Bossy Brothers: Johnny

by JA Huss

  I get one foot flat on the ground, my knees screaming with pain and my thighs burning as I rise up like a fucking Venus—which is maybe not the best analogy, but I’m insane, so I permit myself some latitude.

  And then I’m on my feet. Gripping that sink with every last ounce of strength I have.

  I steady myself, my mouth actually watering with the thought of drinking water. Which seems impossible since it’s so damn dry, but still.

  I raise my fist, pound it on the button faucet, and… and…

  I laugh.

  I laugh so loud.

  Because there’s no water.

  It’s so fucking funny.

  So fucking appropriate.

  And then I fall. Bang my head on the concrete and decide… fuck it.

  Somewhere off in the distance I hear crashing.

  I open my eyes and see only darkness.

  More noise.

  Someone is coming.

  Someone remembered me. Probably came to kill me. They forgot about me and now they’ve remembered. They remembered why I’m here and they came back to make sure I deliver on that promise I made.

  Footsteps.

  Boots, I think.

  Whoever it is takes their time. They are slow, methodical steps.

  “Here,” I say. “I’m here.” But it’s not even a whisper.

  “Fuck you,” he says, coming into my cell. “Just fuck you.”

  Fuck you, too, buddy. But of course I can’t say it. And even if I could, I wouldn’t.

  I give up. I really do.

  I give in.

  I’m picked up. Like one picks up a child they’re taking to bed. I try to remember if I’ve ever actually been picked up in this manner. Or is it just something I’ve seen in movies?

  Movies, I decide.

  “I’m gonna regret this,” he says, carrying me. And then the next thing I know we are going up.

  We are leaving.

  The brightness outside makes me wince, even though my eyes are closed. “Water,” I mumble.

  But it’s incomprehensible. Just… sounds that make no sense.

  “Do I look like a fucking drinking fountain? I’ll get you fucking water once we’re on the yacht.”

  Yacht? I think that might be the most beautiful word in the English language.

  And with that I let it all go.

  Whatever happens next is out of my control.

  Who am I kidding?

  I’ve never been in control.

  The next thing I know I’m drowning. Coughing, and sputtering, and trying to drink all the water at the same time.

  “Take it easy,” he says. “I didn’t carry your ass two fucking miles across a goddamned tropical island in the middle of the sweltering August heat to have you drown in a cup of water.”

  I don’t give a fuck what he did. I suck that water down like a vacuum, finishing every drop in the cup. He takes it from me and it’s only then that I realize he’s been holding me up so I can drink. And I only realize it now because he gently lays me back, my head falling into a soft cushion of a sweet-smelling pillowcase, contrasting so hard with me, a filthy, disgusting mess, that I begin to smell myself.

  I don’t care anymore. I just don’t care.

  “Here,” he says. “Drink a little more. Then you have to stop.”

  I shake my head because I want to drink fountains of water. Just stick a hose down my throat, I don’t mind.

  “You can’t rehydrate that way,” he says, reading my mind. “It doesn’t work. It’s a process and you need a lot more than water right now.”

  His voice isn’t as hard when he says this. And he has a tone of authority. Like he knows what he’s talking about.

  It’s a nice change. Having someone know what they’re doing—when it doesn’t have anything to do with threats and torture, that is.

  A shooting pain in my arm, then a burning sensation.

  I gasp and pull away. But his grip is strong and pulls my weak arm back into position. “It’s fine,” he says, a little annoyed with my reaction. “I found an IV kit and some electrolytes in the underground infirmary.”

  I’m too tired to fight so I stop. Just lie there with my eyes closed. Feeling a little better. Just enough to doze off.

  The next time I wake it’s dark and for some reason my whole body is rocking back and forth. Back and forth and kind of up and down and for a moment I think I might be sick.

  But then I remember that beautiful word. Yacht.

  I’m on a yacht. I was saved! Pulled from the teeth of the dungeon of death and given another chance.

  We’re not moving. Just still as a boat can be when it’s anchored. I know this because I’m familiar with boats. I’m even familiar with yachts.

  But that life seems very far away right now.

  I turn my head to see a plate of half-eaten food. A sandwich wrapped in foil packaging with two bites missing. Maybe ham and cheese? A bowl of sliced peaches, the kind that come in a can. And an orange drink box with a child-sized bendy straw sticking out of it.

  I also realize I’m naked.

  I’m not gonna make a big deal about that. My clothes—what was left of them—were a filthy disgusting mess. But I’m clean too. So he…what? Took my clothes off and showered me?

  Is that creepy? Or should I be thankful?

  I can’t decide.

  All I know is that I’m feeling much better.

  My limbs are once again working, my throat no longer feels like sandpaper, and I can actually sit up a little to take in my surroundings.

  There’s just one light on. A reading lamp built into the side of the boat’s interior wall shines a soft spotlight down on the pillow to my left.

  But it’s enough to see the room.

  Cabin, I correct myself.

  Because we’re on a yacht. And a delicious one at that. Only God knows where. I guess I can safely assume somewhere in the Atlantic or Caribbean Sea. Possibly the Gulf of Mexico, depending on how long I was out.

  I don’t recall eating that sandwich or sipping from a juice box. So not sure what that means other than I’m not on that fucked-up island anymore.

  The cabin is large, but not large enough to be the master. It’s in the bow, for one. So the sides of the room curve in towards the headboard and there’s just enough space on either side of the bed to get in and out. A place for sleeping, and that’s about it. Still, there are two portholes on either side, which are dark. And that’s good information because at least I have an idea of the time of day.

  There’s two doors and I’m hoping one of them is a bathroom. I swing my legs off the side of the bed and test my feet, unsure of how strong I am. I was pretty weak back there in that dungeon. And for a moment my knees buckle and I almost fall. But I take a breath and lock them up until I’m standing.

  “OK,” I mutter. “This is an improvement.” It’s literally eight steps to the other side of the cabin, so I manage and pull the pocket door open to reveal the bathroom.

  I sigh as I relieve myself. Even though it can’t have been more than a week since I was taken from my home, my sense of time is all messed up and those days and nights in the dungeon made it easy to forget I am used to luxury like this.

  I sigh at that thought. I really, really want to think about my old life and forget the new nightmare I’ve been dropped into.

  But I can’t. I have to pull myself together.

  There are clothes on the basin.

  One package of white boxer shorts. New. One white t-shirt. Used, but clean. I get a whiff of sweet, fresh laundry detergent when I pick it up.

  I slip that on immediately, catching the scent of a man as it goes over my head.

  I rip the package of boxers open with my teeth and pull them out. Too big, but they’re all I have. So I pull them up my legs and fold the waistband over twice to make it work. Then wash my hands and steady myself using the wall as I go back into the stateroom, looking at the plate of food as I listen for sounds outside.
/>   It’s within arm’s distance, so I reach over and poke a finger into the cheap, white bread. Still mostly fresh.

  Not that I give a fuck. I’m starving. I would be eating this sandwich even if that bread was hard and crusty.

  I pick it up, take a bite, and say, “Mmmmm,” even though it’s clearly some kind of pre-packaged meal type thing.

  Tangy mustard hits my tongue and then I reach for the drink box and suck on that tiny straw until there’s nothing left but half-dry slurps.

  Now what?

  Go meet my prince, I guess.

  That short walk in and out of the bathroom and the sugared-up imitation orange juice have my legs working better now, so I grab my sandwich, walk over to the door, slide it open, and glance down the hallway.

  It’s short and leads to stairs off to the right. To my left is another small cabin. The door is open and inside I can see the bed. Directly in front of me is the master stateroom, which is better appointed and larger than the guest cabin I was in.

  I go up the steep, but gently curving stairs and find a frosted skylight over my head. I stare up at it for a moment, then press on and come out in the galley.

  There are gray stone countertops, fully appointed with all the appliances, and then I turn to see the helm, outfitted with fancy electronics and a leather bench seat. Past that is the salon. I’ve been on yachts of every size and this one, while not super big, is still super nice. There’s a couch and two chairs. A large-screen TV is mounted on the wall, and the glass doors leading out to the outdoor patio are the kind that fold open to the outside.

  I haven’t seen my rescuer yet, so he has to be out there somewhere.

  I tilt my head to the side. Listening. No conversation. Nothing but the slosh of waves and the rocking of the boat.

  I walk forward through the salon and come out to the cockpit. It’s a nice outdoor patio with a grill and steps leading down to the landing deck. I peer down, but he’s not there, either.

  For a moment I panic and think that maybe he’s left me here. It’s not a huge yacht, but my experience of being on yachts is mostly as a passenger and there’s no way I could run this thing alone.

  “Stop it,” I mumble under my breath. He has to be here. We’re in the middle of the ocean. There’s nowhere else for him to be.

  I turn back, find the side deck stairs are lit up by tiny LED lights at the base, and go up.

  The boat is rocking enough that I have to grab the handrail as I make my way towards the bow, but I stop, letting my eyes adjust to the starlight.

  “Come on then,” a gruff, manly voice says. “I can hear you. I know you’re there.”

  I let out a breath and peek around the side of the helm window and find a shirtless man lounging flat on the sun deck loungers, arms behind head, looking at me with narrow eyes lit up by starshine.

  “Feeling better?” he asks.

  I hold up my sandwich and shrug. “Better. Who are you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. Not really for his sake, because he probably can’t see it—my hair is a mess of waves tumbling around my face—but for my sake. Because I’m easily irritated and I’m just now remembering that.

  “You were a prisoner in the Way’s dungeon. You wanna tell me about that? Megan?”

  “How do you—”

  “You were pretty out of it,” he says, cutting me off. “They had a pretty cool assortment of chemicals in that dungeon infirmary so we had quite the chat earlier. But you won’t remember that. I made sure of it.”

  “Well, that’s not creepy,” I say. Then take a bite of my sandwich and casually—as casually as one can when she’s just been rescued from an underground island dungeon by a well-appointed manly stranger with no shirt on—kneel down on the empty sun pad to his left.

  “Not nearly as creepy as the condition I found you in.”

  “Hmm,” I say. “I guess I owe you.”

  “You most certainly do,” he says. “And I want payment in the form of answers.”

  “I’m not telling you my personal history.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about you or your history,” he growls. “I can take a good guess at that. I wanna know where they went.”

  CHAPTER THREE - JOHNNY

  What is the Way?

  It’s a question I’ve been asking myself almost my whole life. From the very first time my father took me up into the spire and told me to watch quietly I’ve been trying to piece this thing together.

  I am not, obviously, critical to the outcome of their goals. I do nothing other than collect money. But I’m not dumb. I didn’t go to college like Joey and Jesse. There was never a point in wasting that kind of time on something that had no bearing on my future. But I’m not a dumb guy. I can, and have, put a few pieces together during my tenure in the organization.

  One. The Way is a very small group of global titans. Mostly cutting-edge tech, big pharma, and humanitarian non-profits for Third World countries.

  Two. The small inner circle are so far above my pay grade, I’ve never even met them. I don’t think any of those two-hundred-plus “contributors” who come see me every month have ever met them either.

  Three. I mainly deal with one representative. His name is Check. I’m not actually sure if you spell that “check” or “Czech”, could go either way. But I’ve never seen it printed on paper or in a message, so I’m going with Check because visualizing that “z” in Czech kinda drives me nuts. Check and I meet once a month so I can go over where all the money landed after it was laundered. He’s a tall guy. Yoked out. No accent, so I really don’t think he’s Czech. Shaved head, tattoos, blue eyes, my age, and even though he’s just another middle-man like me working for a different set of bosses, he’s not a guy you fuck with.

  I’m not a guy you fuck with either, so the two of us together make everyone nervous. We usually meet somewhere with a lot of foot traffic. A coffeehouse in downtown Manhattan. A nightclub in Miami. The sidelines of a marathon in Boston. Places like that. And it’s never the same. There is no set time and place. I just know that the day after the money is cleaned—which is usually the middle of the month—I get a text with a time and a place and I show up for “the chat”.

  When we’re having that meeting everyone around us is nervous. No obvious reasons. Check and I don’t argue. We don’t raise our voices. We dress nice. Ten-thousand-dollar suits in Manhattan. Cocktail casual in Miami. Trendy athletic wear in Boston. We pretend to drink a fancy latte, or a fine whiskey, or a protein shake.

  We fit in.

  But we don’t fit in and everyone knows it. At the very least, they feel it.

  I have nothing against Check. I kinda like the guy if I’m being honest. But I would not call him a friend.

  Four. Once Check gets his intel from me, he goes to the nearest private airport and gets on a large unmarked white jet with no windows. I’ve followed him half a dozen times over the years, so this might not be a great representative sample to draw a definitive conclusion, but it’s all I’ve got. Trailing a man like Check is dangerous. Even if you’re Johnny Boston. Once he gets on that jet I have no clue where he goes.

  Five. I am no one. This is the most important lesson I’ve learned over the years. I am nothing to them but a bank teller. That’s it. And while I don’t know for sure that the Way has dozens of guys out there just like me, waiting in line to take my place should I fuck shit up, I’m confident that’s the case. And if that demotion ever comes, it’s over. For all of us. Me, Joey, Jesse, Zach… and all the people close to us.

  Which brings me to six. You do not want to be close to people. Any people. There’s no point. You do not want to love anyone, or cherish anyone, or have any sort of feelings for them.

  Because love is just a weapon.

  Just one more thing in their arsenal they can use to control you.

  The people you care about are just one more thing they can take away on a whim.

  Like my mother, for in
stance. That’s what happened to her. My father loved her and she was his downfall. They used her to keep him in line and that’s why he went insane at the end.

  And that’s why I don’t want anyone to know how much I love my brothers and cousin. I don’t want any girl I fuck to get on their radar. I don’t want my friends—if I had any left—to get caught up in some bloody leverage scheme should I step out of line.

  This is why I don’t bother with Jesse or Joey. This is why I want them to be seen as just two more spoiled, rich assholes.

  I don’t know what my father did to protect them while he was alive. Nothing, maybe. It’s possible he didn’t care. Not something a son likes to admit about his father, but there it is. That’s why I messed up Jesse’s future. He’s smart and arrogant. Way too smart and arrogant to keep his mouth shut, that’s for sure. That kid was high as a motherfucker all through high school and he still graduated with a three point seven GPA.

  I know he thinks our father did that. I’ve heard him say it on several occasions. But please. Our dad gave no fucks about Jesse’s grades. He donated money every year to pay the bribe to get us boys in that classy prep school. Sure. He did that. But we were on our own.

  How do I know this? Well, I sure as fuck didn’t graduate high school with a three point seven GPA. Let’s just get that out of the way right now. It was more like a two point five if I’m recalling correctly. And I’m fairly certain that the only reason it was that high was because that school wanted me the fuck out of there.

  The night of Jesse’s graduation we had a party in the Bossy. That was probably the last party we ever had up there where people outside the family were invited in. And all I heard from my father’s friends was how smart Jesse was. How he was going places. How he had a bright future ahead of him.

  Again, this was not typical. No one said that shit about me. And Jesse can think that it was just a bunch of ass-kissers yanking his chain for the sake of favor with the head boss. But it wasn’t. Joey got a watch for graduation. I didn’t get a watch or a party. Just a new job in the family business.