Risky Choices #7WeekStory #Week3 #TwitterVerseExpanded
This story began as a collaborative #SevenDayStory on Twitter in March 2019. It has now been expanded to a #7WeekStory.
Risky ChoicesGreg and Violet's marriage is over, but it's not what you think. It's never what you think in this exciting story of mob bosses, syrup recipes, and ship set sail for the Orient.
Read Chapter One…Read Chapter Two…Chapter ThreeGreg sat, ill at ease, watching the rain, an unlit cigarette hanging from his scowl and burner phone in one hand. Toni lay sprawled on the bed behind him, the sheet doing little to cover her curves. She was a poor substitute for who he really wanted, but he needed her, if he was going to make it out of this alive.
He contemplated his options, each successive choice driving him further to anger.
Goddamnit, why did I do this to myself? Should I go back? Vi could handle herself, surely?
He was dressed and reaching for his coat before realizing he was doing it. As he made his way out, he bumped the bathroom door pausing as it creaked. It caused Toni to stir.
“Where you going sweetie?” she called, sleepily.
“I just need some fresh air is all. Go on back to...” His voice trailed off as he heard her snoring. He nodded and closed the door with a soft *click* behind him.
“He just left.” She said. The line went dead and she put the phone away. She ran a hand through purple streaked dyed hair. She couldn’t wait to end this farce. He was terrible in bed, and his breath was always sour. She wanted to just put a bullet in his skull in some dark alley and have done with him but Daddy wanted his money back, S.H.E. was hounding her to bring Greg in for questioning, and God only knew if Mabel had her sticky fingers pulling strings from the dark. She probably did, cocaine buys a lot of friends these days.
She walked to the table and withdrew her cigarettes and lighter. Smoke haloed her face for a moment before she leaned on the wall and exhaled a curse. There was just one last piece of business to attend to before she could finally get some shut-eye. She picked her phone up, flipped through till she found the right contact, braced herself, and hit send.
Two a.m. and the street was empty, unlike his shoes. The rain was warm and heavy but he was too intent on finding that last bastion of light in the darkness. He licked his lips, savoring the drink to come. Why did the crap have to hit the fan in the rainy season? Though it didn’t stop Greg or the man following an appreciable distance behind him.
His contact told him where and when to meet, and the place looked…disreputable, great. He felt under his arm for his pistol, loosening the holster, lest he fall into a set up. There was a shit-load of cash at stake, and he didn’t want to take any chances.
He stood in the door. It was dark, dingy, and smelled like it looked. He trailed water all the way to the bar. The circles under the barkeep’s eyes, and his furrowed brow told him all he needed to know. This was a man who didn’t care for small talk. Good. He didn’t feel like talking. Greg threw a few soggy bills on the table, apologized and asked for some whiskey.
“Can I get the bottle, too?”
The barkeep grunted and brought out the bottle. Greg handed him a few more bills. Best to keep the ‘keep on your side.
“Sorry bout the, uh, mess, hoss.”
Greg grabbed the bottle and found a seat facing the door. There were only two other people drinking this time of night, only the most dedicated of alcoholics. Little threat there. He sat down took a sip, hesitated, and drained the rest. Cheap stuff. Good thing there was a lot of it. It would do the trick. He relaxed and waited…
Who will live, who will die, and who will get their money’s worth? Return next week when Elena Hartford continues our #7WeekStory.(Better yet, get the link delivered straight to your inbox next Saturday.)
About this week’s author, Chris Rogers…
Chris lives with his wife and three daughters in South Mississippi, where shoes are actually a thing, but he prefers to go barefoot if he can. When not treading water in a sea of estrogen, tending his beard, or playing with little plastic army men, he fancies himself an illustrator and writer. He would say he's a Jack-of-all-trades, but in reality he's chasing the proverbial squirrels.
He's been doing microfiction via Twitter for most of the last year, and the #sevendaystory prompt off and on since he discovered it.
His favorite part is coming up with something he'd want to read, using the daily prompt, sometimes failing, sometimes surprising even himself.
When asked how has the online #writingcommunity helped his craft, Chris had this to say:
Follow Chris on Twitter @cprompClick here to see his latest #vss365 tweetsIf I could sum up what social media has done to help me with writing in three words: procrastination, confidence, persistence.
