The wind against his body as he drove through the streets calmed him down, the mellow jazz playing adding to the peace.
Every other day, Marke would drive by the beach to observe the beach-goers, striking up a conversation with ones he favored by honking the car. His uncle, Case, had lectured him many a time on hitting on girls before his passing. But, to this day, honking in this car he drove was the best pickup line he'd learned.
It was a non-verbal form of communication, where the main intention of satiating their carnal pleasures was conveyed even before they spoke to each other, at times even before they made eye contact.
However, cutting straight through the city on Pitcher Street despite the traffic, his dragon had calmed down, and that was a plus.
After ten minutes, towering trees with lush canopies began cloaking the skies, slates with the names of skyscrapers in contrasting white were nailed to trunks, and plaques of wealth were provided by the city to those who owned them.
Looking at the directions on his phone that Mrs. Olivarez had sent him, he made his way to 'King's Tail,' ten minutes away, and, noting the lack of anxiety within him, Marke smiled.
This was a riveting feeling: being confident in one's craft so that challenges don't faze an individual enough to cause overt anxiety.
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Following the GPS' guidance, Marke stopped before arched gates hefted by massive pillars in between two trunks, both labeled King's Tail.
A mean-looking guard in uniform, with the magazine of a gun peeking out from the holster at his hip, waved at him to stop and approached.
He rolled down the windows.
A gruff-looking Black man in a suit and afro, brows furrowed and forehead creased, stood beside the gate. "ID?"
Reaching into the glove compartment, he pulled out his wallet—the guard watching him with hawk eyes—and showed the guard his driving license. "Does this work?"
Without reply, the guard pulled out his own phone and scrolled through. "Business," the guard pursed his lips and raised a brow, stared at Mark, and then nodded. "All right, go in. Leave the car here. Mrs. Terri is awaiting you on the second floor."
The blue arched gates swung open as he said that, revealing a three-story-tall villa with the driveway curving to the right as the villa stood on elevated land, the almost sweet and distinct scent of freshly trimmed grass drilling into Marke's nose.
He was entranced by the wealth on display.
Trees before walls surrounding the villa blocked out the sight to his sides, forcing one to focus on the villa of glass and white walls.
To Marke, the Green Slate had always been a commercial area, with skyscrapers and buildings meant for business and broody men dreadfully self-aware of the inane nature of their work—never a place of residence.
This Mrs. Terri, whoever this woman was, was the perfect customer for his business model. Satisfy her, whatever she wants, and the customer base will come find you. Mrs. Olivarez had advised.
Marke nodded to himself, taking a breath, and utilizing the one profession point he had, made his way forward. The memories rushing through his mind caused him to pause for just a few moments before he marched on.
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Mrs. Terri gazed down at the boy, gaze swiveling from the swimming pool with an artificial rockery to the statue of her father, Sir Gazmon Terri, in different positions, some sitting, some contemplating, some hollering, lining up the taffrails of the porch.
Ola had called this morning to tell about the boy and his peculiar skills.
Heir to a real estate firm worth billions, Kien Terri had explored most conventional pleasures in life, her late husband, Jailan, having passed from a heart attack while mingling with a stripper.
No matter the money invested, the news stations wouldn't take it down, and she still carried the shame from the incident two years before to this day, a mixture of shame and vitriol prompting her to stay home on the day of his funeral.
Since then, Kein stopped associating with people from smaller backgrounds; their facades of interest and affection were just another method to weasel their way into her wealth and live a lifestyle they couldn't afford otherwise.
Seeing the Lamborghini, though cheap at just a hundred thousand dollars, told her Marke wasn't some bum, and not being a bum was always a plus point in her eyes.
Ola had called her yesterday, and the two had discussed the arrangement.
Ola knew Kein was a lonely woman, paranoid and holed up because of her presumed tarnished reputation, and she had informed her of Marke's peculiar skill set, not just as a masseur.
You'll like him. Ola had said. Just give him a chance to be himself. The more you linger around him, the more interesting he grows.
Kein didn't plan on getting to know the man today. Raising her head, she turned to the grandfather clock near the ceiling on the polished white wall: 7:47. She had a meeting at nine. All she planned on doing today was lying down and getting relieved of all her pent-up tension.
Her nipples hardened, rubbing against the silky fabric of her bathrobe.
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Digesting the knowledge coursing his mind, Marke called up the system, climbing the winding stairs leading upstairs.
[Profession: Masseur (Lvl 2): You are proficient in massaging, having done it for 3 years.]
This should be enough.
Unlike investing in his physical stats, which almost caused him to pass out, while investing in his profession, except for memories and a slight headache, nothing debilitating occurred.
I should just take out a day to study the system.
Marke thought, finding it to be viable.
Had he studied and explored the system yesterday after Mrs. Olivared departed instead of playing games and catching up on his favorite novels, maybe he wouldn't have had to spend one point of stamina just to use the cold touch in a moment of panic.
Who cares? a part of him said. He never had much of a pain tolerance anyway and would've used it regardless.
"What's got you thinking there, Mr. Marke?" An airy voice called him.
Whipping his head up in startle, surrounded by marble and glass and paintings on the walls that any other day Marke would've liked taking a closer look at, right in the smack middle of the room lay an Amazonian woman in a silk patterned bathrobe, muscled thighs like trunks slinging off the armrest, head with a pixie cut turned towards him, foxy eyes with brown irises staring over a button nose, and plump lips pulled to a smirk.
Oh no. Marke thought, abdomen churning, as a desire, just from the sight of her, to plow her like a farmer would a field, took hold.
Her eyes glanced briefly at his crotch, her smirk expanding to a knowing smile, as though a predator awaiting their prey to jump into the trap set.
"Excited, are we, Mr. Marke?" She asked. "No professional ethics whatsoever, eh?"
Huh?