“Okay, so the cameras are taken care of, what about the exit. Eris?” Martin gazed almost passively at the woman, her tall body accented by a round buttocks and equally round cleavage—all spun together with golden silk on top.
“Yea babe, stole it last night. Its parked in a garage on 87th,” her answer pleased him, for he smiled, and the pleasing of him made her pleased, who returned the smile.
“Alright,” Rap’s candor broke the annoying smile conversation the lovers were having, “either get on the table and do it or move on.” Glass didn’t try to hinder his giggles, which were audible even through the final doughnut of the plate, which he had crammed in with almost two others.
“Hey fake-hostage,” Martin addressed Glass, making eye contact, “when we call them, what is your line?”
“Ahh help help, they keep touching my winkie,” Glass’s and Rap’s laughter were nearly identical.
Martin gave a cold stare.
“Please help, send the money. Please,” Glass said hushing his fit and revoking the joke.
Martin used the palm of his bloodied hand to feel the cut on his head, deep and still not clotting. His brain felt slushed with pain and injected full of pressure causing disagreements of thought. Was I really that blind. To not have seen any of it coming.