only half-joking. I know Ace’s background is in cybersecurity, and I wouldn’t put it past someone who is ex-CIA to be keeping tabs on his employees one way or another. I mean, with what we do, we can’t be too careful.

“Naaaaah, Jason! I mean, who needs bugs when I can just hack into your cell phone mic?”

He lets out a jovial laugh, genuinely amused with himself, and I join in. I trust Ace, and considering what he does for a living–what I do working with him–it makes sense for him to have security measures in place. I know all about his cameras in our homes, his audio taps on our phones, the works.

After all, it’s more for our protection than anything.

The laughter settles as he clears his throat: I hear frantic typing in the background, his keyboard a victim to the punishing pace of his fingers as he takes a second to focus on his work on the other line. As the clacking of keys slows, I hear slight shuffling as he redirects his attention to me.

“Ok Jason, I just looked up the details for your client meeting tomorrow night. Looks like you are due here around 8pm. We’ll have your client prepped and ready. I know Maya said you have a late meeting at the mortuary tomorrow, so we’ll do what we can to make introductions quick and painless for you.”

I scoff.

“Quick and painless for ME, sure. The client…probably not so much.”

Ace snorts out a laugh.

“Well, he has it coming. And he deserves it, too. The very best treatment that money can buy.”

Ace’s euphemisms aren’t lost on me, and as much as I wish we could speak plainly, we both know very well that we can’t take any chances over the phone.

“Sounds good, boss,” I answer. “I’ll be there at 8pm with bells on.

“Thank you, Jason, I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget your case.”

Ace hangs up, and as I drop the phone from my ear, I glance across the office at a black briefcase tucked discreetly against the far corner of the wall. The once polished exterior has been worn and weathered, a few faint red stains mar the otherwise flawless black finish. As my eyes dance over the hinges and handle, I can almost feel the case staring back at me knowingly. We have a history, this case and I, and regardless of its condition, I can’t bring myself to replace it.

With a heavy sigh, I push myself up from my chair and will myself towards the case: my footsteps are slow and heavy, and my eyes remain fixated on it as I stoop to pick it up. Every time I lift it from the floor, it feels a little bit heavier, yet the contents never change. Turning on my heels, I clear the distance across the office in seconds. Hoisting the case up onto the desk, I run both hands across the top, fingertips caressing every inch of the lid as I graze my thumbs down over the cool metal locks on either side.

Pressing gently, the telltale ‘pop’ of the locks snapping open sends chills down my spine as I slowly raise the lid: the sun coming through the window behind me beams across the desk, bouncing off of the contents and hitting my face with a blinding gleam. As I survey the interior, a slow smile spreads across my face…the same smile that I once saw on the man at the other end of my gun all those years ago.

The smile of a killer.