Page 104 of Tear Me Down (Descent to Darkness Trilogy #2)

Charlie

‘You Send Me’ – Sam Cooke

‘The Silver Chateau’ is one of the few five-star restaurants in town that lives up to its expectations.

With its luxurious ambiance, exceptional service, and exquisite menu, it’s tough to beat.

The tables are covered in perfectly bleached cloth, prime silverware, and lit candles, all while perfectly spaced apart from one another to create the pristine sensual atmosphere for an intimate connection.

Though, I’m not sure ‘intimate’ is what I would call this soiree.

Lucielle, while an endearing name, is anything but subtle.

Her flawlessly bleached and waved hair, expensive upper body modifications, and tight clothing scream abrasive, but that’s what I look for in my old age.

A sight that’s erotic and fiery—an enticing view with a humorous personality.

My time for quiet happiness is over, and I plan on living it up before I croak.

Not to toot my own horn, but I used to be a bit of a charmer back in the fifties.

A Greaser by anyone’s standards. This day and age, I sport a clean-looking comb over, because Ashia and Jamie insist that I don’t look like a complete menace with my shiny knocker, but in my prime?

Luscious dark locks that were always smoothed with my pocket comb and slick n’ shiny weighed my head down.

I had a rugged ole leather jacket that still hangs in my closet, and my jitterbug was the best for miles.

Women were crawling and begging me to dance, at all hours of the night, and it wasn’t often that I didn’t have a dolly on my arm.

Those days are obviously over, but every now and then I still get the urge to stride up to a pretty lady and flash my teeth.

As if sensing my mood, Lucielle glances up at me from her phone and raises a perfectly groomed brow—smirking like she knows what I’m thinking.

“Now, Charles. You know I don’t do sex work anymore.”

Disappointment instantly cools me down, but at least taunting her is entertaining.

“Now, now, sweet cheeks. The only one being forward here is you.”

She giggles softly into her palm and shakes her head.

“You keep up these nice meetings, and perhaps I can make an exception for my best client.”

And there goes the heat, rolling right on back.

“I may be an old geezer, but I’m still brave enough to tackle some back seat bingo with you, doll,” I tease and she giggles again, clearly enjoying the flattery. “I’m your best client? Here I thought it would be some desperate middle-aged man, and not an old gentleman like me.”

“Well, you’re the best officiant in town, Charles. I base that on experience.”

I smirk at her compliment, knowing what she meant.

When I first called her a year ago, planning to pay her for a little action, she broke down mid gobbledegoo after a rough night filled with drugs, alcohol, and half of a night before that she couldn’t remember.

I felt sorry for the poor girl and paid for her rehab, promising when she got out, I would help her get her life together, if I didn’t die before then.

Welp, I didn’t, and now she’s one of the most respected wedding planners in the city.

Because I have nothing to do except scoot around with a walker, get a haircut, and pine over a twenty-five-year-old that will never see me as anything more than a perverted old man, I fill the rest of my time with officiating weddings.

They’re perfect ‘dates’ for me and Lucielle, and the romantic mojo I get from my favorite barber puts me in a loving mood.

Lucielle and I have these dates a few times a week to discuss the scheduled events, and more if elopements come up in between, much like today.

I was shocked when I received Damien’s phone call a couple of days ago, but he said when he saw me on the state’s registry, he knew he couldn’t possibly hire anyone else.

Which, I was more than happy to oblige, of course.

All I’ve wanted for that girl was her happiness, and while I wasn’t allowed to ask questions about her injuries, she looked just as beautiful as ever.

“So, the bride was your barber?” Lucielle asks, putting her phone down now that she’s checked the Hartley wedding off her calendar.

“Yes ma’am. That beautiful gem is Ashia.”

Lucielle chuckles and takes a bite of her steak, politely chewing and swallowing before responding.

“You talk about her a lot. She seems sweet.”

“Oh, very. You two would probably like each other if you got the chance to talk.”

“Well, maybe we can start recommending her to the grooms for their cuts before the ceremonies.”

I nod my head in agreement, though I know the poor girl is busy enough.

I’ve recommended her to at least one person a day for the past six years, and when they say that word of mouth is the best marketing, I’ve proven to be an example.

She’s worked hard to get as good as she is, and she’s overcome a lot of obstacles.

I remember when I first met her six years ago, and no one wanted to let her cut their hair because of her scars and how shaky her hand was.

It warms my heart to see how far she’s come, and to finally see her get the happiness she deserves.

Feelings as pure as what I witnessed today are why I continue to officiate, and I’ll forever mark today as my favorite event .

“So, what else do we have planned for this week?” I inquire.

“We have the Huff wedding Saturday morning at eleven, but we now have an elopement Friday night at seven. So, if that’s too late, or doesn’t give you enough time to rest in between, I can find someone else for that one.”

I swat my hand, dismissing her concerns.

“Lucielle, I may be ninety-two, but I promise I can kick it as well as the men you date.” I wink at her, and she just shakes her head.

“Oh, I know you can, Charles.”

“I’d probably get more rest that evening if you stayed with me,” I suggest playfully, and she cuts me an amused, but warning glare.

While I completely respect her decision to no longer dabble in prostitution, I still tend to joke around.

I also wouldn’t mind if she broke her rule for old times’ sake.

“I think we both know Jamie would beat me with a mop until I left,” she laughs genuinely now, but she doesn’t know how feisty Jamie can really be.

She’s not wrong. Jamie can’t stand the thought of Lucielle, but that’s only because she assumes she’s still a prostitute.

I explained our arrangement when Jamie voiced her concerns, but she just thought I was lying, and while back in my younger age I was a disrespectful rake, I have done a lot of my own growth, and I would never disrespect Jamie by lying to her.

Though, it has been fun to portray Lucielle as more than a business partner.

Jamie is a sweetheart and does take very good care of me.

Though, mostly, she’s there for company and to drive me around.

Plus, she keeps me in line when I’m feeling a little too frisky.

That one occasion at the laundromat wasn’t my fault, and I will die on that hill.

A sex demon momentarily possessed me and forced me to slap that counter worker’s behind, I’m sure of it.

But Jamie saw right through my facade and told the woman I was senile before she barred me from the property.

It was just a little harmless fun, but when I saw the disappointment on her face, and realized that I had actually insulted her, I did apologize and meant it.

Thankfully, Lucielle doesn’t take offense and allows me a set-in-stone rule of one bodily grab per ‘date.’ Which, most of the time, I playfully deliver to her butt as she drops me back off.

The rest of the evening goes well as we enjoy our dinner and light conversation, indulging in one glass of champagne like we always do after a ceremony, and that’s when she asks the same incessant question—the one that instantly sours my mood.

“Have you talked to your son this week?”

I shake my head, not needing to give details.

The emotional evening when we first met, I slipped up and told her about my estranged son.

I wanted her to understand that everyone makes mistakes, some that we may not be able to fix, but that we can move forward from, and that has since led to her asking me this question at least once a week.

My son hasn’t spoken to me in three years, and many more before that.

I was young and too stupid in my young adult years to appreciate the life and family I had built, wanting nothing but to live it up with no responsibilities.

The cost of that was too great, and I wish I had seen that at the time.

“We’ve been over this, Lucielle. My son wants nothing to do with me, and I don’t necessarily blame him.”

“You’re different now, Charles. You have been for years,” she shakes her head lightly and flashes those puppy eyes that I’m thankful are a year free of a haze.

“Well, as we’ve discussed, sometimes that’s not enough. The best thing I can do for him now is to let him live his life the way he wants to live it. Whether that includes me or not. I’ll die a happy man knowing that I haven’t caused him any more pain.”

She only nods in response, knowing I won’t budge on the subject, and downs the rest of her glass in one gulp.

“Well, I’d say it’s time to take you home.

” She stands and helps me up, scooting my walker back over so I can grip the sponge material.

As we walk through the opulent restaurant, and I see the glaring stares from the other patrons, I cash in my stone and reach out to grab a handful of Lucielle’s plump behind.

A woman a few tables away audibly gasps, and Lucielle laughs, shaking her head vehemently. “Always a class act, Charles.”

Curse this ancient body. The morning aches and pains are normally the worst, and I know that if I can manage to get up before Jamie, I’ll be good the rest of the day. The times during the week she has to help me out of bed are always less productive, like I can’t get my mojo lately.

Though, after I drag my old keester out of the house, that won’t be a problem any longer.

Today is Ashia’s first day back at the barber shop after taking a month to recover, and even with the tenderness throughout my body, I’m determined to push myself to get up and go.

I’m ready to tease, flirt, and bash ears with my favorite service worker, and the groove I’ve been missing will dance back into place.

I might even Hand Jive today .

Grabbing onto my bed rail, I hoist myself up.

It takes a couple of tries to really get the swing of it, but eventually, I pull it off.

Now that my eyes are in line with the clock at my bedside, I note that it reads seven in the morning, and it won’t be too long before Jamie wakes up as well.

If I plan on having any quiet time for myself, I better get moving.

After I plant my feet firmly on the floor and can feel all ten toes like the doctor advised, I rock a little to get a head start, and only groan as I straighten my back as much as possible before I grab onto the walker.

I hate this damned thing, but it does let me move and twist without breaking a joint, so I’ll continue to use it until I’m no longer capable of walking.

My small home is the same as always. Cluttered from my years of meaningless books, antiques, family knick-knacks, and newspaper clippings that I can’t seem to get rid of.

But there’s not a speck of dust in the place, and I have Jamie to thank for that.

She can’t stand how much I’ve accumulated in my long life, but she sure makes it’s clean.

That woman needs a raise with all of the work I make her do.

Cautiously, I amble towards the kitchen, figuring that a cup of coffee would mean more to her when she gets up than a crispy two-dollar bill. Thankfully, she just uses one of those pod machines, and all it takes is a glass of water to fill it up.

I turn on the lights and wobble in, making my way slowly to the countertop to fumble with her little pod crate.

I’m not sure why she needs at least ten different flavor options every day when she normally drinks some caramel machi-motto one and stinks up the house every morning, but if I can have my quirks, I suppose she can have hers.

While her devil’s brew is pouring, I refill the glass of water to take my morning medications.

Being a little beatnik in my early twenties may have been fun back in the good ole days, but it’s definitely caught up with me in my later life.

The bitter taste of my blood pressure, thyroid, and cholesterol pills mixed with the chemically treated water makes the hair on my arms stand on end.

They’ve really gotten out of hand recently at the water treatment plant, and today tastes worse than the others.

Perhaps I should send another letter or ask Jamie to make another phone call to the city offices.

As if on cue, I hear Jamie’s snoring stop, signaling that she’s starting her slow, twenty-minute wake up.

That means I’ll only get about ten minutes of the morning news before she shuffles in here looking like she just crawled out of a cave and reviews over today’s schedule.

So, I make my way over to my rocking chair, determined to make the most out of my last few minutes of peace.

The moment I sit, the weight is taken off my joints and the room moves slightly with the slow rebound rocks—swaying me back and forth like I sat down too quickly. I grab the remote and turn on the news, leaning back and closing my eyes for just a moment as a large red bar fills the screen.