Page 17

Hulk reached for the official phone and began to type.

Timi leaned back into his chair, watching.

He had nice fingers. Long, well-shaped and manicured.

Clean cuticles, pink fingernails, a fine dusting of hair and all.

Very unbefitting of the greatest fighter tag.

What did he do with the MIB clowns? Massage them?

Unbidden, an image formed in his head. Oiled naked bodies with Hulk's long fingers pressing, kneading, and smoothening coiled muscles.

Then, it became Timi's body in his favourite room at Massage o'clock.

Dark and smelling of sweet orange. Omah Lay's husky voice serenading him.

Those fingers spreading Clarins Tonic over him, gliding down his chest, pulling at his body hair, flicking against his…

“Done,” Hulk said.

Timi sat frozen in his seat, resisting the urge to adjust his legs against a damning stirring. What in the seventh hell did he just imagine?

“Timi? ”

Timi trained his eyes on Hulk's face, genuinely terrified to drop his gaze to those hands. He'd never noticed anyone's hands before. Not to talk of…oh fuck. This clearly indicated he wasn't cut out for celibacy. He'd had too much sex to live like a regular human being.

He cleared his throat. “Done…done with what?”

“Inviting Charles and Nejeere to the club on Friday.”

He placed his elbows on the table, hoping it made him appear normal and not this sex-starved lunatic with a sudden fixation on male fingers. “How did you know what club I had in mind?”

Hulk did his eyebrow thing, its tip arching perfectly. Like he'd never heard a more retarded question. A Eucharia Anuobi eyebrow. “Has Lee-Gratias changed?”

“Wrong,” Timi said pettily. At this point, that document needed to be deleted and burnt.

Hulk had the nerve to look surprised. “Really?”

“Fine. I'm a cliché with fixed relaxation spots. Where would you go?”

“I've hardly had the time to explore since I got back from the U.K. I know a bakery though.”

He was right. Fun and Hulk were complete antonyms. “At least tell me the loaves are laced.”

Hulk crossed his arms against his chest. “Is getting high a measure for unwinding?”

“Am I sensing a judgment here?”

“Are you? I didn't ask that when you laughed at me going to a bakery.”

“I never laughed.”

“Your suggestion implied it.”

“So, speech and laughter are now the same?”

“If your words indicate an underlying mirth, yes.”

Timi stared at the tall man matching him word for word over something so nonsensical.

Nothing professional about his conduct. He must have lost his mind for a second, thinking any part of Hulk attractive enough to awaken his body.

He was a man. An annoying one at that with no respect for organizational hierarchy.

“You're so right,” he muttered.

“About?”

Timi got up. “Nejeere should know, that document was wasted on you. I can only hope your acting skills are passable. Come. Red Tinsel calls.”

The thing with Timi's brain was once it latched on to something, either it explored it fully, or Timi had to shut it down with work, alcohol or sleep.

For days now, Hulk's fingers were it.

And since they stepped into this private room in Lee-Gratias, afrobeat pulsating in tandem with the swirling red and blue lights, air choked up in creosote, sweet perfume and sweat, those fingers had been everywhere.

Resting on Hulk's thighs. Tapping the table holding their drinks.

Wrapped around Nejeere's waist as they danced occasionally.

Well, she dancing, while Hulk hobbled behind her like a drunk pretending sobriety.

No matter how hard Timi tried to recalibrate his brain whenever his eyes collided with the fingers, the image of them on his body seared through his mind like a 5D porno.

And without the luxury of getting mindlessly drunk as today's clubbing had a grave purpose to it, his fixation had taken a ridiculous turn.

He'd never had any form of fetish. He preferred the moderate boobs and giant asses alright, but they were nothing more than ample facilitators of his orgasms. Had he unknowingly fallen on his head? Did he hate himself so much to set foot on this path?

One wrong word, one wrong thought, and he could be back on that quadrangle, curled into a ball.

Sacrificing his skull, knees and arms to the heavy soles of leather sandals and fists landing on bones and tearing through flesh.

Grunts, cracks, thuds, ugly sounds surrounding him.

Faces, including Alex's, distorted by hate.

Weren't mistakes life teachers ?

“C'mon, one drink,” Charles shouted over the music blaring from all corners. He held out a glass of whiskey mixed with sprite, persuading Hulk for the umpteenth time to have a taste.

Hulk sat straight like a bamboo beside Timi, staring at the cup like it contained cyanide.

Those damn fingers lay over Nejeere's back, who leaned across his lap so her voice could reach Charles sitting adjacent to Timi.

And like Timi's, Charles's eyes focused on them like laser beams. Although, whatever images forming in Charles's mind probably had bloody severed phalanges at the forefront.

“Behave yourself,” Nejeere hissed. “He specifically said no alcohol.”

Charles shot her a glare. “How would you know you don't like something if you've never tried it?”

“How would you know you're not stupid if you've never seen stupid? Sit down and stop disgracing yourself.”

Nejeere was surely winning Girlfriend of the Century. Poor Charles.

Charles let out a disbelieving laugh. “Me? Disgracing myself? I just asked him to take one and–”

Timi, without thought, snatched the glass from him and downed the content in a go. He dropped the glass to find six eyes on him. Nejeere and Charles's faces held similar expressions of surprise, while Hulk stared with an unsettling intensity.

Charles' gaze dropped to the empty glass. “Mixing fucks you up.”

True. The Vodka guys could already detect a Whiskey invasion. The protest hadn't started yet though. Before it did, he needed to get to the nitty-gritty of the reason for this outing.

He got up and dragged Charles with him. “Let's step out for a second, Charlie.”

Charles glanced down at the half full bottles. “But we haven't—”

Timi propelled him forward. “Nejeere will watch them.”

Outside the club, clusters of people littered the car pack.

Smoking or hawking condoms and cigarettes.

No one could recognise him in his beanie and averted face.

A win, as he couldn't tell if the people's intolerance still included physically beating the gay out of him.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and the Mercedes beeped .

He opened the back door, and pushed Charles in.

“Whoa, I'm not that cheap, okay?” Charles protested. “Money for hand, back for ground.”

Without the loud music, his words came out a bit slurred. Better. A tipsy Charles was a malleable Charles. Before Timi could start talking though, Hulk thrust a bottle of water at him, long fingers dwarfing the 75cl plastic.

“Drink,” he said.

Timi stared at him. “I'm not thirsty.”

The bottle remained up. “It might help lessen the impact.”

He nearly laughed. “If that's true, you think I'll just be learning about it?”

A complicated expression squeezed Hulk's face. “Nejeere filled me in. Why act so foolishly?”

Ask your fingers.

“Customer, your time dey go o.” Charles grumbled, rescuing Timi from Hulk's gaze.

Timi swallowed. He needed to stop looking into those eyes if he wanted his wits fully intact. Gazes that pierced through padlocked souls and grazed well-buried secrets.

He reached for Charles' trouser pocket, and amidst the uncoordinated attempts at protecting his chastity , pulled out his phone and handed it over.

“Call or text, Dame B, Charlie. You know I'm right. Convince her to contact D'Yoyo.”

Charles appeared as forlorn as his rumpled suit. “I knew a condition was attached to this impromptu outing.”

“It's just a phone call.”

“You know it isn't.” He began counting with his fingers.

“1. He's too picky and prickly. 2. He's grown wings and now thinks he's the god of production.

3. He's stopped working with Buck because you know…

god. 4. Have I mentioned he hates your guts?

5. Buck now has a fully functioning production unit and doesn't need or can afford to bring in a co-producer. And 6…6…”

Timi shook his drooping shoulders. “And 6? You can't stop now. ”

Charles fixed a bleary stare on him. “6. Buck will never grovel. Have you met Shadrach?”

Timi snorted. “Sour Shadrach will lick poo off any boot willing to make him millions. C'mon, you've seen the budget, one I'm still working on increasing. Of course, the project can afford D'Yoyo.”

“Is that all you took from my list?” Charles asked. “Have you forgotten the last time you guys met?”

Hulk stepped closer, and lemon with an underlying woodsy scent perfused the air. So distracting, Timi fought an insane urge to close his eyes and inhale.

“That's completely irrelevant,” he said.

Charles' mouth slackened. “Irrelevant?! The man put you—”

“He didn't mean to,” he said quickly. “Can we focus on the issue on ground? Charlie, when have I ever brought a bad deal to Buck? Isn't my word good enough anymore? Timson studio could have been in charge, but I let you guys have this.”

“You didn't let us have shit. You've been hiding in your house since this whole nonsense started. A nonsense you should be focusing on, instead of dabbling into matters that don't…” He burped loudly. “...concern you. I will never understand why you agreed to go ahead with this.”

Timi refused to be derailed. “C'mon, Charlie. I want D'Yoyo on this. How To Live killed it at the box office. See how those fight scenes came out? People won't shut up about it. You know he's good.”

Charles hung his head. “I don't know, man. Buck's doing well on its own.”

“Is it?” Hulk's voice came up from behind Timi.

Charles frowned, poking his head out of the car. “What do you know…Mr. No alcohol?”

Hulk stepped closer, his heat chasing off the night chill steadily seeping into Timi's skin.

“Mojena's album flop,” Hulk said, unruffled. “The ongoing lawsuit; Buck Ent. Vs. Kenneth Osita. He declined promoting his latest movie, didn't he?”

Charles withdrew into the car and raised his nose towards Timi. “I'm not talking to him. ”

Timi might have laughed, if his heart hadn't taken to beating unevenly against his ribcage. His every nerve, aware of Hulk's warm body pressing into his back as he leaned in on the conversation. When did the focus shift from his fingers to the entirety of him?

The file on D'Yoyo he'd asked him to study didn't contain this information.

How much had he read about Buck? And concerning his hefty knowledge about business and economics, all Timi got as an explanation was the Business Administration degree his C.V claimed.

But how many people remembered anything about their course of study, especially when they weren't utilising the knowledge?

Hulk was an executive assistant, a fighter, yet he took on topics with a confidence reserved for erudite scholars.

He unconsciously braced himself, waiting for the man's next words. Hulk decimating people's opinions and arguments so concisely, was fast becoming one of his favourite things to listen to.

“Promotion isn't exactly Buck's strongest point right now,” Hulk ploughed on. “Their mediocre skills and not having enough money to waste on something they might murk up at the end. Vertical integration has its cons, I'm certain you're aware, Mr. Onyeka.”

Charles opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His forehead had grown more wrinkled, and his frown looked more thoughtful now.

“The problem is, Buck is trying to do too many things at once. Red Tinsel is already an external project. You don't own full directing rights. The main actor isn't signed under you. Your postproduction strategy clearly sucks—”

“Hey,” Charles protested.

“You're the financial analyst, Mr. Onyeka. Cost effectiveness being your importance at Buck's. However, if you've lost sight of that, and want us to approach Dame B personally, I'm sure my boss is most willing—”

“Okay, Jesus!” Charles exclaimed. He looked up at Timi.

“My God, where did you get this one from? I wondered, with all the no-drinking, how he let off steam.” He directed his gaze to Hulk, his eyes alight now with something close to grudging respect.

“Where were you when your stupid boss decided to sell his shares with the number one entertainment company in the country?” he asked.

“Gathering enough intel to save you from choosing same idiotic path.”

Timi burst into laughter, a pleasurable warmth spreading through his chest.

Hulk was something. A tall, fine specimen of something.

On their way back into the club, however, an unbelievable sight snuffed out his mirth.

Under the LED lights illuminating Lee-Gratias car park, a man he'd prayed to never see again in all lifetimes stood before a vendor, sifting through his display of sweets. The man paid for his purchase and headed in Timi's direction.

“Xcuse me,” he said, brushing past. Not a hint of recognition in his eyes when they met Timi's for a second.

It couldn't be. The mixture he'd taken must have dulled his senses. He swerved around but only caught a glimpse of his narrow back as he disappeared into a street.

“Are you okay?”

The words fell directly into his ears, their warmth caressing his lobe. He turned his face, and Hulk's lips brushed his cheeks, as he'd leaned in to whisper above the loud music.

They both froze. Then, Timi jumped backwards, and without a word, headed inside.

Whiskey or Vodka, it didn't matter. A bomb from the past had detonated. And if he wanted to escape unscathed, he needed to drown his senses till they forgot ever bumping into Prophet Emmanuel. Founder of the Fire Pass Fire church the boy had spent three of his darkest months in.