by BL Mute
And I want to answer him—explain everything so they can help me out of this fucked-up position—but the doorbell rings, never giving me the chance.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
STALLION
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The only reason I even came back to Bexley Falls was to keep an eye on my brother. For so long, I wanted to steal him away, save him from the doom I knew would come from my father, but after I graduated from the boarding school that asshole sent me to, I got an offer I couldn’t refuse.
I was always fascinated with fighting. Boxing mainly, because I knew it would be a useful skill to have if I ever came back here and was faced with my dad. I could put all my anger to use and give him exactly what he deserved. I would beat him the way he beat our mom. The way he beat me. And the way I know he beat my brother. I didn’t realize the dedication it would take though, which made me keep my distance from my brother. In this business, it’s better to fly solo and not keep anything close to your heart.
Now I get firsthand knowledge of why.
I had a feeling picking up a job somewhere like Bexley Falls was odd. The crime rate is basically nonexistent here, and people keep indiscretions hush-hush, but when Ghost called and offered it to me, I couldn’t say no. I needed the cash. I needed to stay relevant in the game.
Spitfire was a happy surprise though. I didn’t know who she was at first, but after watching her awhile, it wasn’t hard to figure out. Somehow, she’s connected to my brother. She goes to his house frequently and sees some blonde I’m assuming is his girl. I should have ended things then, but I thought being with her made me closer to my brother in a way. Fucked up? Maybe. But I never claimed to be a saint.
And after seeing her at the elevator, I knew exactly where she was going, but I couldn’t stop her. I knew she’d walk in that room and see all the evidence of my rage, but I was too fucking freaked-out to do anything. I should have warned her—or even warned her the night I saw her with him the first time—but I didn’t. My job relies heavily on secrecy, and she asks too many questions. So, instead, I’m sitting at the bar, having a fucking drink, and waiting for the cops to show up. No doubt she’ll be calling them, and they’ll lock down the hotel to try and get to the bottom of it.
But when I look at my watch, I realize maybe I’m wrong. It’s been twenty minutes, and this place isn’t crawling with law enforcement.
I gulp down the last of my whiskey, and it gives me a sliver of serenity. I release a breath and stand, then start back to the elevator. I shake out my shoulders as I wait, letting the alcohol loosen my muscles and relax me.
I do this shit daily, so it isn’t the blood, or body, or anything else that bothers me. I’m used to it. The only thing fucking me up right now is the fact I’ve basically blacklisted myself. One of the few rules hitmen follow is never—never—kill a client. It jeopardizes our reputation and makes business harder to find.
As the doors ding and open, I step inside and push the thoughts away. I can deal with Ghost later. For now, I need to clean up the mess I made and hope like hell it’s believable.
When I exit the elevator, I go by the room I checked in to today and grab my duffel bag with all my supplies. With it secured, I head to the client’s room. The light turns green as I insert the key card, and I step in.
I study the room, feeling something is off. Almost everything looks exactly the same. The pool of blood, the position his body is in, everything, but when I glance next to the body, I see the briefcase gone.
Maybe that’s why she didn’t call the cops because she took the money and ran instead. At least that’s what I want to believe, but what if it’s more than that?
I never thought to vet her or even get her name. I watched her for all of a few hours before thinking shit was okay simply because she knows my brother somehow. And I was too busy thinking about getting my dick wet instead, which is my mistake. But it wouldn’t make sense. She can’t be anyone other than some Bexley Falls girl. She was too timid to do what I do, so the thought of her being a competitor flees, only leaving one thing behind. This is worse than I thought. Much worse. Not only did I fuck up once, but now there is someone out there who is a liability.
I shake my head and drop my duffel bag to the floor. I kneel beside Bernard’s body and open the bag. I grab the wire cheese cutter, the notepad and pen, basic cloth, and some leather gloves. I slip the gloves on, then get to work.
This, this is something I can control, and right now, that’s what I need. Control.
Manipulating a body and crime scene to paint the picture you want is one of the first things Ghost taught me, and I’m good at it. Numerous men and women murdered by my hand, but never a shred of evidence. This is my forte. My specialty. My job.
First, I forge the note. Normally, I’d be more thorough, but I’m already racing against the clock. Goodbye, cruel world is the only thing I pen out. It’s generic, but since the fucker was already going bankrupt, I’m sure no one will question his sudden demise at his own hands.
I stand and lay the note on the nightstand, then walk back to where he lies on the floor. I examine him for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to conceal the gaping slash in his throat.
With the only logical thing I can think in mind, I snag the cheese cutter, wrap it around his neck, then put him in a kneeling position with his back to the door. I wedge the handles of the wire between the doorknob and door so I know they won’t move. I tug on it with some force, making sure it can withstand the weight of him. Satisfied it won’t budge, I move to the next task at hand.
I’m always careful with meetups, so I know there will be no trace of me, but I still gently wipe the handles of the wire and knob in case I’m wrong. Killing him wasn’t on my agenda today—or ever—so I need to be a thorough as I can, as quickly as I can.
I stand and admire my work. It’s believable at best, but not my best. I’d like to add more details, maybe even plant some evidence to incriminate someone else in case the cops do ask questions, but I can’t. Spitfire is still out there, doing God knows what, and I need to make sure she won’t talk.
After circling the room one last time, making sure no piece of me can be connected to this place, I crack the door enough to keep his body in place and slip out with my bag. I look down each way, making sure I’m not being watched, then head back to the elevator. Now that he’s handled, I need to find Spitfire.
If I had to guess, she’s either home or at my brother’s. I’ll start with the latter and finally let my presence in Bexley Falls be known.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CARMEN
As Carter moves toward the door to answer it, I grab him by the bicep. “Please don’t. He’s here to kill me.”
He shakes out of my hold. “Carmen, you’re being paranoid. Go sit down, calm down, then tell us what happened so we can figure out what to do. All you’ve done is babble nonsense since you got here.”
I suck in a deep breath. Maybe he’s right. I need to chill out and relay everything I saw and what I know, but at this point, none of it even feels real. It’s like some lucid fucking nightmare. One where I can’t wake up no matter how hard I try.
“Come on.” Lydia grabs me and leads me into the living room. She sits on the couch and pulls me down with her. “Tell me what happened.”
I nod, scrubbing my hands down my face, and take another deep breath, ready to get it all out. But Carter’s voice from the door has every word I want to say lodging in my throat.
“This can’t be real.” His voice has a hard edge to it. It’s full of pain and anger.
That doesn’t sound good.
I stand from the couch, then round the corner, and my heart stops. Standing in front of Carter is Stallion—the one who just murdered Bernard. His shirt still has the red splotch on the collar, and he’s holding a big, black duffel bag. It’s probably full of all the things he uses to kill people and what he’ll use to end me now too. Before he can catch sight of me, I back up slowl
y until I’m shielded by the wall again.
My back bumps into Lydia, reminding me this isn’t just about me anymore. I ran to my best friend, and now, she and her boyfriend are in the crossfire of my mistake.
My two worlds are colliding. The one where everything is fine and we have movie nights and talk shit, and the one where I fucked this guy for money and now know about him murdering someone.
My feet feel like concrete bricks as I drag them across the floor. I hold my finger to my lips, telling Lydia to be quiet, as I walk to the fireplace and grab the poker from its stand. The iron is heavy in my hand, and it gives me a sense of comfort. If he’s here to kill me or hurt my friends, at least I’ll go down swinging.
I make my way back to where Lydia is standing, looking at me confused, then push her behind me. “Trust me, okay? I got this.”
She doesn’t reply. Not even with a nod, but she still follows closely behind me as I round the corner again. This time though, I make my presence known. I let my feet slap against the floor painfully, just to make some noise, then rush to where Carter stands.
I try to push him out of the way as I raise the poker to strike the murderer in front of him, but Carter is faster. He grabs the heavy iron stick from me, then puts himself back in front of Stallion. “What the fuck, Carmen?”
I shake my head vigorously and take a few steps back. “He’s going to kill us. You need to get away from him!”
Stallion narrows his gaze on me and steps forward, pushing Carter out of the way. “You need to listen to me,” he starts.
“No!” I raise my hands, but he doesn’t stop.
Every step he takes forward is another I take back, until my back hits the wall and my hip digs into the corner of the small table that houses Lydia and Carter’s keys. The vase full of flowers wobbles before falling and shattering into a million tiny pieces on the floor.
I liked the game he and I played—the one where he chased me and I ran—but this isn’t the same. This is real. Too fucking real and scary, because now it isn’t just a thought of “what if he’s a killer”—it’s “he’s most definitely a killer, and I’m his next victim.”
With everyone’s eyes following the vase crashing to the floor, I move forward, snatch the fire poker back from Carter, and swing it in front of me, hoping to connect with Stallion’s face. It’s like everything is moving in slow motion. Like a dream where you’re forced to fight but your limbs won’t cooperate.
He reaches out, snagging the end of the stick with his hand, then yanks it from my hold. I stagger forward with the movement before letting go. Defenseless, I reach behind me without moving my eyes from him. I feel around the table and grab a set of keys that are lying there. I move them, the soft jangling of them hitting one another now sounding like a gong in the quiet space, and let one of each of the keys fall between my fingers.
“I won’t say it again. Get back!” I scream, bringing my fist in front of me, ready to strike if he moves another inch.
“Carmen, put them down,” Carter demands, but I ignore him. He doesn’t understand the severity of this situation clearly.
“I just want to talk,” Stallion comments.
“Talk? You got me fucked up if you think I’m going to sit here and talk to a murderer!”
Carter steps in front of him while Lydia stays to the side, silent. She obviously knows something I don’t. Why else would she leave me alone to defend us all.
“Carmen,” Carter says again. “Put them down. You say you won’t talk to him because of what he did or didn’t do—we don’t fucking know yet—but you still talk to me. Let’s not forget what happened to my father.”
I shake my head. “This is different, Carter.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Stallion’s eyes burn through me from over Carter’s shoulder like he’s preparing for what’s coming next.
I shake away from his stare and move my eyes back to Carter. “Carter, get out of the way and let me handle this.”
“It’s not going to happen, Carmen. If you want to hurt my brother, you’ll have to go through me.”
My world tilts on its axis with that one single word.
Brother.
“Broth—no.” And it hits me.
Looking at them side by side, it makes sense. They share the same square jaw, sandy hair, and stature. They look more alike than I would have ever imagined. I guess I should have known, but I was too little to even comprehend mathematics when Cyrus McLane was sent away. All I knew was he was older, and that’s it.
Carter moves forward with his hands out. “Give me the keys, and let’s all sit down and have a conversation. Clearly, there is a lot of explaining to do.”
I move my eyes from Carter to Stallion, then back again. “No. You guys go, and I’ll follow. I don’t trust him.” I spit the last line at Cyrus.
Carter shakes his head but agrees silently, moving back to grab Cyrus by the bicep to lead him to the living room.
I wait a moment until they’re a good foot or two in front of me before I start moving my feet to follow. Maybe a conversation will be good. Maybe he’ll tell me I’m wrong and everything I saw in that room was a hallucination of some sort. Because I don’t want to think of him as a bad person. I can’t.
But when he takes another step, letting his side brush against the wall, the motion pulling up the side of his shirt to reveal a gun tucked into the back of his pants, I know I’m wrong.
He’s a murderer, and I refuse to let us be his next victims. Thinking as quickly as I can, I charge forward and slam my fist into the top of his head as hard as I can. His body crumples to the floor with a thud, and for once, I feel proud. Proud of protecting myself and my friends.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CYRUS
“He’s my brother, Carmen.” I can hear Carter whispering loudly, and I know he’s close. I can feel his presence, but he sounds so far away.
“And I don’t give a shit, Carter. He clearly wasn’t here to catch up and play fucking board games.”
“You don’t know that,” the other girl finally speaks, and I can hear the confliction in her tone. Like she’s trying to play both sides and show reason to both my brother and Spitfire.
I squeeze my eyes tight before opening them. Throbbing pain shoots from the back of my head, all the way down my spine, and hits my toes. I let out a groan, then try to move, only I can’t.
My vision is foggy at first, which doesn’t surprise me. This isn’t the first time someone has gotten the upper hand on me and knocked me out. But after a few blinks, what I’m bound with is crystal fucking clear.
“Seriously?” I groan again, and all their eyes shoot to me.
Carter and the blonde are sitting on the coffee table in front of me as Spitfire—or Carmen as I now know her—paces beside them, holding my gun. Wrongly, might I add. Her small hand is gripped around the barrel.
“Good morning, sunshine,” she quips.
I roll my eyes. “If you wanted to tie me up, all you had to do was ask.” I wink at her, clearly fueling her rage.
“I’d rather not even look at you.”
I huff. “The furry handcuffs tell me otherwise, Carmen.” I say her name low and slow. It’s a warning. Now that I have that, it won’t be hard to get everything else I would need if she tried to run.
Carter speaks up. “They’re actually mine.”
I move my gaze to him and hold back a laugh as the girl next to him turns a bright shade of pink. She’s most definitely his girlfriend, like I suspected.
“Mind telling me what you’re doing here?” he asks, dropping the subject of the furry handcuffs around my wrists and the rope around the rest of my body.
“Maybe if you untie me.”
Carmen steps forward. “No. Don’t you fucking dare, Carter.”
She tries to stop him, but the girl stands and grabs her by the shoulders. “It’s fine. What is he going to do? He doesn’t have a weapon, and he’s outnumbered. Just let him talk and see
what he has to say.”
Carter nods in agreement, then unravels the rope from around me before pulling a small key from his pocket to unlock the handcuffs. Once I’m free, I rub my wrists, trying to alleviate some of the soreness.
Carmen fixes the position she’s holding the gun, grabbing it by the handle, then points the barrel at me. “Talk.”
I smile at her, then lean forward in the chair I’m in, resting my elbows on my knees. “What are you going to do with that? Shoot me?” I challenge her.
Her chest heaves as she stares at me with utter disgust, but I can see through it. She likes this.
I stand and stretch to my full height before stepping toward her. Just like so many other times before, every time I step forward, she takes one back, until her back hits the wall, but it doesn’t stop me. I keep going until the barrel of the gun is digging into the center of my chest.
Wrapping my hands around the front of the gun, I can feel her trembles through the cold metal. “Go ahead, Spitfire. Do it.”
She inhales a deep breath through her nose and tries to hide the fact her knees are clenching together by pushing me away with the front of the gun. “Sit.” She nudges her head in the direction of the couch.
I shake my head. If only she knew I could have her disarmed in a matter of seconds. But she likes games, so I’ll play along for now. I hold up my hands in surrender with a smirk, then slowly back away until I’m to the couch.
I plop down, then push the chair I was in to the side with my foot. “What do you want to know?” Almost instantly, Carmen and Carter start talking at once while the other girl stays silent.
“Where have you been?”
“Did you kill Bernard?”
I settle further into the cushions. “Did you even know who that man was, Carmen?” I start by asking her a question of my own.
“That doesn’t matter right now.” She looks away as she speaks, like she’s ashamed.
“It does.” When she doesn’t answer, I just let it all out. “Bernard was a partner—so to speak—of our father, and I didn’t know that till today.”
