Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
This is the Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop
Hosted by Denise
We last saw Rocco and Rue, they were having lunch overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The evening ahead consisted of Rue having dinner with Cyrus St. Loreto and Rocco trying not to worry about his charge.
Prompt word:
GRID
The amber fluid, warmed to the perfect viscosity, began it’s cascade over the lip of the carafe. A single, stray beam of a Miami-dawn, released into the dark hotel room by a random gust of the air conditioner under the window, coinciding with a change in angle too subtle to be detected by the naked eye, created the briefest of flashes; like a slow-motion funnel cloud, the syrup touched and filled the center half-cuboid depression of the golden-brown grid.
“I take it things went well last night,” Rocco steepled his hands like a schoolboy at his first High Mass and, raising his left eyebrow for good measure, waited for Rue to respond.
Satisfied her careful flooding of the waffles was past the point of no return, she looked up at her bodyguard; the secondary effect of her change in posture was to cause the collars of her silk dressing gown, held open by gravity and mischievousness, to regain their proper, modesty-enhancing function,
“My job was to have dinner with our mutual boss’s proposed business partner, the original predatory-businessman and come out of it alive and…. unscathed.”
Without further preamble, the dancer known as Rue DeNite attacked the pile of waffles with the hotel’s sterling silver flatware and the glee of a ten-year-old girl on the first day of Summer.
“And,” looking over the rim of her coffee mug, “for the record, I scathe those who and when I choose, not because whatever man or woman feels entitled because of wealth, power or hotness.”