WHAT BILLIONAIRES TASTE LIKE

Chapter 1 PROLOGUE

Ruby and Opula eloped to London from where they will be supervising the entire Ziu Tech conglomerate.

One of the nights, Ruby kissed her on the forehead, and once she woke up, he flashed a diamond ring in her eyes, and she withdrew her face.

“Marry me,” he said and she was dumbfounded, but hugged him hugely.

“Yes, yes,” she replied and kissed him all over his lips, neck and face.

He bent her to the bed and sucked on her nipples with a great moisture before parting her legs and pounded her vagina gently, leaving her moaning, “Oh Ruby fuck me well, because I am carrying your baby and we finally made it…”

And he responded and gave her furious repeated pound and she moaned at the top of her voice, disturbing the peace of the neighborhood and recalling that, of a truth in bed, billionaires didn’t only taste as the luxuries they showcased but also like the fresh juice from the first apple eaten by Adam and Eve.

Light gave way for darkness…

The beginning

The pair of sneakers tiptoed stealthily into the dark corridor and clung at the edge of the wall when he heard a shuffling walker. His heart pounded effortlessly, suffering from the fear that churned his stomach – he farted with the grace of a newborn baby and stuck mosey to the wall. Farting was the only chimney through which he could efface the fear of a domesticated thief who stole his father’s gratuity. Clasping the sack of five million dollars to his narrow chest, and looking out for the shuffling walker, a shrill voice crossed his mind – the contradicting voice common among thieves: “Do you want to kill that retired police officer? But he saw you through school. You can go right in and drop his gratuity.”

“No, Monkeys software is a damn, fabulous project I can’t let go. It is going to be a breakthrough for me. Do you understand?” He said in his head. He took a quick peep into the dark exit before gazing considerately at the door to his father’s room for the very last time. The former voice hounded more audibly now and he protested thoughtfully;

“Did I kill him? Or was it not sleeping pills that I added to his tea?” The voice gave way, and then he peeped again before chucking his toe farther into the staircase.

He barely could catch his hasting breath when he arrived downstairs. The chilling wind of November swept across his face and he became conscious of the balls of perspiration on his brow and nose. The last rain just pelted the night before and winter was home coming. With the air of peril hanging around him and wobbly eyeballs combing impatiently for taxi, he made into the scarcely lit street, staring fearfully backward as his feet swallowed the distance in front. His movement gathered desperation and it had the force of forward-ever, which pushed him along residents with the hoarse woof-woof, woof-woof of dogs. His hands were still clasped around the sack on his chest as he made every effort to ignore the itches of suspicion all over his body. He was on Ford street now; the same Ford street where two men were robbed of their salary at twilight; where the mutilated body of a busty woman was found. Sweat trickled down his face as he wondered about the street on which he stood and then he held the sack tighter, nagging back at the loneliness of the street with his sideways stare. His plans were working out; drugging his father with overdose of sleeping pills at 8:00PM, giving the space of thirty minutes for reaction, stealing his gratuity at 8:30PM, settling in the bus at 8:45PM. In the moonlight, he stole a glance at his watch and it was 9:00PM and he had put that in his risk plan; getting taxi at night on Ford street was an expected risk, and it was worse off waiting all alone.

An owl howled overhead and then he kept watch, straining his eyes at the two figures prancing from the street opposite. He started walking gently and switched faster now. A dried tongue rolled in his mouth and he searched for saliva to swallow down his pounding heart as of a woman in labor.

I would die with them if they tried to come closer, he thought. He could sight logs across the gutter and his edgy personality could sense their nearness. I would make haste to a log and deliver a glancing blow at their skulls, the skulls of kites that want to feed on my meat; he thought figuratively.

He kept to his rush and the two figures stamped their feet as much as he did, closing up his distance. “Christ!” he whispered. “If they confront me I would run into the dark street and continue my journey the next day,” he thought.

From somewhere behind he heard the jolting of a car. Police or taxi, “God, I hope I survive this.” He panted. “It is end of the road for me.”

Bang!

Thought of police infected him so much that his breath became asthmatic; panting heavily as he walked. He scouted sideways and saw a dark street yawning at him.

“I would disappear into the dark street if they tried anything funny. But they may shoot at me. I will have to run as fast as the wind. If I must die I must die with this money; let that be my legacy.”

He could hear the puttering of the engine as its speed reduced; obviously, it could be the police questioning the two figures now and pushing them into the car, he thought.

Looking back was more infectious as he studied his escape: there was no gutter before the dark street and it would be easier to run swiftly. The car was coming now; it sped and stopped abruptly on his side and he made a powerful leap like a horse, his heels barely touching the ground.

“What is it? Why are you running?” a voice in the car asked.

Azuaka Jnr. halted. There is no police in that voice, he thought.

He turned and peered fearfully and it was black-and-yellow; a taxi with a corpulent driver looking out to him. He looked aback: the two figures were standing by, pretending to be waiting and he scuttled to the taxi, heaved at the back door and went in. it would be comfortable at the back seat: I don’t want this man to smell money… he thought.

Danger and peril ahead…