14
Arjen
Mecca’s men were interested in guns, not knowing that I sold them by the semi-truck load to more legal agencies, than I did to illegal ones. They were talking weapons, but my mind kept lingering back to the view I had gotten of my wife getting dressed this morning.
She assumed I was asleep since she rose so early, but on my way to use the bathroom, I was stopped when I caught sight of her. The light shining down on her in the closet was in contrast to our dark room and put me in the presence of mind of watching a cinematic performance.
How could I not watch Mecca, especially in that moment? My very sexy wife was sitting at the small table positioned in the nook of her large closet, in a black lace bra and panty set cleaning her weapon. The sight had my dick so hard I’d had to hold it down. I should have felt guilty for spying on her, but I didn’t. A part of me believe she had left the door open on purpose.
There was no better view than watching her get dressed, something I had never been interested in seeing from any woman. Usually, I hardly noticed what they had on because my interest was only in taking it off.
Mecca was art in motion, demanding my attention in everything she did. Her hair was always perfect, clothes expensive, and she always smelled like a mixture of heaven, hope, and sunshine. This morning it pleased me to see that she didn’t do much to enhance her beauty, a light stroke of make-up, eyeliner, and a brush of lip gloss.
The finishing touches were her weapons. It wasn’t what I had expected of such a well put together woman. She had taken the most time placing and securing her instruments of destruction, so that they wouldn’t be obvious to outside eyes. If I hadn’t seen her arranging them, I’d have never known she was carrying a gun, a smaller back-up gun, two knives, and two extra clips of ammunition.
Observing the way she had taken care in securing her small arsenal, caused me to speculate if she was strapped with weapons at our wedding. It was becoming apparent that she didn’t go anywhere unprotected. This was part of an explanation for why she didn’t mind putting herself in dangerous situations.
I took in the team of men that worked for her, allowing my gaze to travel over them while studying their behaviors. Now that they realized who I was, their evil glares had turned into something resembling respect, and their lips were looser.
The undeniable respect and admiration in their glares and the tense set in their postures as they observed Mecca is what piqued my interest. It was difficult from an outside perspective to understand their mentality or the dynamic of their behavior where it concerned her.
Each time she directed a concentrated glance at one, they would tense, and a hint of something like apprehension would surface. Yet, they spoke their minds, often giving her unnecessary shit like they enjoyed toying with her anger.
My men would never speak to me the way these men had to Mecca, but something I couldn’t place, fit the way they interacted. Although they were giving her shit a minute ago, they now stood around me, whispering her name and bragging about the infamous stunts she had pulled off.
The one she had nearly hit in the head with her heel was one of her biggest supporters. Two others captured my attention with a comment about an infamous kill she had executed.
“She’s killed people for her uncle?”
I directed the question at the group, my eyes searching the four men surrounding me for a reply.
“There are a few we know of that she iced for him, and a few for the Saints. The whole mystery about Mecca is that no one actually knows how many people she’s killed. People who need to be dead, disappear, and no one claims the kills, some of us believe it’s her, some don’t. She never confirms or denies anything, keeps people in suspense, on edge, and is so fucking quiet about it, you never know what to think.”
“So, what are you saying? You think she’s a hit-woman?” I questioned, taking the opportunity to ply them for information on my dangerous wife. Two more men had joined our group. A few of the men answered no, while the majority said yes.
“Look at her,” the one she had addressed as Timothy, suggested.
A glance in her direction caused a smile to touch my lips. The man aimed a quick head gesture in her direction, but kept his eyes on me.
“No offense to you as her husband or anything, but looking the way she looks, it’s hard to picture her cutting a man’s throat or putting a bullet in one’s head, but I’ve seen her do both.”
He shook his head, as a far off look danced in his eyes and hinted at the hell he had witnessed her unleash.
“No remorse, no regret, no nothing. It’s like she can turn off her conscience and not feel a thing. We call her, Quiet Chaos, because she goes into what she calls, “the quiet.” The shit is creepy. Add to that, she can pull off some of the most heinous shit without speaking a single word. She is the only person I know that can yell without raising her voice. All I know is anyone that has good reason to be, ends up dead. Hell, some of us believe that she’s who they call La Asesina.”
The Assassin, I translated. Some of the guys shook their heads while others nodded in agreement.
“It’s another reason why we call her quiet chaos.”
Quiet Chaos. I was learning a lot about my wife. Things I was sure she wouldn’t voluntarily tell me unless I found a way to drag it out of her.
“You know she’s a college graduate. Did well. Could be staying in a high-rise, living a peaceful life. But, after she graduated, she came right back to all this.” The man circled his finger in the air to indicate the area we were currently located.
Timothy added, “She was pushing a key a week the entire time she was in college. She got an education, but the streets were right there with her the entire time. I’m sure she redefined the term ‘higher education’.”
The comment had us all grinning. It also solidified my assumption that these men, like Mecca, had way more depth to them than met the eyes. Another of the men, the quietest one with a big nose and a skinny face, spoke up. “And she is always sporting bruises like she attends an underground fight club.”
The bruises.