Marcus was Adonis, by any other name, and Gerald hated him for it. Six two, with a Spanish complexion, that oh so chocolate skin, hair as black as coal, and the physique of an athlete to boot. What wasn’t there to hate? His face was doe-like in its openness. Pity he couldn’t be run over by a car, thought Gerald. He had the easy swagger and bulging biceps of the regular gym-goer. He wore suits, expensive ones. And. He smelt nice. The fucker even had the temerity to go about the place smelling like sandalwood, cedar and leather. He was like the juiciest piece of shit just excreted, every woman in the place practically falling over themselves for a helping.