Music of Souls (Chapter 5, page 1 of 8)


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Chapter 5

Jackson knew he had his work cut out for him in order to be back in less than three hours. He was very much in the mood for a fun, air headed bimbo after all the drama today, but that would be near impossible. They were all at their boring 9-5 jobs now. At this time of day, the best option would be to go to Stanton Street where the expensive boutiques were, and hope to find a lonely, rich wife getting back at her husband by spending his money. If need be, he could influence a pretty shop owner and take her in the back room. All would be said and done within fifteen minutes then, but damn, did he not deserve a little fun after being the go-to guy for everyone today? He decided if he hadn't seduced someone by 4:15, he would enforce Plan B.

Approaching the shopping district, he noticed a series 7 BMW slowing down. The blinker lit up and the car pulled into a spot. When the driver emerged, he let out a soft whistle. Bingo. There stood a tall bleached blonde who, Jackson guessed to be in her mid-forties, but she appeared younger thanks to cosmetic surgery and Pilates. She was dressed impeccably in Chanel, and definitely had the stringent expression of an ignored wife. He slid up right behind her before she could duck into a shop. "Excuse me, I'm new in town and I wonder if you could help me out?" She let out a self-important sigh as she turned; ready to dismiss the pesky newcomer. Then she saw him. He never tired of the surprise on people's faces when they got a good look. Her eyes widened, then ran over him as if she were appraising a sinful dessert, ready to devour it.

This one's bold! He thought.

The blonde purred, "Well certainly. What can I do for you?"

Jackson removed his sunglasses and drawled, "That remains to be seen, why don't you start by directing me to the best shop to find a suit."

She stood, transfixed on his eyes for a moment, then steadied herself and said, "I'll do better than that; I'll take you there." This was going to be easier than anticipated.

The two exchanged pleasantries and blatant flirtations as they walked to Chapman's, an upscale men's clothier. Her name was Claudia. Jackson had taken her elbow, mostly to move her along a little faster. The shopkeeper met them at the door with a smile. "How can I help you?"

"In need of a new suit, sir," answered Jackson.

"Very good, what size?"

"Hmm, I'm not sure, what do you think?" Most of Jackson's clothes, especially his suits, were custom made or straight off the runway from Paris or Milan. He rarely bought anything except jeans and causal shirts off the rack. The shopkeeper and Claudia both looked at him quizzically, wondering how a man, so obviously a clotheshorse, did not know his suit size. Jackson shrugged. "I'm not very good with numbers."

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