They say that money can’t buy you everything. There’s even a Beatles song about how ‘money can’t buy you love.’ Mom always told me that money was the root of all evil, that money couldn’t buy time or friendship, money couldn’t buy things that weren’t materialistic or physical, but I believe that she was wrong. I knew that the day she walked into my office.

              She was younger then, barely an adult, but then again, so was I. She had long black hair that fell in curls and tanned skin from growing up on a farm in a little North Carolina town. She had the sweetest brown eyes, like honey and rich chocolate, but when she spoke, her southern accent so prominent that sometimes you couldn’t understand her, you better step out of her way.

              She sauntered into my office on a late night in February, her lips painted dark red and her hair in ink-stained ringlets. “Miss Monroe,” I greeted in a respectful manner, but I should’ve known by the look in her eyes that she was not in a good mood that day, but then again, when was she ever?

              She slammed her hands down on my wooden desk, her golden bracelets clinking, and she said, “Listen here, Mr. Waylon. I’m not letting you get away with excuses this time. You were supposed to pay me back fair and square.”

              I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose, as if it tired me to hear her say such words, but that was far from the truth. “Miss Monroe,” I said politely, my voice calm and even, “I can assure you that we can get you and your people their money, but as for right now our supply hasn’t come in and-“

              “Oh, cut the crap, Waylon,” she snapped, which used to shock me, but now didn’t make me so much as blink. Her sweet eyes were intense now, burnt dark chocolate left on the stove for too long. “I need my money. A deal’s a deal, you said so yourself.”

              “I did say that, didn’t I,” I sighed again, glancing up at her, but she wasn’t backing down. I didn’t expect her to.

              She nodded. “You did,” she agreed, reaching out and grabbing my wrist. She leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Or are we going to have a problem?”

              I pulled away. “Rebecca-”

              “Don’t,” she snapped, like lightening in dry air. She pointed a red nail at me, sharp like a dagger. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

              I watched her for a long moment as her words sunk in, and finally, like always, I folded. “Alright.” I went to my safe and pulled out the stacks of cash, handed them to her.

              “Thank you,” she said, smiled, and kissed me on the cheek. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Waylon.” Then she shook my hand and left, and all I could do was sit back and watch, my heart stuttering in my chest, my throat dry and pockets empty.

              And I thought that maybe money could buy love. But they should’ve added that money could buy fear, as well.